The rescue boat sails through the icy water, careful to avoid all the lifeless bodies. You can hear a pin drop in the silence as Rose cries for help, her words fading silently into the night. I can hardly bear the sadness when she gently releases her lover saying, “I’ll never let go, Jack. I’ll never let go.”  The lifeless actor slips beneath the icy water and the audience is about to sigh in unison when suddenly, a piercing ring shatters the moment. Someone’s cell phone has just wrecked the moment.

You have got to be kidding me.  I mean, did that really just happen?

Of all the times during the movie for your phone to go off, you had to pick the one moment of complete audience captivation? Your phone call just robbed the entire audience of the most tragic moment in the movie.

There is only one first time to experience a movie, and now the magic is destroyed. Let’s not even mention future viewings ruined by the memory. I wanted my breath taken away but not like this.

The kind of person who is thoughtless enough, self-absorbed enough and rude enough to leave their phone on during a movie is the worst kind of person. You are in good company, though; I put the cell phone abuser in the same category as the moviegoer who yaks all through the show.

That guy who cracks jokes throughout “Schindler’s List?” Yeah, you’re with him. The old lady who constantly asks her friends what was said?  Both of you are like two peas in a pod. The arrogant know-it-all who lets us in on the best way to escape a prison?  I can only hope you two hit it off in Shawshank.

What really burns me up is the lack of consequences. Complaining to the management takes time away from watching the movie. So, I have a modest proposal.

I do not believe in capital punishment, but I would not mind endorsing it in this instance. An eye for an eye, I say. After all, you killed my movie.

Maybe we make you ride shotgun with Thelma & Louise. Maybe we ask Hannibal Lecter to have you over for dinner. I might even go easy on you and only ask that you feed my dog. His name? Cujo.

No matter what I decide, I do not want an apology. What I do want is a total absence of that behavior from the rest of your miserable life. It would help if I never saw you again. Maybe you could take some time off and book a room at the Bates Motel.

Purchasing that ticket does not grant you the freedom to do whatever you like in that theatre. You do not get to yell “fire,” and you sure as hell don’t get to ruin my movie. I would just hate seeing another audience member go to the dogs.