Stick Em' Up, Bugsy...

When I was young, I used to get in trouble a lot. I'd do wacky crap for no reason. Tear my clothes off, break something, name it - I did it. So punishment was a daily occurence. When my mother was around, punishment was different. If i was bad, I had to hold my hand out and get whacked with a...chopstick. No foolin'. And if I was badder, I had to stick both off my hands against the wall. I couldn't turn my head, or talk. If I was lucky, I got the side of the wall that had the calender nearby, and you could kind of discreetly sneak glances at it for entertainment, this lasted for hours sometimes. That's why I can't keep my mind still nowadays. My overactive imagination was a childhood survival mechanism. Now, if I was badder-er, I got the belt. Right on my ass. This was my fathers territory. He wore big belt buckles. He was a Texan. They all have big belt buckles. He always said it hurt him more than it did me. Uh huh. Yeah, whatever you say, pops. You've got the belt. You know what was scarier than his belt buckle? His face. It'd get all red and splotchy, and spit would start flying out of his mouth. He looked like a cartoon. I'd imagine steam coming out of his ears and a whistle blowing like in the cartoons...

See? Like I told you...

Survival mechanism.