Those were simpler times. Back then, a man was a man, a woman was a woman, milk was delivered every Monday morning, and an aggressive slap in the face was a sign of fellowship with your brethren. Instead of the intrusive shriek of an alarm clock, father woke us for school every morning with an invigorating back hand, which always assured our wan faces were filled with a rosy hue as our blood vessels bloomed into a healthy gleam. Father never hugged us, he found proper circulation far too important for such stifling gestures. Instead he nourished us on a steady diet of fifty slaps a day, and we loved every moment of it. We pitied the other children who never knew the brutal affection of their parents. How lonely those lamentable saps must have been! To this day, I still get misty eyed every time a woman in a bar physically assaults an overeager suitor or the neighbors indulge in another delightful domestic dispute. I'd give anything just to feel the crisp warm spark of my dad's palm against my slap starved brow once more.