I understand I am responsible if my child renders her Chromebook a paper weight by mercilessly and giddily jamming a Bic pen into the power jack, creating a beautiful flash across the screen, and, if the TikToks are accurate, a slight puff of acrid smoke emanating from within.
I will replace my child’s Chromebook screen if she slams it over the corner of her desk or on the back of her chair, as if the future of civilization depends on her, a seven-year-old child, creating a pile of electronic waste out of a learning device that operates as the very thing that stands between her and peace of mind.
If, under any circumstances, my daughter douses her school-issued Chromebook in lighter fluid, setting it ablaze to summon evil spirits during the pledge of allegiance, I will furnish the school with a new device.
I am aware that if my daughter opens a window, cradles her Chromebook in her right arm like an Olympian discus, unleashing it with a flick toward her favorite teacher’s 1998 Toyota Tercel in the parking lot below, I will pay all damages. I will also be accountable if she periodically peers out the window as the screen softly dims over the course of several hours, flickering a Morse code of despair as its AI bot, Gemini, softly whimpers to the gym teacher slumped in the adjacent car alone, crying his free period away. If he, too, breaks down, sobbing “What has become of me?” into a bag of ranch-flavored Bugles during his only free period, I will reimburse Mr. Smidley for all mental-health services.
I understand the health dangers of my child gently placing her tablet under her teacher’s chair, rolling over it with a satisfying crunch as the glass tessellates into a thousand smaller pieces. I also am aware that if she under any circumstances reenacts that scene in Die Hard where Bruce Willis runs across the floor filled with broken glass during the district-mandated active-shooter drill, I shall be responsible for replacing scratched floor tiles in the classroom.
I understand that if my child, so help me god, is distracted from her screen for a single fucking second, and somehow peers at some pages of a physical book featuring a unique blend of words and art, bound together to form a coherent narrative, she will suffer the consequences outlined in the Student Handbook.
I am aware that if the minor for whom I am legally responsible is industrious enough to seek out a small patch of grass—or, heavens forbid, a small tree to sit under—during her state-mandated nine-minute recess time, I will seek out school guidance counselors to make appropriate alterations to her Individualized Education Plan.
I understand that if any of the six apps I am required to use to maintain every aspect of my student’s academic experience crashes, I will contact the AI-enabled chat feature on that app to ensure my child has appropriate funds in her school lunch account. I will not bother district administrators or anyone else responsible for my child’s education to find a solution to this problem that has no need to exist.
I agree that as a parent/guardian of ________________ that it’s up to me to ensure the dignity of our schools and, indeed, our republic. In signing this waiver, I agree that this technology is immensely valuable not just to my child, but to her classroom, the tech giant that sold it to our school, and its billionaire owner. I understand that this tablet is essential to her education, not to mention the entire US economy teetering on the edge of collapse, if not for the purchase order completed by our school administrator and other countless heroes just like her across our precious nation.
