Spank Me Baby!

Spanking… Some do it, some don’t.

But at some point in your parental lives you’ll be forced to make that decision. And even after you make that decision those little bastards will push you so far that you might just re-think it.

Now, I’m not even about to stand proud on my soap box, pound my chest and make a public stance on this issue.

Instead, I’m going to guide you on a little jaunt back-in-time to my childhood to discuss wooden spoon, hair brushes, and belts – oh my!

Why? Because my parents were huge believers of spanking.

My mother was a wooden spoon kind of lady. It was her weapon of choice.

Originally my brother and I thought she mistakenly grabbed one while reaching for a knife, but now we’re pretty confident the stealth speed of the spoon as it sliced through the air, landing effortlessly on our young butt’s just milliseconds before we dodged her thrashing arm was what sold our mother on the dreaded spoon of wood.

Regardless, she was a ninja master with it.

And no matter what room in the house we were in, there was always a wooden spoon hidden somewhere:

• Bathroom spraying water on my brother as he brushed his teeth – WHAP! a wooden spoon across the ass.
• Watching cartoons with my brother and accidentally saying “shit” loud enough for my mother to hear – WHAP! a wooden spoon across the legs and bar of Lava soap in the mouth.
• Mumbling under my breath “I hate you and wish you were dead” after my mother spanked me with a wooden spoon – (sound effect of spoon flying through the air like a throwing star) WHAP! a wooden spoon on the back.

She had skills.

Every now and then my brother (@ibeenorm on Twitter) and I would push her to the point where we’d turn and find her frazzled, raging, and holding a single wooden spoon in hand donning a “let’s dance motherfuckers!” look on her face.

Our reaction was always to put our hands behind our butts and scatter in opposite directions. It was our impulse.

And like a true lioness she always went after the weaker, slower one. But looking back, the smart move would have been to let her hit me first every time because once the initial hunt was over, she would then call the other kid who got away and he’d have to stand there and take it.

Afterward, we’d inevitably end up in the bathroom, bent over comparing black-and-blue wooden spoon marks on each other’s asses to see who would be declared the gold in Olympic Wooden Spoon Dodging.

My father? His weapon of choice was the blue hair brush or a belt. And to make matters worse, he was a lazy spanker.

He was a do-it-yourself vicious spanking machine. All that was required was a crying, shaking child and a weapon.

Many-a-time he’d come home, look at my report card, scream and yell, then say the words we always dreaded to hear: “go get the hairbrush.”

There was no need to argue, no need to negotiate…you were about to get your ass beat.

So you make the long walk up the stairs, sniffling, kicking yourself for being in this situation, and making last minute pleas with any god who will listen that he “please slam our house with a massive meteorite stat!!”

I’d slowly walk back in, hand him the brush and then wait for the second most-hated phrase to be uttered: “take down your pants and underwear.”

The humility of having to drape yourself over your father’s knee, bare-ass sticking in the air, waiting for all hell to break loose was enough to make you want to become a saint for the rest of your life.

But we never learned our lessons. Despite the knowledge of our mother hoarding at least three-dozen wooden spoons sporadically around the house, and our father’s keenness to play our bare-asses like a snare drum with his hairbrush, my brother and I continued to raise holy hell.

We continued to take lashings over the years for some of the dumbest things we had under our control to just simply not do. We were like moths to a flame.

Even today when I’m walking through a store and see a wooden spoon on display I have the sudden urge to pop my brother on the back of the head and call him a “punk.”



The Great American Snuggie Family

I hate the Snuggie. I hate it more than anyone could hate anything. Wanna know why? Read an old post I knocked out a while back about how the Snuggie is nothing but a glorified cock-block.

But for some reason I’ve been attached to the Snuggie on Twitter. At least once every couple of days I’ll get a picture of one sent to me by one of my kick-ass kids on Twitter.

But while Snuggies have impacted my life and made me contemplate arson as a means to which I could rid them from this planet…they’ve also created a life of their own. They’ve grown out of control becoming Slankets, Sham Wow Snuggies, and more.

Regardless, I still find myself wondering, what happened to the original Snuggie family. You know—the one you saw in all the ads.

So I tossed on my super ninja spy gear and dug into their history. And…here’s what I found:

It all started with the perfect family. The dad, hot mom, and two perfect, adoring kids and their Snuggies.

Then they boy wanted a dog.

So then the girl wanted horses.

The mom had two older twin sisters who lived their lives as “Cougars” hunting men and trying too hard to look sexy.

And of course there was the creepy uncle.

Over time the kids grew up. The boy went through a bit of a gangsta phase.

The girl…well, she got a little slutty.

She then had a life-altering experience and felt love for the first time. She panicked and became a recluse for a short period of time.

And when she came out of it, she decided to eliminate sex from their relationship for a solid year to make sure he truly loved her.

Meanwhile, the boy met a bad group of people and ended up joining a Snuggie cult.

A year later, the girl married her boyfriend and they settled down and quickly spat a little nipper out.

Although she always described it as “watching an alien tear out of me.”

But regardless she enjoyed motherhood. She enjoyed it so much she decided to crank out seven more rug rats.

And then life became too much, and she slipped back into old bad habits.

She even sampled hanging out in her brother’s cult for a bit.

Then she got pregnant again. And, for obvious reasons, after the baby was born her husband wanted a divorce.

In the end, the son got kicked out of the cult and he spent his life rebelling against the Snuggie.

The daughter’s eight kids traveled the world became well adjusted Snuggie lovers.

The original Snuggie parents got older, larger, and obsessed with Wal-Mart.

The illegitimate kid became President of the United States.

And the girl…she regrouped again, went back to college, traveled the world, but

eventually became a hoarder and died buried under her own filth.

THE END