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.
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.
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.