Dear dude in the school pick up line,
Hi, we’ve never met and judging by your questionable taste in music and assorted behaviors I’ve been privy to, I hope it never comes to that.
Let me start by saying I’ve spent some of my best years held hostage to the drop off and pick up lines of various school campuses and therefore consider myself something of an expert when it comes to viewing the personages of The Line. These are usually female persons in various stages of dress, makeup, and readiness for liquor. Yes, I myself have dropped the darlings at school whilst clad in fuzzy pajamas and sans brassiere…only to pick them up hours later similarly attired. Don’t judge. Shit happens. There are the skinny minis who are skinny and mini due to either genetics, a strict diet or an unhealthy meth habit. These woman actually wear yoga pants to do yoga. These women also do not wear underpants. Or else they’re wearing butt floss. I’ve never been brave enough to ask. There are your typical workaday moms, office armor fully in place with a visage that conveys anyone messing with her will be dispatched without mercy or last rites. These are feral women; women on the edge; women whose last nerve is one whine away from being tripped. These women are busy and you’d best put some hustle in your bustle when dealing with them. Then there are the bird moms, you know the chirpy, perpetually happy, Starbucks fueled PTA chairs, volunteers and general menaces to the rest of us who’d be only too happy to forgo yet another damned fundraiser if you’d just take a check, thankyouverymuch!
Never, and I do mean NEVER, have I ever seen a man in the pickup line. You, my good man, are my first and, God willing, you’ll be the only. Because unlike the ladies of The Line and my sainted Himself, you sir, are a dick.
You do not drive ‘round the corner and assimilate quietly into the line. No, no. You arrive with fanfare, your truck engine trumpeting like a fart blazing from the nether region of an octogenarian after an all you can eat Mexican buffet at the senior center.
I’ve observed you for weeks now and with each passing weekday, I keep hoping your current or your ex will arrive in lieu of you to pick up your monsters. Sure, we women can be spiteful, bitchy and somewhat competitive (ahem), but we aren’t clueless. We KNOW how to comport ourselves in public.
Point 1: I can only assume that the large, obnoxiously loud, tricked out diesel truck you drive is compensating for your shortcomings…one which is visible to all in that you can barely see over the steering wheel. You sir, have a bad case of SMS, short man syndrome. And by the way, your stinky truck’s got nothing on Himself’s 1968 Roadrunner.
Point 2: You are aware, of course, that despite your dollar store aviators, I can, in fact, see you? Scowling at me as if I’m a fresh pile you just stepped in isn’t very endearing. And while we’re on the subject, stop it. It’s creepy.
Point 3: Naturally, you also know that the windshield and windows of your vehicle are clear, right? I see your daily DIY sinus excavation while trolling for those pesky nose goblins that just won’t turn loose. My, but you are one determined lad. That, as well as other actions most people consider private, are best completed at home. Behind locked doors. Under cover of night.
Point 4: It is apparent to all present, as well as those living three counties over, that your four-wheeled chariot sports one hell of a sound system. Personally speaking, I’d rather listen to a herd of cats mating on a metal roof during a hail storm than have my ears assaulted by what passes for country music these days. I suppose someone else in the line may share your love of the garbage. I also suppose there may indeed be life on Mars.
Would it be wrong to ask your offspring to ride the bus?
The Codefendants’ Mom