Spare The Rod


    Spare the rod and spoil the child. Is that politically incorrect or what? Ever since Doctor Spock regurgitated his first ideas on child rearing, American children have been on a steady decline into Mad Max. We went from little boys and girls using separate doors to enter school to Transgender bathrooms. Right is left, left is right, and sideways is straight ahead. Even Omish girls are wearing their hair just a little too wild.

    The fact of the matter is children are born with a programmable brain. What you put into that data base during the formative years becomes truth. The reason teenagers seem to rebel is the updates you try to download then conflicts with the beta operating system you installed shortly after opening the box. That original software can either come from you, or some liberal, trans, angry school teacher, or worse yet, peers with faulty software.

    We have supposedly “risen above” the good Ol’ number five butt whipping. “What good does such violence do?” you may ask. Well, it assures that for at least the time being said child will not try to flush the cat down the toilet again.

    I remember when I was five we had a little fat dog named Mabelline. After the Chuck Berry song. Yeah, I just dated myself, I know. I was in love with Tuesday Weld and Tinkerbell, too. Get over it. Anyway, one day, heading down to long hallway that ran down the center of the shotgun shack that me, my parents, and my grandmother lived in, going to the bathroom, I couldn’t hold it any longer, and subsequently peed upon grandma’s 1940s thin-ass wall paper.

    I’d no sooner zipped up when granny rounded the corner. I was caught! But, she eyed the stain on the paper, and the baseboard, then Mabelline laying right beside it. She grabbed her up by her little pig tail, thrashed her to within an inch of her life, rubbed her nose in the stain, and pitched her out into the back yard.

    Now, in a Jack Benny world this was highly entertaining. The next day I peed a little higher. MaMaw beat yelps out of that dog, you know the kind. Bam! Bam! Bam! And the dog goes “Arooof, arooof, arooof,” as it desperately tries to form words. I was amazed that the old woman could pitch that bitch TWICE as far as the day before. If you buy the theory of deviant personalities revealing themselves at a very young age by enjoying the mistreatment of small animals, at five years old I was well on my way to being a first-class serial killer.

    Day three was the day I decided to end Maybelline’s life. I peed on the sacred wall paper, well over my head, and settled back for the grand finale! MaMaw entered the Coliseum. She examined the water mark on the wall. Then, the dog. Now, I must give my grandmother credit. Picking Maybelline up, she did her level best to match that dog with the evidence on the wall. Then, she set her down and went into the back yard, returning with a willow switch. I sat back, waiting for the show, and Maybelline did that dog submission thing, laying on her side with her tongue lolling out, accepting her death.

    I didn’t at first feel the pain. Your brain does that, you know. When the pain is so bad that your nerves don’t have the band width to transmit it, and it truncates somewhere between the source, your legs beneath your shorts and your nuero-receptors in your frontal cortex. This, however, will not stop the auto response of the mouth. Somewhere in the distance I heard a child crying. I began to realize that child was me! And it was closely akin to ”Arooof, arooof, arooof!”

    Let me explain the construction of a 1950s grandma induced, Louisiana leg switching. You’re gonna take the traditional forty lashes minus one. That’s a given. Complete with the obligatory lecture with each word emphasizing each swing of the switch. ”Don’t . . . you . . . EV. . . ER . . . piss . . . on . . . my . . . wall . . . pa. . . per . . . a. . . gain!” Yeah. By syllables. All the while you’re being held aloft by your left arm.

    You try to satisfy her by screaming, ”I won’t MaMaw!” but when all that gets is, ”I . . . know . . . you . . . wont,” you learn real quick NOT to give the old woman anything else to talk about. At that point she must draw blood. When she breaks skin that’s the indicator that she’s gotten ”through” to you. Frankly, at this point, I was expecting to have my nose to be rubbed in the wallpaper, and get pitched out the back door. MaMaw just stomped off with the switch and made tea. I lay on the floor doing that sucking-sob kids do when they’re trying to ”cry-breathe.” Maybelline just licked her private parts.

    Does this method work? Well, if what I had done right before that whipping was to drink water I would never have ever drank water again. And, I might add, I was five, I’m sixty-seven now, so I can honestly say that I haven’t peed on any wall paper for sixty-two years. Maybe MaMaw should have taken that switch to Doctor Spock!

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    The Butcher Shop is an alternative news source based in the Tea Party Tribune with an eye on God, family, and preservation of America. It is a collection of minds started by Bill the Butcher, a conservative op/ed journalist who began publishing forty years ago. We strive to make the articles informative, entertaining, and diverse. All you see will cause you to stop and consider. We try not to drone on with the same old day after day clap trap that may have driven you away from mainstream media. You will read things here that you will see nowhere else. We are from London to Austin to the Escalanté. So, what’s your cut of meat? Shop around. The Butcher Shop is happy to fill your order.