Mini scare tactics

Death comes in the form of a 2008 black Chevy Tahoe, or maybe a 2002 Ford Focus – but whatever the car – there is one constant behind the wheel, the driving force of destruction – the parent picking up their little darlin’ at 340 when the final bell of the day releases the mini-Satans into the custody of their creators. The antics of the mini-Lucifers is definitely a blog for another day – so this is all about the demons sitting in their mini-vans, muscle cars, gas guzzlers, pieces of shit, and plain ol’ two axle conveyances.

Every day the bell rings at the same time. The same time. No surprises. 340. Your child won’t exit the building one minute before that, but some parents just don’t get it – it’s very like discussing politics with a rock and expecting the rock to suddenly develop the formula for Middle East Peace. The parents begin the Indy 500 line up around 315 – just in case we let out early one day. And these people take their place in line as serious as a free month’s supply of groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. Usually it’s the same cars lined up each day in a random order, depending on who arrived first. And these soccer moms take this personal if they aren’t the first vehicle next to the door when it explodes with hundreds of hormone-addled hyper 12-year-olds.

Because if you aren’t first, then you are stuck in the slog that is the two block backlog that weaves around the building until about 355. It’s like being tied to a whipping post and being flogged every few seconds as you watch others breeze through the torture line. And pain be to the person stuck trying to go against the flow of over anxious moms battling younger siblings and leave the parking lot on the back edge of the school. They glare venomous hate at you because they think you’re getting away with something by not sitting in the line straight from the 10th circle of hell.

Some stick their heads, all coiffed within an inch of the hair’s fake blonde life, and yell “You need to get in line. You will kill a child going the wrong way.” That would be some serious points then, I think like yelling back.

There have even been fist fights in the parking lot among parents who have accused one or another of cutting in line. Like their precious darlin’ can’t walk the extra five steps to the mom-wagon? The best part is when the moms start high-revving their engines to each other. I’m waiting for some serious drag racing to break out in the parking lot. I can see it now, a three-year old sibling will drop the obsequious report card filled with A’s (every soccer mom’s porn) between the racing vehicles. Amid screaming and screeching tires, the moms race with wild abandon to be the first to the double doors at the end of the school – stopping just short when the sheriff’s deputy finally steps outside to regulate the commotion.

No teacher is within a mile of the disaster. Many hide in their rooms knowing so many parents are on the premises – I don’t know why – the parents are all about the line. No one is gonna break this tradition.