Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Smack-Crackle POP

For the most part, I have a good life. I've never been arrested, and by today's standards, and yesterdays post, is pretty damn good. You see, I was too damn scared to do anything that would get me arrested. I'm a fair sized guy, and have been since I was 12, but that didn't keep me out of the cross hairs of the boys in blue. It was my dad. God bless him, I love him dearly, but Christ he used to scare the shit out of me. All of 5'6'' and strong as hell and a temper on him, I shudder thinking of how much it affected me. Now, before we even get out of the gate, I was in no way, shape or form a battered kid. I grew up in a European. Some places you where turbans, some your custom is carrying daggers, others burk has in the European culture, and true to tradition, you smack your kids. Hell even distant family could swat your kids. You stepped out of line and WHAM!
God I remember days running faster than greased lightening to get away from the ol' man. Being shorter than me the bugger could move, but when you heard that belt flop through the belt loops of his trousers, fuck Red Bull, that sound gives you wings. I got shit, on a regular basis, but always well justified, not that I thought so back then, but my dad was always fair. One time, I remember calling my mom a bitch when I was about eight or nine and my dad was on me like white on rice. I took off up the stairs running. Why run upstairs? I found out recently that it is much closer to God, and by some miracle He might hear my prayers, I don't know. Actually I do know because the ol' man was hot on my heels and that day I not only got the belt, but I got the buckle end as well. Ahh those good old days. My Mom wasn't no slouch either. She had a damn holster on each hip and an arsenal of projectiles that were the early stage tracking devices for skud missiles. She was somethin' good ol' ma. But you see, what came out of all that, oh so long ago was, dare I say, respect. Now some of you might scream, but I'm not going to listen, I believe that fear breeds respect. You don't fuck with Hells Angels cause you know what they can do, so you respect, their presence. You don't want to go to jail, you respect the law. It's that simple. There are so few of the guys I grew up with that ever ended up in jail. Maybe the drunk tank but nothing more severe. But I find that today's topic infuriates me. 'Oh no, no, no. We don't spank Johnny, we talk things over with him. We don't believe in corporal punishment.' Good for You. You dumb ass piece of shit. Cause when Johnny torches the couch in the living room and your whole frickin' house goes up in smoke, you can 'talk to him' about it along with the insurance dude. Talking to your child only goes so far. Sure I talk to my kid. Once, twice, three times Wham! and WHAM every time thereafter. Call the cops, I never hit my kid to kill him, I hit him to jar the brain cells back into alignment. At thirteen they get gummed up with thoughts of boobs. I talk, you listen, you learn. Hell I've become my father, 'You live in my house, you follow my rules!' I hope my son hates that saying as much as I do.
Corporal punishment is not abuse. Your kid cried when he was in the crib and you let him cry so he could get used to sleeping by himself. That was tough love they told you, Hmmm? Now here you are with a kid that's lippy as shit and you want to talk to him about things. News flash. HE AIN'T LISTENING!! He's so tuned you out long ago that you have no clue. Grounding, taking away their shit, go ahead talk to them.
But when you're driving down the street and some punk as little 8 year old jumps out in front of your car and tells YOU to fuck off, wonder what his parents talked to him about. Gone are the good old days when the village raised the child and they could get swatted for the times your ol' man didn't catch you. These kids don't need a belt, they need a big dose of respect and it comes in the for of a shit kicking of a lifetime.
One word- Military School.
I'm sorry that's two words... sorry...slap me.

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