Everybody got in shit when they were a kid.

Maybe you pulled your little sister?s hair.

Maybe you drank every bottle of your old man?s homebrew.

Maybe you tore the ass end outta the family car jumping the train tracks in town.

Whatever it was, you knew damn well you were going to get in trouble.

And you did it anyway.

That is the weird part.

Human beings love getting themselves in shit.

It is like a surprise bag.

Gee, I wonder what flavor of ass kicking I am getting today.

The first time you screw up, your mother hits you with, ?Wait until your father gets home.?

Your guts drop out your ass.

You are picturing him changing the shape and colour of your backside.

Then he gets home.

Grunts at you.

Tells you to behave yourself.

Grabs the remote.

False alarm.

Next time, no threats.

No warning.

Your mother hauls your pants down in front of your friends and gives you one clean slap across the left ass cheek.

Did it hurt.

No.

Did your soul leave your body.

Absolutely.

Your buddies are frozen. You are standing there bare assed in the daylight, reconsidering every life choice you have ever made.

She goes inside.

Slams the door.

Five seconds later, she is peeking through the window, making sure you are still alive.

The third time, you can see it in her face.

She is marching across the yard with that look like she has got something stuck under her bottom lip, muttering, you little fucker.

Four or five good cracks.

No aim.

No pattern.

Just wherever pain lives.

This time she struggles to stop herself.

Door slams.

Music cranks.

And guess what.

Supper is late.

Extra hour and a half.

That is psychological warfare.

Then comes the paint stick.

Or the alder branch from the yard.

Now your ass is three shades of pink and red, and you are pulling splinters out of places that should never have splinters.

You cannot sit.

You cannot move.

You gotta stay inside all week watching the other kids have fun like a grounded prisoner.

Eventually, she cannot catch you anymore.

So she adapts.

Next thing you know, you are running across the yard and WHAM.

Your father?s cowboy boot comes flying through the air like a guided missile, hits you dead center in the back, and takes you to your knees.

Face first in the gravel, you are wondering when in the fuck she took knife throwing lessons.

She does not yell.

Does not slam the door.

She wipes her hands.

Smiles.

And calmly walks inside.

And that, right there, is when you learn a lifelong lesson.

To this day, you do not fuck with mom.

?????????????...and that's callin' it like it is!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Canadian artist & digital troublemaker Colin John Cook shares his louder-than-life, awkward, and honest-as-hell stories. Packed with humour, real talk & creative insights in a no filter, digital comedy space that laughs at life & calls it like it is. He is also the Founder and President of

The Hidden Gallery - Art Studio & Micro Theatre