Parents. What would move them to say, “I’ll give you a reason to cry!” when a kid is already crying? Apparently, he already has a reason. A damn good one, too, if you would just stop and solicit his opinion. What if the kid was to say to his father, “I’ll give you a reason to pay taxes!”? See what I mean? Parents have all the power but make no sense. A lot like the Bush administration. Or a Porsche that you just drive around town.

When I was a kid, it was popular for parents to hit their kids. In today’s terms this would be called abuse. Back then there was difference between striking your child and abuse. Maybe the difference is in the frequency and severity. I was never beaten, just smacked. Not in the face, but on the ass. But between my mother and father there were belts, brushes, a full-sized plastic guitar and a strange looking farm tool passed down through the family. Don’t get me wrong though. They were fair. They would say, “I know your brother did it, but to be fair, we’re going to hit both of you.” My first inclination was to say, “You created both of us. That makes you equally culpable.” Then we’d both get hit again.

Nowadays people have been told that it’s not right to strike your child. I tend to agree. I only hit my children once (each) over the entire course of their childhood. And I felt terrible about it. I went to my room and didn’t come out for supper. I remembered the words of my mother as I was sitting on the edge of my bed. She used to say, “Now go to your room and think about what you did.” Of course, as a sulking child I never did. Instead I thought about how I didn’t like being a kid and I imagined I was in the Big House and how I’d like to bust out of the joint with Tommy The Spike Mortenson from cell block 7.

I’d rap on the wall three times and wait for Tommy The Spike to reply with two fast raps. Then I’d call out to him, “Tommy, I’m bustin outa this joint at midnight. You in or out? But first I’m goin into the kitchen and making a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Then I’m stuffin some chocolate chip cookies into a sack and goin over the wall. You in or out? When I get to town, I’ll hitch to the desert and start a new life all over, see? I’ll get a job in a filling station and find a nice dame and settle down. Maybe I’ll shoot craps or carrier pigeons or whatever else you shoot when you’re shootin.”

Tommy The Spike never answered. Instead, I’d hear my father screaming at me, “Shut up and stop banging on the walls or I’ll really give you something to cry about.”

Why are parents so interested in giving kids something to cry about? Why don’t they take the reverse approach? Let me explain. First the kid does something wrong, like paint the cat orange and write a sign on his side that says “Orange ya glad I’m a cat?” (Not that I did this or anything). Then when the parents see this, instead of smacking you on the butt with a broom handle, they sit you down and say, “Skippy, I hope you see the error of your ways. I am now going to buy you some extra toys. I know it’s not Christmas, but I’m taking you to Uncle Wally’s Fun House and Toy Emporium and you can have anything you want for under $500.”

At this point, the kid is jumping for joy and running all over the house. He’s laughing out of control and going silly. The coup de grace is when the parent just can’t take the carrying-on any longer and blurts out, “I’ll give you something to laugh about!”

It still doesn’t make sense, but the absence of physical violence and crying makes it much more tolerable. In my book, punishment begins with laughter.

I know what you’re thinking: Hey, Mr Wisenheimer, what about psychopathic murderers on death row? My answer is this: just before you kill them you tell them a funny joke. It’s a compromise, but I think it’s worth looking into.

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