Ah…Nothing warms the heart more than watching your precious little DNA deposit take the stage in a school play. And nothing empties your pockets like letting your precious reminder that the next generation better learn to read a fucking book instead of using that goddamn texting bullshit….Whoops…Lost my train of thought…Where was I? Oh, yes. Nothing empties your pockets like letting them sign up in the first place! When my darling child came home, eyes wide with the thirst for the spotlight and a stack of paperwork that could provide toilet paper for a few weeks, I knew we were in for trouble. What they should have sent home was a fat tube of KY to help ease the pain. Because baby, we could barely sit right in the seats when the curtain went up!
Why the hell do we have to pay so much to keep our kids
busy? When the fuck did being a child
mean taking out a personal loan or pissing off every single member of your
family by shoving ANOTHER fucking cheesecake brochure under their noses?? I remember the days of goofing off, playing
until the street lights came in and trying not to trip over the home-sewn
hemline of my costume on stage. When we went
to the school to see the play, I expected to see tuxedos and limos dropping
parents off from how much they asked for up front. And that’s not before you hit the snack
stand! (They got a lot of nerve to
charge 50 cents for a thing that was supposed to be a brownie, but looked like
something stepped in and scraped into a pan and baked on 400 degrees for a
couple of hours. And it was about the
size of postage stamp!) When the curtain
went up, late despite the BITCHING the kids received if they didn’t show up to
the 1500 practices on time, we waited with baited breath to see the fruits of
labor. And I gotta say, “THOSE SICK
FUCKERS FROM HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL FUCKED EVERYTHING UP!!!!” The costumes were lovely. The set, impressive. The acting…well, it’s a fucking school
musical, not Andrew Lloyd Webber’s latest hit.
The music…Since I had friend’s playing in the “orchestra” I’ll be
nice. It was…fitting. The dancing?
OMFG, I’ve seen youtube videos of prisoners dancing to Thriller that had
more imagination! Basically, it was a
fucking school musical! So tell me, WHAT THE FUCK DID WE PAY YOU FOR??
Sitting in the audience I was struck by a sudden
thought. “I so need to become a director
for school musicals because they get paid to do shit I do for free!!” Get kids’ attention. Attempt to have them follow simple
directions. Get the kids’
attention. Drill words into their heads
until they are able to regurgitate something close to English language. Get the kids’ attention. Show them how to put one foot in front of the
other without falling over and laughing like an idiot. GET THE KID’S FUCKING ATTENTION!!! That complete with the added bonus of being a
complete control freak with a bitchy, stupid side and I’m TOTALLY ready to sign
up! Do they offer that job to someone
who would actually be able to sympathize with the life of a family with no
money to be tossing around? Nope. They give it to a bitch with a Napoleon
complex. So we get treated to little
messages from our kids of her incessant demands. She’s far too important to talk to us little
people. Unless she needs us to bend over
and give a little bit more.
It would be fine if we had a say in anything, but to make
matters even better, the rehearsals were closed to parents. Not that my husband was mourning the fact that
he didn’t have to watch someone teach the same box step over and over again for
three hours. But to close it off means
something’s up….My kids know they have zero right to privacy and are subject to
random checks for contraband or notes from teaches. So why shouldn’t my child’s activity be open
as well? Later we found out that it’s
easier to screech like a like a monkey that just zipped it’s nuts into the
zipper. She went bat shit crazy over
everything. And the final result? A typical school musical complete with all
the expected forgotten lines, broken characters, mic issues, left-right drama
and injuries. But surely, that can’t be
what was envisioned all those months ago when we were given the overall
deal. Oh, wait…It should have been! Get off your high horse lady, you ain’t in
private school. Our kids can barely
read, they’re fucking like bunnies, they can’t talk in complete sentences and
the only college most of them are going to features the words clown, burger, or
Santa. The parents are robbing Peter to pay
Paul, struggling to keep their sanity, and lucky to not get a murder charge for
fucking up one of the little bastards,
The last thing any of us needs is a chick that believes that
we can shell out money for every fundraiser they have, every shirt they need,
tickets (And we HAD to sell a certain number of them in advance to “qualify”
for the fucking “cast” party…Don’t EVEN get me started on that!) and balloons
and flowers as a cheap congratulatory gift for giving up their lives to that
bitch for five months! What we needed
was to be left alone to sit back and marvel at how hard our kids worked to put
on a great show. Why? Because it’s supposed to be fun. It’s not a job. It’s not a requirement to move on in
life. It’s supposed to be fun for them,
entertaining for us. So to the sour
faced, uptight, petty (taking a part away from someone two weeks before opening
night because you don’t feel they embraced the character properly is cruel, you
cunt!), stuck-up, controlling, delusional, manipulative, untalented piece of
short, twice eaten dog shit, I give your directing skills one finger up. Feel free to guess which one.
The ironic kicker? My
baby’s main moment came during a dance where his hood fell over his face,
making it impossible to see and he didn’t miss a beat. Even when he picked up his letter to hold up
to spell out a name and didn’t realize it was upside because he DIDN’T BREAK
FUCKING CHARACTER like he was taught from his father and I, veterans of the
same school musical! And at the end of
the show, what did we do when our baby, who didn’t have a speaking part, came
walking out for curtain calls and took a bow with the chorus? We jumped to our feet and screamed our lungs
out like it was a Broadway hit.
Why? Because THAT’S what we
fucking came to do! So, to you sour,
cranky, bitchy, petty (Taking a part away from a child two weeks before the
curtain goes up because you don’t think they captured the character properly is
cruel, you fucking cunt!), manipulative, mean, controlling, untalented,
stuck-up, condescending, ugly piece of hot regurgitated dog shit, we’ll give
your play one finger up. Guess which
one? Exit stage left, bitch!
