Why You Need to Beat Your Children

Listen up, you soft little crybabies. I am about to hit you. With some wisdom.

You’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you all here today. The agenda is simple: it’s your kids. Your kids are out of control. Maybe it's the pornographic happy meal toys. Maybe it's the iPad babysitter. Maybe it’s because when your children look at their ugly little mugs in the mirror, they see your weak face staring back at them.

Crack your knuckles, tomcat. It’s time you discovered discipline. Kids today are too dang uppity. Sass! It’s eating the world and the inmates are running the asylum.

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Yes, your brat needs a good sound beating. “But they outlawed corporal punishment because Dr. Spock said so!” You might whine back. Well, I’m here to tell you that the Vulcans are cucks and I invented the Vulcan nerve pinch. How are you going to logic your way out of the knuckle sandwich I’ve prepared for you? You will live long and prosper only if you travel through the crucible I’ve wrought.

Stop blubbering. I get your point. The law has become weaponized against masculine discipline. If you get sent to jail for beating your children, then who’s going to beat them while you’re in jail?

• Your wife? Please!

• The grandparents? They got us into this mess! Unless of course, they dig up the bones of their own parents and wield their humerus to devise an ironic punishment… but few will have the backbone.

• Their new stepdad? He’ll probably just molest them instead. And this is a bridge too far! We’re trying to make soldiers here, not monsters.

So how do you end-around the nanny state and hit ‘em where it hurts? Stay with me Sally, I’ve got a plan. A violent plan. A plan that you can violently execute today, which is better than a perfect plan executed tomorrow.

• So, you know how those bug-eyed latte sippers say that “voting is a bloodless substitute for civil war”?

• And then you’ll also hear those keyboard slapping’ ner’do’wells say that “politics is pro-wrestling”?

• And still other dweebs will whimper that “the personal is political”?

Are your neurons connecting yet or am I going to have to smash them together with these two hands of thunder?

Here’s the plan: you can become the bad-guy professional wrestler in your own home. You can’t use “The Patriarchy™” as your alter-ego: I’ve already taken that name. However, some LLM will probably help you figure something out if your neurons are already rendered impotent by your tofu-longhouse. Anyway, this alter-ego will restore masculine virtue to your hearth. Your wife will respect you, your children will fear you, and your neighbors will get off your lawn.

But I’m not here to tell you to break your kid. I’m here to tell you to body slam him. In the name of love. Horseplay is the combat ritual of fatherhood. Dorks who ended up as researchers have shown that rough-and-tumble play promotes emotional regulation, physical coordination, trust, and social development. A fighting father helps kids distinguish aggression from play, increasing emotional intelligence. Dads who wrestle with their kids raise more confident, empathetic children. It’s how carnivores train cubs. It’s how Zeus trained Hercules. It’s how I tamed your mom.

The professional wrestling heel you become at home isn’t about dominance. It’s about theater. Controlled chaos. Emotional storytelling in a suplex.

Do you know what fills the void when you don’t powerbomb your son into the couch? TikTok. That’s right, ever since kungfu got exposed as a parlor trick, the Chinese have turned to social media psychological warfare.

When you become “The Elbow of Justice” or “Papa Pain,” you’re teaching your kids to recognize moods, read intentions, and feel loved without saccharine crap. This is a safe arena to practice the manly virtue of courage. Test your might, if you will. You are raising heroes, not hall monitors.

Make the villain not your kid, but the numb digital ooze that creeps in when there’s no meaningful physical engagement. Contrast physical horseplay with dopamine-dead screen time. When you wrestle your kids, you are unplugging the mind-control grid. You’re rebooting their nervous systems with kinetic truth. And maybe, just maybe, you’re remembering that your meat sack dad bod has a purpose too. You were born to train killers. Killers of spiritual apathy.

So hit the mat. Lock eyes with your goblin children. Channel the spirit of Ultimate Dad Warrior. And let ‘em know: love isn’t gentle. Love is jumping off the top rope with an elbow-drop right before the tickle torture commences.

Strapped for time? For $20 per minute, plus expenses, I will personally beat your children. I’ll also fuck your wife for free, unless you can best me in physical combat.