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Of Beer And Monkey Bars

Dear Underage Assholes,

Look I understand underage drinking. Really I GET IT. I used to do it twenty years ago. I grew up in the boonies, eight miles from “town,” so when I was a teenager we had field parties. You cruised McDonald’s and the main highway that snaked through town, found your friends, drove out to a dark country field, parked your trucks and cars, cranked up some Hank Jr., or Journey, or Beastie Boys on the radio or from your incredible collection of cassette tapes and you hung out. But you know what? We cleaned up after ourselves. We didn’t scatter empty beer cans and cigarette butts all over a quiet suburban neighborhood park … a park that is heavily trafficked by families with young kids who ask questions like, “Mommy were you a bad teenager?” (A question luckily I can honestly respond no, too, if you don’t count my college years.) We respected the cows’ personal space. Do you hear me? We respected COWS. That’s right. We might have been dabbling in illegal activity, but we didn’t litter. We might have peeled out on a gravel road if we saw Farmer Joe’s lights come on, but we didn’t litter.

So go play homage to Anheuser Bush in someone’s basement or sneak over to a friend’s house when their parents are out of town and scatter empty cans and cigarette butts on your own turf. Not ours.

And if I ever am out past midnight on a weekend, which I’ll admit is highly unlikely since lately I struggle to stay up past ten o’clock, and see you all up at the park? I’m gonna open the can of mama whoop ass or at least get the hubby to scare you off. He’s got a lot of past experience with beer cans and I’m sure he can tell you where to stick them, I mean dispose of them.

Signed,

An Angry Mom

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