Of Balloons and Idiots

Oh, Internet.  I fear the world is being overrun by morons.

Today was The Beast’s preschool Halloween party.  He was an utter terror this morning before school.  He woke up at 6:30, and by 6:45 he had thrown three separate temper tantrums, intentionally dumped a container of sprinkles in the pantry and made me curse once.

Let’s just say I was looking forward to the next couple of hours of alone time.

So The Beast and I walked into the school at 9:00, ready to enjoy a bit of trick-or-treating and a small party.  Then I was getting the heck out of there so that I could go home and drink.

I’m kidding.  I was just going to Target.  (You know, you can be very judgmental.  You don’t know anything about me and here you are being all critical.  Like you’ve never put some Bailey’s in your coffee or had a Bloody Mary or a tumbler of wine in the morning.)

Anyway, we walked into the classroom and there stood The Beast’s “teacher,” blowing up balloons and handing them to the 2-year-olds to play with.

Do you know what a 2-year-old does when you give him a balloon?  He tries to eat it.  I thought that this was common knowledge, but apparently Ms. I Have The IQ Of A Chicken Nugget didn’t know this, because there she stood, happily giving a room full of toddlers balloons to play with.  (I ended my sentence with a preposition.  Get over it.  I could have said “with which to play,” but then you’d be complaining about how I sound like a pretentious tool.  You know, you are really hard to please.)

So I left the classroom with a knot in the pit of my stomach.  I wasn’t going to say anything initially, but then I knew that if I didn’t, my trip to Target would be ruined because I wouldn’t be able to stop worrying about the phone call that I was going to get telling me that The Beast had inhaled a piece of a balloon.

As I was walking towards my station to pass out candy during the costume parade, I saw the director of the preschool and I asked to speak with her.

I quickly explained to her that a room full of toddlers playing with trachea-blocking latex implements of death was making me anxious. Somewhere in there the word “ass” escaped my lips.  I believe it was in the context of calling myself a pain in the ass, but regardless, I said “ass” in the middle of a preschool located inside of a church, but God did not strike me down with lightning.  I’m pretty sure that means that word is okay by Him. Like I said before, “ass” and “hell,” they’re Biblical.

The director looked at me as if I had just escaped an asylum and told me she’d go talk to the “teacher.”  I then proceeded on to my candy-passing-out spot.

A short while later The Beast’s class came through the parade.  The teacher’s assistant, who happens to be my friend, told me that Ms. I Have The IQ Of A Soup Spoon, the director of the preschool and another parent were speaking about how ridiculous I was being and that it wasn’t like the two teachers wouldn’t be able to control ten 2-year-olds in a room full of balloons.

I can’t even control The Beast in an empty room, yet these women somehow thought that two teachers were going to be able to stop these toddlers from popping and eating balloons.

I went back to the classroom after the parade and apologized to Ms. I Have The IQ Of A Stapler for not speaking directly to her and explained that I once saw my nephew nearly choke to death and therefore take choking hazards very seriously.

She was southern sweet, which means, “I just talked about you behind your back, but I’m going to pretend that I didn’t.”  She said that she just wasn’t thinking clearly and that at home she’d never let her kids play with balloons without diligent supervision.

I said that I knew she had talked about me and told her to kiss my ass.

Kidding.

I just thought it.  (I’m thinking being inside of a church and telling someone to kiss your ass would get you smited?  Smitten?  Smote?  How about incinerated?)

Anyway, at that point another mother walked into the classroom for the party and, obviously unaware that I was the one who complained about the balloons, said, “Well, there are small spider rings in the goody bags.  Those might need to be removed too if someone’s worried about choking.”

Only she didn’t just say it; she sneered it.  I’ve only seen one of the Harry Potter movies, but imagine Lord Voldemort, only with blond hair and an eardrum-piercing twang that brings to mind something you might hear at a family reunion for a bunch of inbred mountain people.  (No offense to you if you’re inbred.  Or live in the mountains.)

Anyway, I wanted to say, “Honey, you should be thanking me because it could have been your kid who ate a balloon and choked on it.”

But I kept my mouth shut.

Then, testing out my theory that since God didn’t smite them for talking about me in a derogatory way inside of a church, he wouldn’t smite me for what I do in the parking lot of a church, I keyed the image of a giant balloon and the word “moron” into the side of her car.

Kidding.

Maybe.

I fully expect to go into the school next week and find them making Mustard Gas with bleach and ammonia.

God save us all from the idiots.

Amen.

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A blurb about why I hate Angelina Jolie.

The following is a message that The Good One was about to send to his teacher via her blog on the school web site.  I’ve retyped it verbatim.

Ms, J., Things have been kind of hard for me at home lately.  My mom has been getting really mad

I asked what the rest of his message was going to say and he said he was going to tell her that I’ve been getting really upset with The Beast and it makes me get frustrated with him when he doesn’t understand his homework assignments, and that if she could give him extra help at school when he doesn’t understand something, then he wouldn’t feel so much pressure from me and it would make it easier for him at home.

Well, thank you very much for that kick in the testicles of parenting.

I bet Angelina Jolie never walks up behind Maddox and finds him typing an email to his teacher about how his mom has been getting all psychotic because Knox is constantly trying to kill the dog with his toy lawn mower.

I hate her.

Conversations with an Idiot

The following is a conversation that I had with The Beast’s preschool “teacher” when I picked him up today.  Again, I put quotes around “teacher” because the woman is as dumb as cheese. (If you doubt my assessment, please see my post about aneurysms.)  The stuff in parentheses is what was running through my mind but never verbalized.

Ms. I Suck At Grammar, heretofore known as Ms. ISAG: We had a bit of a problem getting The Beast to mind us today.

Me:  Really?  Is this a new thing?  I kind of figured that was happening every day.

Ms. ISAG:  [Blank stare.]

Me:  (Ah, I forgot that you have the IQ of a flip-flop and can’t be expected to have a sense of humor.)  Was he hitting other kids?

Ms. ISAG:  Well, no, but every time we told him to do something, he’d turn away from us and run the other way.

Me:  Yeah, he does that all the time.  It’s his game.  He turns everything into a game of chase.

Ms. ISAG:  Well, he was just really having a hard time minding today.

Me:  (Yes, Toast for Brains, you already told me that.)  Yeah, I’m sorry about that.

Ms. ISAG:  Well, do you have any suggestions for how we might be able to get him to mind us better?  Anything that works for you at home?

Me:  (You can try growling at him like a demon.)  Not a clue.  That’s why I signed him up for preschool.

Ms. ISAG:  [Stare.]

Me:  [Stare.]  [Smile.]

Ms. ISAG:  Well, do you read books at home?

Me:  (No, we’re illiterate, you dumb twit.  I think the bigger question is do YOU read books?)  Yes, we read every day.

Ms. ISAG:  Well, he’s been tearing pages out of some of our books, so maybe you could have a talk with him about respecting books.

Me:  (Well, he’s 2, and it seems to me that only someone with the IQ of a bouncy ball would give a 2-year-old a book with paper pages.  I don’t know a 2-year-old who doesn’t rip pages out of books.)  Yes, of course we’ll have a talk about respecting books.  (And then we’re going to have a talk about how you’re dumber than a Ziploc baggie.)

This has been an episode of Conversations with an Idiot.

[Deep bow.]

I think I might have ticked off God.

Apparently God doesn’t like it when we facetiously wish harm upon children, because the same day that I posted the blog entry about the horrid soccer mom and wishing that an 8-year-old boy would get cleated in the friendlies, The Good One sprained and possibly fractured his ankle at soccer practice.

Just thought you all might like to know that that kind of stuff appears to irritate God.

Who knew?

And God smote her voice and rendered her silent. Peace and joy spread through all the land. And it was good.

This past weekend at The Good One’s soccer game I had the distinct pleasure of sitting in front of a woman who had a megaphone surgically implanted into her throat.  It’s the only explanation for the auditory waterboarding I was forced to suffer.

My son’s team isn’t really all that good.  I’d say they are mediocre with a few above-average players.  Their problem is that all of the offensive players want to be the one to score the goal, so they don’t pass.  This makes us very easy to beat.

We were playing against a team that knew how to play as a team, plus they had a child who was built like a stick bug and was incredibly fast.  Stick Bug Boy also liked to push our players in their backs, but the senile old ref, who I think might have been Methuselah, was oblivious to these offenses.

Seriously, the ref had to be at least a thousand years old.  (Senile old men, even Biblical ones, shouldn’t be permitted to ref soccer.  They tire entirely too easily and really aren’t able to keep up with 16 Gatorade-fueled 8-year-olds, especially while wearing desert sandals.)  Really, we still wouldn’t have won even if the ref hadn’t had quadruple-focals on, but it would have been nice to have some of that stuff caught.

Anyway, we were getting the ever-loving tar beat out of us by this team of stick bugs.

The majority of the parents watching these games are very laid back.  We’d all like to win, we cheer, but we’re not in despair if we lose.  For our team, this is a good thing because we lose all the time.  We are undefeated in our defeat.

And most of the time the parents on the other team are also relatively laid back.  You might have an errant parent or two who takes a little too much joy in obliterating an obviously inferior team, but they don’t usually bother me either.

However, this week, I sat in front of a woman who I wanted to fist fight.  It wasn’t even so much that she was cheering for the other team, and doing so incredibly loudly, but it was that she would never SHUT THE HELL UP!  (Please excuse my language.  We both know that I swear.  I promise to keep it very PG rated and only use swear words that appear in the Bible.  This means I can use “ass” and “hell.”  Some translations say “lake of fire” but I don’t think that would make sense in this situation.)

This woman’s son actually used to be on the same team as The Good One.  I remembered despising her then, too.  How can you not, really?  She’s very detestable.

Once she yelled at The Good One for not squarely kicking a ball.  I contemplated challenging her to a dance-off.  (No, not really.  Maybe a bake-off.  I bake a mean peanut butter cup cupcake.)  And at one game, this mother was so horribly loud and offensive, screaming derogatory remarks at the young girl who was reffing, that I went and apologized to the ref after the game.

Well, on Saturday, Megaphone Mouth sat behind us and literally made my ears bleed.  (Yes, my ears bleed a lot.  I realize that.  I apparently have very vascular ears.  Shut up.  It’s a thing.)

She’d yell at her team.  She’d yell at our team.  She’d yell at Methuselah, who obviously didn’t hear her because his hearing aids are from Bible times and were virtually just funnels inserted into his ears.  At one point I think Megaphone Mouth even started yelling about snacks.

She yelled things to her son like, “I WANT YOU TO SCORE A GOAL!!!”  (Trust me when I say that the all caps are warranted.)  And she’d scream it 20 times in a row.

First, Megaphone Mouth, he really did hear you the first 5 times.  Every child on the field heard you.  Methuselah might have even heard you.  It’s hard to tell since his face is covered in a beard that hides all of his facial expressions.

Also, does your son have short-term memory loss?  Are you concerned that he’ll forget from moment to moment that you want him to score a goal?  Are you worried that he’s running around on the field thinking to himself, “What am I doing out here?  What is this game?  Why are they kicking that basketball?  Is that Moses?  Dear Lord, I’m in heaven.  This heaven is terrible.  And why does God keep yelling at me?  I wasn’t expecting God to be a violently loud woman.”

The fact that Megaphone Mom’s team won is further proof to me that God doesn’t care about sports competitions, even when they are being reffed by Biblical characters.  If He did care, then our team would have won; the stick bugs would have lost; Stick Bug Boy would have been shoved in the back a time or two, perhaps had his stick leg swept out from under him and snapped in half.  (No, I’m kidding. I would never wish for a child to have his leg broken so that we could win a game.  Maybe get hit in the nose with a ball.  Or kicked by a cleat in the friendlies.  I would have taken either of those.)

Also, if God cared about sports, He would have appeared to Megaphone Mouth in the form of a glowing megaphone and told her to sit her donkey down and shut the lake of fire up (See, I told you it doesn’t make sense.) so He could concentrate on the game to decide if Methuselah is good enough to referee soccer games in heaven.

Psst, God.  He isn’t.