In my grandmother's house there was soap, and then there was
soap. I got the Ivory for a lot of verbal transgressions - and I probably farted bubbles most of the time, because I was a rebellious little snot. But for what George Carlin later called the seven dirty words there was Lava soap (most of which I learned from my grandpop). That pumice added a nasty touch to it.
As far as the weapons of choice go - my grandmother's fuggin thimble was probably more brutal than my grandpop's belt. Switches were nasty, belts were bad - I got more belts (and lava) because I refused to go cut the damn switches.
My mother, who had some serious mental health problems, was prone to more exotic things - the wire handle end of a flyswatter and the Louisville Slugger were pretty nasty, but by far the worst was the stilleto heel - I still got evidence of that one, and I turned 50 this year. She was going after me with that one in a department store shoe department because I'd wandered away for a couple of minutes. Some guy called the cops that time, who did absolutely nothing and sent me home with her because she promised not to do it again (and she
did wait until she got back to the car). Ah, the good old days, when you could really discipline your kids ...
So maybe I don't quite buy into the wailing and weaping and lametations; the loss of the right to take a poke at your kid does not keep me up much at night.
Last edited by PornoDoggy at Nov 10 2003, 11:41 PM