Beat Your Kids!


You Damn Kid! ©1999 - 2006 Owen Dunne. Image used with permission. All rights reserved.

When I was growing up, I got my ass beaten pretty much whenever I fucked up. Not once, not twice either, but multiple times during the course of a day. I got beaten for the things that I did, I got beaten for some of the things I didn't do, I got beaten for some of the things I thought about doing, and sometimes I was even beaten for things that I just looked guilty of. When I had my ass torn loose and it eventually came to light that I wasn't actually guilty after all, I never got an apology. I got, "That's for the shit you did that I didn't find out about."

My parents were tough. My folks didn't have any Ritalin, they had something I call "Nositagin"; about three or four black leather belts hanging on display from a planter hook in the living room, and by God they used them. (For the record, I've been informed that they would've used razor straps, but do you have any idea how hard those are to find?) My mother was like Indiana Jones with a whip when it came to these belts. Some mothers threw shoes, but mine preferred a more direct hands-on approach. My dad? He was the last person you wanted to piss off enough to let you have it. It was always three whacks across the bare ass with one of those attitude adjustment wrenches and I had to count them out. Were I foolish enough to place my hands in the way between whacks and take one on the knuckles, that one just didn't count.

My ass had the consistency and texture of leather for most of my childhood.

Back then, it was understood that you listened to and obeyed your parents or there was hell to pay. And this wasn't just me. There were ass beatings all over my neighborhood. It was common to hear a kid being beaten two houses away. Life was simple.

Modern parents have become so spineless that they allow their children to dictate terms to them and it makes me sick. They threaten to call the police or some children's hotline when they don't get their way, and God forbid that you administer an ass beating to someone else's child, or even your own! I know a woman, whom I shall call Miss Goodpussy, (as she has been known to fuck her boss from time to time for better treatment), that is so 'progressive' that not only will she refuse to allow and take legal action against someone punishing her kids in any way, but she doesn't raise a hand to them. She's a "time out" mommy. The kind that won't do anything but make the child go to their room for an hour. The kind that believes that she has a better way. The kind that will be wondering why her children are beating her when they're 14.

I wonder if she's figured out why her son says "Fuck you bitch!" whenever she asks him to do something.

I'd like to tell you a story from my childhood. It's a good story, and it shows you what a little discipline can do. Take notes.

When I was younger, I lived in what is known as a "box house". For those of you who don't know what that is, it's a house without any studs like in modern construction. The walls are literally made like crates with 4x4's at the corners and butted slats between on both sides. Kind of like a double-sided picket fence without gaps. Sheetrock is hung over the interior walls to give a nice appearance, with lap siding on the exterior. It's warm, but not very chic. Sound also carries well within this type of construction. My bedroom shared an entire wall with my parent's room, and if someone farted, anyone in the other room could hear it. Once, I had a friend come to spend the night. We were kids and it was late and my parents had absolutely no patience with anything but instant compliance. When you mix all of those together, no good can come of it.

Anyhow, it was late. In fact, everyone was supposed to be in bed asleep. We were supposed to. Yeah. You know how that went over, don't you? Kind of like a turd in a diving suit. My friend and I were talking, and we got more than a little loud. Jokes back and forth, snickering, giggling, and at times outright belly laughs were among the offenses we committed. In hindsight, I should've known that I was doomed from the outset, but I was oblivious to what was to come.

They did give us a warning, which I suppose was rather sporting of them, but we just toned everything down to whispers for about five minutes before the circus started all over again. I had the dim inkling at this point that I was about to be pureed, but for some reason it wouldn't take hold and produce the desired response of absolute silence that my parents were looking for.

I swear to you by everything that is holy that we honestly tried to be quiet. We really did. But there's just something about the topic of dog farts that does things to the ten year old male psyche. Somehow the intoxicating combination of mental imagery, anthropomorphic flatulence and a Bronx Cheer causes what is known as an autonomic response, and results in peals of ungirdled mirth and laughter.

We heard feet hit the floor, and a good deal of swearing.

"God dammit! THAT... IS... IT!"

Now when you know a beating is eminent, and you're ten, you do what we did. You cover your head with the comforter and play dead. It was our wild hope that my mother would come in to see us obviously sound asleep, and quietly go back to bed thinking she must be imagining things.

Kids sure are stupid.

The next thing I knew there was light all around me and the sounds of a pissed off Irish woman tromping through my room like a bull in a china shop. I guessed correctly that she was armed, but I wasn't aware with what.

My mother's first blow was a surgical strike with a godammed paddle that she had somehow acquired without my knowledge. I don't know where she got it. And so help me God if I ever find the bastard that gave it to her, splints, whole blood and staples will be in order.

You know, I don't think my mom ever had any training with a paddle, because she didn't follow any of the conventions of the era regarding their use in institutions such as schools. To start with, she didn't understand why there were only three licks at a time. What if you're not done after three? What if it was, say, a four or five blow offense? Also, she didn't understand why you only struck the ass. Nonsense that. You struck wherever there was something sticking out. If that happened to be the ass, then so be it. Otherwise, "that's what you get for not standing still". Lastly, my mom never grasped the concept of why you always struck with the flat side. But after all this time, I think I finally know the truth. My mother fought crime as a vigilante swordswoman with a whip for backup.

It came down sharply, edge first, right on my motherfucking shins. I came up sharply, like a mousetrap on which you'd just flipped the catch. It was then I realized that mom had apparently taken tennis lessons as well, as she executed a magnificent backhand to my forehead with the flat of her mighty wooden blade. After that, she pretty much just started hitting lumps.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, my mom landed an errant blow and hit my friend, who was playing dead for all he was worth. Just between you and me, if he had any sense whatsoever, he'd have just shut the fuck up and pretend it all never happened.

He didn't.

This schmuck, in a bright, shining, quintessential example of distilled retardation, sits straight up in the middle of the ass beating and does the unthinkable. He pops off to my mom. MY mom! That's not stupid, that's just suicidal.

"Hey! YOU can't hit ME!"

It really was kind of inspiring there for a second now that I think of it. It was like David and Goliath, like Tom and Jerry, like Sonny Bono and that tree... My friend was trying to earn the posthumous children's medal of valor. Eyes aflame, childhood angst radiating from his every pore, his bottom lip thrust forward in defiance... he was truly an inspiration.

It was a short-lived spectacle.

My mother stood there for a whole two seconds with a look on her face that I can only describe as violently amused. Chin down, eyes wide but rapidly narrowing, her paddle-blade striking true once more, she uttered the words that I have never forgotten to this day.

"I see I cain't."

She then commenced to beat the hell out of him right there on the mattress.

I should've been quiet, I know I should've. But the whole thing made me laugh. I just couldn't help it. Unfortunately for me, this only served to get swordzilla's attention back on target number one.

After it was all over and we were in that state of childhood sobbing that interferes with breathing, the kind that makes you snort and hiccup as you nurse your wounds; my mother, triumphant, exited the room with the phrase, "If you make me get up again I'll come in here and beat your ass off!".

There's nothing like adding insult to injury.

My friend was still indignant, so he promised that by God he'd tell his dad the next day and then there'd be hell to pay. She'd learn, my mother, that he was not a child to be trifled with! Unfortunately for him, his dad didn't take any shit from kids either. Right after he left to go home, my mom was on the phone with his dad. In a display of community unheard of today, my mom spelled out in detail what had happened the night before, and flatly admitted to beating the living shit out of his son for mouthing off and disobeying. Do you know what he said to that?

"Why, thank you."

You might think in the current PC climate that this story speaks of unimaginable cruelty and abuse. I can understand why you would see it this way, but that's just because you've been brainwashed by New Age psychobabble. We weren't hospitalized, we were disciplined. Just because we had the occasional red marks on our asses and an odd bruise or two when we wiggled the wrong way, that doesn't mean we were abused. What's more, despite all this, we turned out just fine. Do you think for a second that Miss Goodpussy above would thank someone for correcting her kid? Why hell no! There'd be litigation, police, child endangerment lawsuits and who knows what else! She epitomizes that which is wrong with children and their rearing today. She's a first-rate, politically correct, shallow, trendy cunt.

Believe me when I tell you that there will be a reckoning. Your kids that you're letting run wild are going to be in charge one day. They're going to decide what happens to you when you get old, and they'll also be the ones who choose your nursing home. I put my parents in a nice residential center because I was afraid my dad would come and kick my ass if I didn't. I respect my parents, but Miss Goodpussy's won't do her any such favor; and neither will millions of other fragile co-dependant brats who were never taught that their ass isn't above a tanning.

I grew up to be tough. So did my friend in the above story. In fact, all my friends have had their asses blistered at one point for fucking up in some way or another, but we're a dying breed.

The child in the opening cartoon is a wonderful example of what goes afoul when parents aren't strong. "Yeah," you say. "What the fuck would YOU do about it if your kid did that, wise ass?" Well, were one of my kids this crazy, I'd hand her the phone and tell her to make that call. "Go ahead," I'd say. "Call the cops. But know this: It's going to take them a good half-hour to get here, and in that time, you'll get the beating of your god damned life. It's not right to lie to the police."

Then I'd slap her fucking lips off every time she hit a button. Fear is a great parenting tool.

And another thing, STOP TREATING YOUR KIDS LIKE THEY'RE YOUR FRIENDS. They're not little adults, they're kids. They will take advantage of you every single chance they get, and if you don't assert your authority, they'll assert the authority you give them.

So be tough, grow a set of nuts and beat your children. Time-outs are for pussies.