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!
Here is to the AMAZING power of CANDY!!!!
ReplyDelete