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Oh god.

Oh.

God.

Something terrible has befallen Coppell High School.

Has the school caught on fire? No.

Has the KCBY studio collapsed onto program director Aawon Monty? No.

Has the English department assigned a timed writing? Thank heavens, no.

No, something much worse has happened.

The C-store is out of waffle fries –

and Microsoft Teams has been banned on all school iPads.

Please, I implore you, don’t panic. Lord knows we have had enough of that these past few weeks.

Since the ban went into effect April 10, CHS has descended into complete and utter chaos. Society has collapsed. The fragile order that once held our school has crumbled into dust, leaving only confusion, fear and scattered sophomores wandering the halls, bumping into pillars like Roombas.

Prior to the ban, students lived in harmony. Messages flowed through the sacred violet channels of Teams.

Need to know where your friends were at lunch? Teams.

Need answers to homework? Teams (much to the dismay of teachers).

Need blurry, low-quality photos of someone asleep during class or horrifically inappropriate reaction images? Teams.

Civilization prospered. But now?

Now, students are forced to communicate through barbaric methods once thought obsolete, contained to uncontacted tribes living in the stone age. Verbal conversation. Hand gestures. Reportedly, some have even resorted to email.

God bless us.

Earlier this week, a senior was supposedly forced to walk nearly 40 feet across the library to ask her friend if she had finished studying for the Macroeconomics AP exam. The friend promptly burst into tears, but that’s besides the point.

Witnesses described the scene as “deeply disturbing.”

“I didn’t think something like this could happen here,” sophomore Yube Zalaar said – or, rather, texted us. “First they took our phones. Now Teams? What’s next? Human interaction?”

Administrators insist the situation is under control. Students tell a different story.

“This is worse than the time I watched 17 pitbulls brutally maul my parents in front of a burning orphanage. And when I stubbed my toe yesterday,” junior Jerard Jr. said.

Some have adapted to the harsh conditions.

Small underground communication networks have sprung up in the dark, windowless catacombs inside of the ongoing band hall construction. Enterprising sophomores are reportedly charging $2 to pass handwritten sticky notes across classrooms, running a courier service both highly lucrative and dangerously prone to hand saws and unsuspecting construction workers.

Sophomore TheyWouldn’tTellMeTheirName silently

gestured to a sign reading “PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TWO DOLLARS PLEASE.”

We are living on borrowed time. The campus is a ticking time bomb of unexpressed teenage thoughts, trapped inside our skulls with nowhere to go. If the administration does not restore our sacred violet lifeline soon, the structural integrity of CHS will completely give way.

That, or we turn into the people from WALL-E.

Until then, stay safe. If you see a stray sophomore hallway hall-of-famer swinging a lanyard of some random kid’s ID or restroom pass, soaked and bumping into a water fountain repeatedly, please do the humane thing. Don’t look them in the eye or open your mouth, just gently direct them to their next class before you accidentally speak and scare them off.

…

The freshmen? CHS9 has burned down.

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