You know those Amber Alerts that cause your phone to make that horrible emergency sound? Yeah, I hate those. They are so nerve wrecking. What makes me qualified to find children? I’m not a detective. I could have had plans today. Now I have to call into work.
Maybe I was going to stay in and do some laundry. Now I have to get my shoes on, put on real pants, put a bra on, brush my hair and go wandering around the surrounding counties looking for a late model Honda Civic with the license plate number IHVEKID.
I don’t even know what different types of cars look like.
Please people, keep an eye on your children. I beg you. I have put so many miles on my car and I’ve never even found a single one. The worst case scenario is if I’ve been drinking. I could get a ticket. Or run over a different child. Or a curb. I’m happy to help. You’ve just got to give me more of a warning. Uber doesn’t have an option for “just drive me up and down each street.” I’ve checked. Plus, it would cost a fortune.
If you insist on involving me at least include a picture of the child with the alert. I need a little more information to go on. Don’t make me go around questioning every eight year old boy with brown eyes and blonde hair who’s approximately four and a half feet tall. That reflects poorly on me.
Parents don’t like when I go to playgrounds by myself and chat up all the children. It draws suspicion. Then I have to explain, “I’m not the one who wants the child. I’m just trying to make sure that this is your actual son.” No matter what they refuse to provide me with adequate evidence that the child they are with is, in fact, their child.
Police work is hard. That’s all I’m saying.