“Just Wait Until Your Father Comes Home!” Analysis of the Government
I spent the majority of my childhood waiting for my father to come home and make me sorry for tormenting my mother into insanity.
One particular moment stands out among all torture techniques I used against my mother: The day I decided to lock every key my parents owned in my mother’s station wagon.
I thought it would be hilarious to see the look on my mother’s face when I told her all the car and house keys were inside her locked car she would not be able to get into until dad came home. Not to mention the fact that I wanted to get even with my mother for telling me she was not taking us kids to the store to buy us candy.
“Your father will buy a box of salt water taffy when we go out to the island for the summer. Until then no candy. Eat fruit.”
Who the hell wanted fruit when there was a drug store full of candy waiting to rot my teeth out of my young head?
“I’m not taking you to the store for candy. You can wait for the weekend when we go out to the island, and then you’ll get some taffy.”
“I don’t want taffy,” I demanded, “I want sour balls!”
“No. And that’s final. Go play with your little brother, I have to get dinner ready.”
When my mother said something was final, there was no changing her mind. That’s when I decided to change her mind for her by making her sorry she did not give in to me and give me what I wanted—sour balls.
Kind of sounds like the government telling us we must do what it says, despite the doing not being constitutional.
When my mother turned her back, I went into the back hallway where every, single key to everything was hanging on a long key rack. I grabbed all the keys and calmly, with an “I’ll show her” smile on my face, walked outside to pull off my plans.
Of course I needed help to pull off the heist and lock-down—my three year-old brother.
The government always needs help as well, which is why it preys on the uninformed and innocent to get plans enacted.
“Let’s play a game, and trick mommy.” I told my little brother.
Not unlike “Let’s play a game and con the voters!”
Oh yes, a game would be fun to a three year-old who had no idea such a game had consequences. But I wasn’t thinking about consequences, I was thinking about that horrified and very sorry look my mother would have on her face when I let her know what I could do to her if she didn’t give in to me. And then she would be sorry! Yeah, then my mother would have to get me the candy I wanted if she wanted her keys back!
And just like that I tossed the keys into the car and locked the doors and laughed. My little brother thought it was a game, so he laughed with me.
“C’mon, let’s tell mommy!” I said with great joy at my accomplishment. Let’s see how she likes it now!
“Mommy, mommy,” my little brother called as he ran in the back door to the kitchen; “we put all your keys in the car and locked the doors!”
I remember my mother had her back to us, her back that stiffened as she slowly turned around to face us: “What did you say?” She asked my little brother.
“Lisa and I took all your keys and locked them in your car. And now you can’t have them!” My brother still thought this was fun and was jumping up and down with joy over the fun game he was playing. My mother was a bit too silent as she looked at me with a look that would have made Adolf Hitler confess to crimes against humanity.
Something told me I was up a really dangerous creek without a paddle capable of saving my life. That something was probably God, whom I should have listened to the moment I opened my eyes that morning. But like the government, I never listened.
But I was about to learn my lesson!
Oh God, I was going to die! And I hadn’t seen the season finale of Hawaii Five-0! And unlike Jack Lord’s hair, I was not indestructible!
My mother looked at me and asked: “What-have-you-done?”
“Mommy, I told you.” My little brother said jumping up and grabbing my mother’s hand. “We took all your keys and locked them in the car.”
Damn, he talked awfully well for three years-old!
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. My mother walked out the door and down the back porch steps, the sound of Ennio Morricone music from every Clint Eastwood western could be heard as she walked to the car and attempted to open the car doors.
Did I mention that my mother hadn’t shown any expression on her face other than that one expression that would have made Hitler put a gun to his head…
The car doors did not open. My mother turned and she looked at me, and calmly, with a tone to her voice I have only heard James Coburn use before he shot someone in the head: “Just wait until your father gets home.”
Of course that two hour “wait for your father to come home and smack the stuffing out of your rear-ends” (that occurred as often as an Obama vacation) made you wish you had been sold to the Gypsies, because it was over. You were going to die, and you were the only one who would be sorry!
Gypsies would never know you existed.
Then your father came home to “you would not believe what your children did to me today! I’m frazzled! They were horrid! They tormented me all day long! They don’t listen to me!”
The killing was always slow with a prelude of lectures fathers have a habit of giving when trying to find the just right punishment to put the fear of God in you without making themselves look like villains: “Do you realize what you put your mother through? Do you care about your mother? You need to respect your mother. If you love your mother, you won’t torment her and make her have a nervous breakdown. You know, you only have one mother.”
Ouch! You only have one mother! Oh boy, my parents could have joined the CIA as interrogators!
Of course my 13 year-older brother was blamed for something he had nothing to do with. He wasn’t even there, but he was older, so somehow he was to blame for my committing mommy torture he was expected to stop before it ever happened. Now an innocent bystander would feel the pain of my stupidity.
Sort of like those people who voted for Obama…or Democrats in general.
After a long lecture that included a Biblical teaching about Jesus obeying His mother even though He was her god and savior, I wished my father would have acted more like James Coburn!
My father never had to beat us; all he had to do was make us feel guilty about our mother’s sanity…which incidentally she never lost, because “wait until you have kids, then you’ll see what it’s like!”
Doesn’t the government remind you of childhood tormenting of “taxed” and tried mothers? Mom told you to stop, she told you to listen to her, but you kept on and on to your enjoyment of her frustration. You did everything at her expense until your father came home and shut you down with a lecture and punishment—no desert, no TV, no friends all summer— that left you and your siblings blaming each other for what you did and refused to stop when you were told it was too much.
Your actions that day did not serve you well. Your father and mother got to eat cake, they went out with friends, and they watched the season finale of Hawaii Five-0 you just saw 40 years later on WE TV!
Isn’t that the scenario of our government: It keeps tormenting us with excessive spending and taxation while it expects us to put up with their unconstitutional antics?
We tell government leaders to stop or we will make them pay, but they take our threats with a “na na—na na—na na” as they stick out their bureaucratic tongues and dare us to stop them.
We keep threatening and the government keeps misbehaving like bratty children in need of punishment. And just like children, the government is not going to take us seriously until we take everything away from them and send them packing.
If we keep threatening the government, but we do not take their bureaucratic chocolate cake and TV away from them, they will continue disobeying the people and keep our keys to everything that is ours locked up.
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