GOD BLESS PARENTS WHO DRUGGED US!

The other day, someone at a store in our town read that a
methamphetamine lab had been found in an old farmhouse in the
adjoining town and he asked me a rhetorical quest ion, "Why didn't we
have a drug problem when you and I were growing up?"

I replied: I had a drug problem when I was young:

I was drug to church on Sunday mornings. I was drug to church for
weddings and funerals.

I was drug to family reunions and community socials no matter the weather.

I was drug by my ears when I was disrespectful to adults.

I was also drug to the woodshed when I disobeyed my parents, told a
lie, brought home a bad report card, did not speak with respect,
spoke ill of the teacher or the preacher, or if I didn't put forth my
best effort in everything that was asked of me.

I was drug to the kitchen sink to have my mouth washed out with soap
if I uttered a profane four-letter word.

I was drug out to pull weeds in mom's garden and flower beds and
cockleburs out of dad's fields.

I was drug to the homes of family, friends, and neighbours to help
out some poor soul who had no one to mow the yard, repair the
clothesline, or chop some firewood; and, if my mother had ever known
that I took a single dime as a tip for this kindness, she would have
drug me back to the woodshed.

Those drugs are still in my veins; and they affect my behaviour in
everything I do, say, and think.

They are stronger than cocaine, crack, or heroin; and, if today's
children had this kind of drug problem, the world would be a better place.