Folding, spindeling, and mutilating lauguage for fun since Aug, 2004
Monday, 05 May 2008

I got the following forwarded to me in an e-mail from an older relative.  All I can think of when I read it, is that the person who wrote it thinks that the way to get a better world is to beat our children, teach them that the only reason to participate in community events is to avoid coercive violence, and that they have no choice in when an how to exercise generosity, but must exercise it not out of the goodness of their hearts, but at the end of a belt-strap...and that somehow, this will make them immune to the lure of drugs.

Unfortuanly, my children are doomed to end up as skid-row drug feinds because of my selfish obsession with teaching them to reason, encouraging them to think of others and exercise their empathy, and allowing them to explore the rewards of altruism on their own terms.  Oh, and rely on proper socialization to teach them not to casually engage in profanity.

'course...I had the upbringing described below...and I turned out OK...right?  Right?


      The Moms (and Dad's) who Drugged Us

              The other day, someone at a store in our town read that a Methamphetamine lab

Had been found in an old farmhouse in the adjoining county.
He asked me a rhetorical question.
"Why didn't we have a drug problem when you and I were growing up?"
I replied, I did have a drug problem when I was young:
I was drug to church on Sunday morning.

I was drug to weddings and funerals.
I was drug to family reunions and community
socials---no matter the weather.
I was drug by my ears when I was disrespectful to adults.
I was also drug to the woodshed when I
disobeyed my parents, told a lie, brought home a bad report
card, did not speak with respect to others, spoke ill of the teacher or the
Preacher or if I didn't put forth my best effort in everything that was asked of me.
I was drug to the kitchen sink to have my
mouth washed out with soap, if I uttered a profanity,
I was drug out to pull weeds in mom's garden
and flower beds or cockleburs out of dad's lawn or fields.
I was drug to the homes of family, friends, 
and neighbors to help out some poor soul who had no one---
to mow the yard, repair the clothesline, or chop some firewood; and

if my mother had ever known that I took a single dime as a tip for  


this kindness, she would have drug me back to the woodshed.

Those drugs are still in my veins and they affect my
behavior in everything I do, say, or think. They are

stronger than cocaine, crack, or heroin; and,
today's children had this kind of drug problem,
America would be a better place.

                                   God bless the parents who drugged us!

Monday, 05 May 2008 08:29:46 (Central Standard Time, UTC-06:00) | Comments [0] | #
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