Whippin's (Bring Back The Belt!)

I've recently had cause to reflect on my childhood. The thing that stands out most in my mind were the butt whippin's.
My step-dad had old school country values. I'm not sure exactly what that means but it translated into plenty of the long drawn out old school tanning of one's backside. Didn't... I.... tell... you... too... stop... (fill in the blank).
*Hot Wheel tracks - they don't really hurt much. They're really not flexible enough.
*The big wooden spoon hanging on the dining room wall- they are too stiff and the pain doesn't really linger.
*The traditional switch (which one had to pick and de-leaf one's self)- they sting more than they hurt.
*Extension cords- probably the second best tool as far as efficacy.
*The strap one uses to sharpen a straight razor- now we're talking. This was the tool of choice. Hung on the bottom loop of my parents' staircase, it was a constant reminder of our fate if we were to mis-step on the tightrope my parents called discipline. We were whipped so often and so badly that we thought Kunta Kinte was a sissy. Denzel's character in "Glory"? Ne...ga...ro, please! After a while they became ineffective and something to be avoided but not necessarily feared.
Once (I must have been about six years old), Donny -my best friend at the time- and I stole little cowboys and Indians and those little green army men from a T.G.&Y. I had told my mom that his mom bought them for us, while he was to tell his mom that my mom bought them for us. This was our "master plan". We never thought that our mothers would call to thank each other for the "gift". His mother called us into her home (You know that feeling of foreboding - when something is wrong but you're not exactly sure what? This was one of those moments) to whip us. She then sent us to my house to get a second whipping. We then had to go back to his house and wait for his father to come home. A third whipping took place. We then had to go to my house. This was the forth plague of the Apocalypse. We cried the whole hour and seventeen minute wait. This whippin' would have made "masta' " proud. One crime - four whippings. My step-dad said: "I bet you won't steal again". "I won't get caught again", I whimpered, under my breath.
The most effective beating I received was from the neighbor across the street. I was playing with the children of the house that morning. I had skipped breakfast, in order to fit in as much play time into the day as possible. Being hungry, I reached around the corner and was stealing strips of bacon from the counter top. Pinky (the children's mother) watched as one piece went missing after another. After the third or fourth piece was taken, Pinky grabbed my hand. She whipped me. Back in those days, the neighbors could (and did) whip any child deserving to be whipped. Afterwards she made me sit down to eat breakfast. She told me that she would feed me if I was hungry but never to steal what someone would give to me. I remember this whippin' well. Not only was I punished, I was taught and corrected. To this day, I still kind of flinch when I see Pinky.
In dealing with all of these bad little "niglets", I have one thing to say. Bring back the belt!