Broom Hilda by Russell Myers for May 05, 2024

From Not Always Right: Helicopter Parents: Ultra Mode

I am nineteen and have moved out of my parent’s house.

Me: “It was super late and we wanted to go home anyway.”

Dad: “Super late, huh?”

Me: “It was almost 2:00 am.”

Dad: Suddenly irate “WHAT?! You have no business being out that late! What were you even doing?”

Me: “We went to see the midnight release of a movie after work—”

Dad: To Mom “What are we going to do about this?”

Me: “Wait, what?”

Mom: “Well, obviously you broke curfew, so—”

Me: “Wait, hold up. Aren’t you two forgetting something? I don’t live here anymore.”

Dad: “You’re our daughter! You have no business being out and about at 2:00 am!”

Me: “I’m an adult that doesn’t live here or even rely on you financially. I have a job, I have a place on my own, and I pay my own bills. What I do with my time is literally none of your business.”

Mom: “You’re just a teenager! You need to listen to us!”

Dad: “As long as you live under our roof—”

Me: “I don’t, though. I have my own roof where I make my own rules. So you’re going to… do what, exactly?”

Dad: “Give me your keys.”

Me: “My car keys? The keys to the car I bought myself, that’s in my name? I don’t think so.”

Mom: “You broke the rules!”

Me: “Those rules stopped applying to me the minute I moved out. I’m leaving now.”

Dad: “You disrespectful little— Don’t you walk away from me!”

They still insisted I “broke curfew” as an adult and tried to demand that I either hand over my car keys or accept the grounding. I went home, instead. Somehow, they were shocked when I moved hundreds of miles away six months later.

NOT my story, but it could have been. . . . . . .

Reminds me of June Cleaver.

So, regular football. (Soccer for the yanks.)

In junior high, we played flag football. If you rolled the belt a couple of times, it made the Velcro flags harder to pull off.

Next step is to send the kids out to play wrapped in bubble wrap and monitored by an attorney.

Kids in my neighborhood played tackle on the lawn to the church across the street. There were two walkways interrupting the lawn so the rule was “no tackling on the concrete.”

Everybody lived.

We used to play tackle football in a parking lot for fun, but then we also rode bikes with no helmets, drank from water hoses, and played “dodge Jarts”… AND we all survived.

That’s one more way to just “Use your words.”

If that’s what the world is coming to, i think I’ll tackle one of the parents.C’mon people, let’s your kids be kids.

Woke at it’s finest.

Wait until you hear the rules for soccer. :)

dont let Roger Goodell read this strip

Just play esports

Flag football!

Interesting that Doonesbry and Broomhilda share the same theme today.