Boy, did I have a wacky dream last night! I dreamt that I was "trading licks" with the evil Saddam Hussein and he got to go first. For all of you who did not grow up in Dallas, I'd better explain exactly what trading licks is before you get the wrong idea. Two guys, who generally dislike one another, take a good-sized paddle and spank the hell out of each other's behind. Usually it's one smack per opponent and the guy who doesn't cry is declared the winner. Looking back, it seems barbaric - almost Middle Eastern. Some of my more macho friends could go on for hours because they always wore at least three pairs of Jockey shorts. The more shorts, the less pain.
If you got a detention and had to stay after school on Friday you had the option of getting it "burned off." Mr. Davis, the vice-principal, would administer the licks before first class. You even had to make an appointment. Old Man Davis was a burly, pockmarked galoot who enjoyed burning off detentions. It was probably the high point of his otherwise boring day. The going rate was three licks per detention. Hey, just three whacks and it was all over - no staying after school on Friday. You just couldn't forget to wear the extra shorts!
How many licks would Osama Bin Laden get if we ever caught the son-of-a-bitch? Probably somewhere in the neighborhood of 50,000 or so. Maybe just paddle him to death - nationally televised, of course. He'd be begging Allah for the chair!
Back in high school I had a teacher named Mr. Hunt. He was a real prick, but I somehow managed to like him. He looked a lot like Saddam, with the mustache and everything. He strutted around class like he had dethroned the Shah or something. He was my drafting teacher and we all thought that he had to teach because he had failed in the business world or maybe he was thrown out of al-Qaeda. That had to be the reason he was so ornery. I don't know why, but for some reason he really enjoyed bugging me. He called me "Canary" and squawked and whistled every time he looked at me. That got old really fast!
One day in class he pulled out a huge paddle that some traitorous kid had made for him in shop. It was three feet long, had a handle with rubber grips and half-inch holes drilled through the "spank" surface to make it more aerodynamic. It looked absolutely diabolical. Whap! He slapped it down on his metal desk, looked over at me and smiled. "Hey, Canary," he bellowed, "how about you and me trading licks? One each." I gulped and looked around at my classmates. They were expecting me to say "No thanks" but I fooled them. "Okay," I replied in a wobbly voice, "but under one condition. You go first." Ayatollah Hunt agreed to the terms and came out from behind the protection of his desk. This was going to be a jihad.
I strolled up to the front of the class and bent over. Paddle etiquette required the spankee to grab his jewels, so I complied. Since I had burned off a detention that morning I had on the customary three pairs of Jockey shorts. I was ready for his best shot. He grabbed the board with two hands, did some maneuvering and then adjusted his grip. He brought the board back several feet from my butt and swung. I heard the wind whistle through the holes and felt it swoosh across my back as he faked out the class and purposely missed. Everyone laughed except me. I was sorry I'd gotten involved in the silly little contest, but it was too late to back out. He readied for his next swing. I heard him grunt and then the paddle sharply connected with my padded derriere. I immediately straightened up and grimaced. The class cheered and watched to see if I was going to cry. I did not, but I didn't smile either. Even with the padding it stung like hell! In fact, it made me mad as a twelfth-century Crusader.
Then it was my turn. Hunt looked at me and squinted his eyes as if to say, "Watch yourself, Canary." It was too late for implied warnings. He was going to get his and he was going to get it good! He dutifully assumed the position. Some of my friends rooted and all were exuberant while witnessing a student fixing to whoop-up on a teacher. Allah Be Praised! At first I tried swinging the paddle like a bat, with two hands. Then I realized that I could get the board back a full 180 degrees from his butt if I used just one hand. The class saw the expanse of air between wood and pants, and their eyes bugged out. I mustered every bit of strength I had and launched that plank toward the plump target. It screamed through the atmosphere like a meteor and smashed into his flabby buttocks. Crack! The sound echoed through the halls. The class went silent. Mr. Hunt didn't move a muscle. Finally he straightened up and walked out the door. I thought I heard him crying. The class went wild and I was the hero of the hour.
Gee, no wonder I had that dream about spanking Saddam Hussein. And you know what? Before I had the dream I thought the President was crazy for proposing an attack on Iraq. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe we should go in there and spank the hell out of that bully, but logically it doesn't make sense; it seems like a silly sophomoric contest. You know, George W is from Texas. I wonder if he ever traded licks in high school. Perhaps he never got to give a rival the thrashing of his life - especially one who dissed his dad. Unfortunately, paddles are a far cry from bombs. I'll tell you what: the President can continue bombing Iraq if he agrees to trade licks with me. I just bought three pairs of extra thick skivvies. Talk about comeuppance!