Disrespectful Teens and Their Un-involved Parents.

Hubby surprised me last week with tickets to see The Hunger Games at midnight as an early birthday present. I had no idea that the teenagers would be out in full force like they were for all the Twilight movies.  After realizing (via Facebook posts from friends) that we should have been in line to get a seat hours ago, we decided to head up to the theater at 8:30pm.  The line wasn't awful, it had not even reached the end of the theater building wall, so we claimed a spot against said wall and hunkered down.  It was drizzling and a little cool outside so my annoyance level was already heightened.  The hubby informed me, more than once, that the last movie he stood in line for hours to see was Ghostbusters. He loves me, he really loves me.

We were sitting behind an absolutely adorable (see, I can be sweet) mother/daughter/daughter's friend combo and I was pleasantly surprised at how much I was enjoying their company.  Mamma was wearing a track suit and had her hair in a pony tail, my kind of lady.  The girls, both fourteen, were very excited about being there to see the movie on a school night.  Talked about how sleepy they would be tomorrow and how they dare not miss, even on the Friday before Spring Break, as they may miss important notes in Algebra.  I immediately liked these girls and the Mamma and thought to myself: maybe, just maybe, teenagers today aren't all that bad. 

Oh how wrong I was.  It was not long after I claimed my spot on the wall that I was surrounded by blonde highlights, Justin Bieber lookalikes, glitter, Victoria's Secret perfume, skinny jeans and loud mouths.  In about twenty minutes I went from being 30th in line to about 70th in line as car load after car load of these shiny, smelly, glittery teenagers were dropped of at the curb and joined their friends at the FRONT OF THE LINE!  And it was their parents who were dropping them off! Immediately, Mamma and I begin to make very loud protestations at the rudeness unfolding before our very eyes.  After the third car load of kids broke in line we decided to go inside and complain.  We were assured that ushers and police would be out shortly to manage the line.  Good enough, thought I.  Surely the theater won't tolerate this.  

Wrong again.  The teenagers kept pouring in.  Finally, after an hour, the police and ushers arrive and begin to give the teenage mob a "talking to".  Exactly seven out of the fifty kids had the respect to move their asses to the back of the line.  The rest of these little effers actually stood there and pretended not to hear the cop speaking.  They ignored a cop!  It's been less than fifteen years since I was the same age as these kids and you can bet your sweet ass that if an officer of the law told me to do something, I did it.  Period.  Not only was I afraid of police, I was more afraid of my dad taking away my privileges. It was blatantly clear that these kids had ZERO respect for authority.  It was also clear that the police and the ushers had no intention of actually forcing the line breakers to move it to the back.  They asked the kids, rather politely, to move and when they didn't nothing happened.  I was expecting mace and tazers.  I was very let down that I wasn't going to see some teenage mob smack down from the po-po.  I wonder if it's too late in life to go to the police academy?  Like I told you before, I'll taze a kid.  Had I been the one wearing the badge, I would have picked off the Biebers first: taze, taze, taze.  

At one point, a little bouncy blonde bitch in a glittery pink sweater hops right out of her mothers car and joins the group of other bouncy blonde bitches standing in front of us.  She walked right past the "associate director" of the theater AND the police officer.  Wtf?  They WATCHED her do it and said nothing!  That moment is when my mouth decided to take over.  "Excuse me? Pink Sweater here just broke in line! In front of you!"  I was told they would not force her to move.  Fine, I'll force her to move.  "Hey, Pink Sweater! Take your ass to the back!  I haven't been standing here for two hours in the rain to have you walk up in all your glittery pinkness and get in front of me.  Move your ass!" Pink Sweater cowered behind one of the Biebers and pretended not to hear.  I turned my attention back to the theater boss man.  I informed him, politely, that this was unacceptable.  He literally shrugged his shoulders and gave me an "I'm outnumbered here" look and walked off.  Dick.  He doesn't deserve to be the "director" of anything if he can't direct the Beibers and the Pink Sweaters to the back of the line!  It's not hard.  Give them a choice: get to steppin' or get tazed.

Once the po-po and the "director" walked off, one of the girls had the audacity to smart mouth me.  Had I been eleven years younger I would have gone all "hold my shit while I whip this bitches ass" on her.  Problem was, I didn't want to go to jail and have to wait until tomorrow to see the movie.  That's a lie, I would have scrubbed her ass across the sidewalk had the hubby not been in tow.  That little asshole should have thanked him for saving her face.  Had I been there with my cousin, she would have held my shit and taken me to the movie after we made bail.  Her exact words.  Is it un-fair for an almost thirty year old to beat up a teenage girl?  I think not.  If that little skank thinks she's big-girl enough to mouth off at me, she needs to be prepared for the consequences.  She then wanted to get in a stare-off with me.  "I've got fifteen years of being-a-bitch experience on you, Rookie.  You ain't got a pair of big girl panties quite large enough to take me on." Behind the Bieber she goes.  I'll claim that victory, small as it was.  

In the end, not one of the line breaking ass-clowns was forced to go to the back of the line.  As we followed the line into the door, passing the po-po and the pansy director, Mamma and I continued our verbal showings of disgruntlement.  I even smarted off the the cop and got a firm hand in the back from the hubby.  As we made our way toward the door, we stepped over so much garbage on the sidewalk it appeared as if a concert had taken place.  These kids have no respect.  They just showed up, broke in line and littered all over the sidewalk.  And to make it worse, the line-breakers had not even read the book!  After the movie we were all filing back out of the theater, I heard one of the Pink Sweaters make the following statement:  I was, like, totally lost during, like, most of the movie.  I didn't, like, read the book because, like, why would you do that when you can just, like, watch the movie.  It's, like, so stupid to waste all that time, like, reading when you can just watch the movie.

This depressed me.  The movie was so awesome and, I think, did the book such great justice.  Of course you missed out on some character development and a lot of the back story of the society, but that's why you should read the book! It's a crying damn shame that more people don't encourage their children to read.  Take Mamma for example.  While I was in line with her and the girls, I learned that she had read the books BEFORE her daughter was allowed to read them so a) she could make sure it was appropriate material and b) she would be able to be on board with something that interested her daughter.  Did I mention before that I liked this woman?  And lets not forget, she sat out in the rain to watch this movie with her daughter and the friend and was trying to make it an exciting experience for them.  They had conversations about the characters and how they hoped the movie stayed close to the book.  The parents of the wretched line breakers dropped their teens at the curb, in the front of a line more than 100 people long, while they talked on their cell phones and never acknowledged their children's departure.  Shame on them!!! And good on Mamma for being more involved.

From this experience I came to the realization that these teenagers were barely more civilized than the common gorilla.  They came in packs of twenty girls to one boy, they consumed food and dropped the remnants where they stood, they had a sort of language that only others of their kind could understand.  And I totally blame the parents for raising total asshats.  Kids these days have no respect for anything!  ANYTHING!  Not property, not their elders, not authority, nothing! I propose we start a movement: Taze The Teenagers.  We could all carry tazers and if we come across a teen who is too stupid to be walking around without supervision, we give them a nice jolt in the ass.  I'll go ahead and put it out there, if my kids turn out like some of the teens I saw last week, they're getting juiced...in the ass.

Next time I decide to watch a movie that has a mass teenage following, I will NOT go to the midnight premier.  Or maybe I will, and I'll bring my tazer.  

Neighborhood Zombie Kids

This is a short one, but awareness needs to be spread.  I'll taze a kid.

Our kids got a trampoline for Christmas from their grandparents.  We got the last tie on the safety net secured and all of a sudden there are two kids in our yard staring at the thing like it's a fresh body and they are a newly turned "walkers."  Wtf?  Where are the parents?  We don't know these kids.  We could be mass murderers or pedophiles for all they know!

The situation got more serious this past weekend when my husband brought home a new above ground pool.  As he was sweating his ass off trying to install it into the deck, more "walkers" appeared.  "Hey, mister!  When's that pool gunna be ready so we can come swim?"  Excuse me?  The nerve of these little effers.  We have never seen them before in our lives.  We knew we would have to regulate the swim time with the neighbors' kids, but at least we KNOW them.  There were kids coming out of the woods.  I don't even know where they were coming from.  We live in a very rural area and there are not that many houses close.  Do they live in the woods?  Are they actual zombies?  Can they smell fun outdoor recreational equipment like trampolines, swing sets and pools?  Do their parents even care that their children are wandering through the woods and talking to strangers?  They were drooling, breathing heavily and their eyes had glazed over.  Definitely "walkers."  Well, I hate to break it to ya kiddos but you're not invited to contaminate my pool with the zombie virus.  Have you been watching "The Walking Dead"?  That shit is spreading via the vapors now!  I can only imagine the havoc to be wreaked if it gets in the water.  And I would prefer it if my children could avoid this particular virus. It's hard enough to keep adequate groceries in this joint.  Imagine if I had to feed two zombies.  No, thank you! 

I'm not about to have all these freaky little kids showing up at my house in their bathing suits holding their water noodles, breathing heavily and coughing all their cooties on me.  Call me harsh, but I didn't pay all that money to entertain the children of the corn for the summer.  While we have the proper fence and gate (complete with lock) I feel some signage will be a necessity.  Here are the pool rules:

Sign #1:

No Lifeguard on Duty. Private Property. No Trespassing. Children must have an invitation to swim AND a parent or they will be tazed, no exceptions.

Sign #2:

NO: running, yelling, eating, drinking, diving, peeing/pooping/farting/sneezing/coughing.

And last, but certainly not least:

Coach Commando

Most people have normal experiences with their everyday happenings.  Not this girl.  Not that I'm complaining, it makes for great material.  But seriously, normal happenings only occur about 25% of the time for me.  Unfortunately my curse has now become my children's.

Bless them.  Something that bugs the ever loving piss out of me are over-the-toppers.  You know the type: super mommies, over-bearing teachers that give crazy homework to first graders, and last but not least (and the focus of today's Bitch Slap): Coach Commando.  We have in our lives not one but TWO such people!  That's right two.  Because having just one wouldn't be any fun.

The first Coach Commando to be introduced into our family is my daughter's PE teacher at her 1A school.  This dude is a real piece of work.  Apparently, Coach spent his younger years in the Army and is now a washed up PE Coach at a school that is a skid mark in the underwear of the public education system.  Judging by the silver hair and leathery skin, I'd place him somewhere in his sixties.  Bearing an uncanny resemblance to R. Lee Ermey, this asshole makes the children (first graders) play "war ball" three to four days per week.  Correct me if I'm wrong (I'm kidding, I'll bitch slap you) but I'm pretty sure war ball has zip to do with physical education.  Allowing a gymnasium full of six year old kids to heave dodge balls at one another is a poor excuse for appropriate physical activity.  I mean, the fat kid always goes down first and ends up sitting on the sidelines until the game is over.  Wtf?  It's his fat ass who needs to run off the fried chicken and Coke his mother packed in his brown bag lunch.  Physical Education my ass.

To add to the douche-baggery that comes along with this creep, he has some stupid war cry he teaches to all the kids: "Hoka Hey!"  I googled it and, in short, it means "it's a good day to die."  I'm not sure this is appropriate for my young daughter.  And how the hell does it relate to PE?  Not only do I find this saying stupid, Coach Commando has it emblazoned on everything he owns.  I was sitting in carpool line one day and parked to my left was an obnoxious silver corvette.  The tag read, you guessed it, "HOKAHEY".  Are you kidding me?  That pushed me over the edge.  I decided then and there that he was getting a Slap.  But, my dear friends, it got better (or worse?).  Commando exited the gymnasium wearing a hat, a whistle, a t-shirt, a wind breaker, shorts and tennis shoes and was carrying a duffle bag. Every item in the previous sentence save the shorts, socks and shoes was embroidered with the stupid war cry.  The t-shirt, the jacket, the hat, the lanyard holding his whistle, the duffle bag.  I shit you not folks.  I nearly fell out of my car window trying to take a photo of him.  This ass clown took the time and trouble to have embroidered each and every surface of his wardrobe with this dumb ass saying.  I have two children and can count, on one hand, how many items have their freaking NAMES embroidered on them.  And of those items, all of them were gifts.  When I got to the front of the carpool line and my mini-me climbed in the car I asked her if Coach Commando was her PE teacher.  The following conversation ensued:

Me: Is that your PE coach?
Little: Yes and he gets on my nerves.
Me: Oh yeah, how so?
Little: Well, first of all he makes us play war ball all the time and it's boring.  I want to dance and play outside.
Me: And secondly?
Little: He wears his whistle all the time.  Like, when it's not even PE he has it on.  I mean, who does that?

My chest swelled with pride at my young one's inner douche bag radar that I nearly burst.

After coming across this crazy wank I was sure such a jewel would not come along for years.  Oh, how wrong I was.  The hubby and I decided the youngest offspring (the boy) needed to be part of organized sports and signed the young lad up for tee ball.  How bad could this be, right?  Cute little kids tying in vain to hit a stationary ball and then running straight for center field instead of first base.  Wrong again.  

At the very first team meeting, I was amazed to discover that tee ball coach would be Coach Commando number two!  Unbelievable!   I took notes immediately in anticipation of what he had to deliver.  I will say, he's nowhere near as bad as R. Lee War Ball, but he deserves a Slap none the less.

The first red flag went up when he called me to introduce himself as the boy's coach and informed me of a "mandatory" parent meeting the following week.  Let me stop here and say (if you haven't already figured it out) I'm not a fan having the word "mandatory" thrown at me.  I paid my money for the kid to play tee ball, he'll play whether I come to your stupid meeting or not.  But, the fella offered pizza and I'm not going to miss an opportunity for a free meal.  

Red flag number two: he mentioned that he had spent several years in the Army and was now out and was super excited to teach the boys his brand of tee ball and discipline.  I was hesitant to get my hopes up that this ass would make for good material so I put him on the back burner.  My suspicions were confirmed at this little meeting of his.  The parents were all presented with a three page booklet, complete with clip art, telling us what to expect from his tee ball program.  I couldn't concentrate past the clip art.  No need, he read the letter to us as if we were all drooling idiots.  However, his letter was a grammatical train wreck and I couldn't have understood a word otherwise so his reading it proved to be helpful.  He had prepared a list of important points to discuss with us lowly parents and went through them systematically, checking them off one by one on his iPad.  

While he droned on and on about discipline and "please, no parent interference"  and blah blah blah, I was looking around at his team of misfits.  Fourteen kids make up his tee ball team and not one of them sat in the same spot during the pizza meal.  Some lady lost her kid and frantically searched the park for him during the meeting.  Three kids sat at their seats picking and then eating boogers.  Some wretched kid squirted me with a Capri Sun.  I tripped him up later and he cried to his mother that some lady pushed him down.  Meeting over, time to go home.  R. Lee Tee Ball has his work cut out for him, poor bastard.  

The first practice was a train wreck.  He had no idea how to keep these kids focused on the task at hand: hit ball off tee, make it to first base.  An hour and a half later not one tiny cleat had seen first base.  The last thirty minutes of practice I asked if I could help.  A frustrated tee ball commando told me to "have at it."  I pulled out a pack of gummy life savers and said, "Hey kids!  Hit the ball, run to first base.  I'll meet you there with a gummy."  Five minutes and fourteen gummies later I had made more progress than he did in an hour and a half.  And I left my whistle and iPad at home.  DAMN I'M GOOD!