This is not my story but, in a way, it’s everyone’s story, so I’m stealing it. I happen to be good friends with a lovely woman who teaches very young children at a sweet little school in…let’s say Seattle.

Every year, there is at least one seriously crazy parent per classroom. This year, crazy mom had jumped through a few hoops to get her precious darling into my friend’s class because my friend’s reputation is just that good. And her little darling is just that f*ing darling. So darling, in fact, that beaurocratic hoops were not challenge enough.

At their first meeting, it became immediately clear that crazy mom was going to be more than usually problematic. She had a three page single spaced list of requirements for little Billy’s education that ranged from the obvious, “Billy should be encouraged to make friends,” to the impossible, “Billy is not to be touched by an adult under any circumstances.” No touching. None at all. Because if you don’t touch a kid, you can’t molest him. With a simple contract, she has made her kid molestation proof. Take that, perverts.

“What if Billy hurts himself and climbs up on my lap for a hug?” My friend asks, as this is a pretty common occurrence with little people.

“You need to remove him and leave him alone,” crazy mom insists.

The list has a spot at the end where it is to be signed by my friend, the principal, and a notary. My friend isn’t the type to sign meaningless documents, so she stalls with logic. Nice try, voice of reason. Crazy mom becomes a regular phone call, an inundation of emails, an occasionally lurking presence outside the classroom door. And this is four months before her delicate flower of a child even starts school. This woman, it’s decided, isn’t just overprotective, she’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.

Three days later, the first open-house/orientation is going down and the school cafeteria is teeming with shell-shocked veteran moms and bright eyed new moms checking out the digs and getting the lowdown for the new school year. My friend is standing and smiling reassuringly for all the first timers, shaking hands and putting hearts and minds at ease. Through the door waltzes crazy mom, in her crisp white shirt, khaki shorts and Born wedge sandals, heading for the sign in table. Just ahead of her, making the rounds like the hostess of the event, comes veteran mom…let’s call her Trudy. Trudy is a big lady in every sense and the halter top she’s chosen to wear for kindergarten orientation has long since abandoned even the pretense of containing her rebellious bosom.

But the most fun detail about the vivacious Trudy is that on one half of said bosom, a quarter of an inch short of a wardrobe malfunction, is a large name tag tattoo that says. “Hello, My Name Is: CUNT”

Sometimes tattoo parlors should be like bartenders, and just cut you off if they see a bad idea brewing.

Seriously.

Trudy is within stoning distance of lawsuit and just hugging everyone she sees because of course she’s a hugger. My friend vaults her desk, subtly, and cuts through the crowd to plant herself in Trudy’s hugging path.

She says firmly, but kindly, “Here’s something I never thought I’d have to say;  I’m gonna have to ask you to please keep your cunt covered. At least on school grounds. We are trying to teach these kids to read, after all.”

Trudy thinks this is hysterical, but she hikes up her shirt enough that her left tit only announces “Hello,” which is a pretty good start. “You know, I really wish more people would ask me about that.”

My friend nods sympathetically. And I really wish they wouldn’t, she thinks.

Personally, I think my friend missed out on an ideal opportunity to use one crazy mom to scare away another. Even without the tattoo, I bet the hugging would’ve sent her over the edge.