A Father’s Day Thrashing

{ Note: This story is based on an actual conversation between my wife and an English waitress which took place in an Irish pub on Father’s Day. The names have been changed to protect my innocent backside.}

“A Father’s Day thrashing?”  my wife, Mary, asked.

“Yes, but he’s Scottish,” our waitress responded.

It was Father’s Day, and we were enjoying the Sunday brunch at a local Irish pub.  Our waitress, a pretty girl of about 24, was not Irish. She looked British and spoke with a distinctly British accent.

“I’m not familiar with this Scottish custom,” Mary said.  “Tell me more.”

“Well, I’m not sure how common it is, but in our family, my father gets a good Father’s Day thrashing to correct him for his shortcomings as a father and husband over the past year and to encourage him to do better in the coming year.  It probably goes back to when my folks were first married, but my sister and I didn’t get to join in until after our nineteenth birthdays.”

“You get to spank your father on Father’s Day?” my twenty-one-year-old daughter, Carol, joined the conversation with considerable interest.

“I think the man at the table over there is out of coffee,” I said to our waitress, trying to abort this conversation.

“Helen, will take care of him,” our waitress responded with a glance in that direction, then she turned to Carol.  “Well, I guess you could call it that.  My mother does the real spanking, dropping my father’s trousers and pants and taking him over her knee to warm his bum but good with an old slipper.  Then she puts daddy in position bent over the end of the bed and my sister and I take turns with the strap while mum sits astride him to hold him in place.”

“On the bare?” Carol asked with a definite note of excitement.  “You strap your father’s bare bottom?”

“Well, of course, on the bare,” our waitress answered.  “It wouldn’t be much of a thrashing otherwise, now would it?”

“And does your mother take a similar thrashing on Mother’s Day?” Mary asked.

“Oh no.  You see, she’s English, not Scottish, and besides, Father has been raised to never strike a woman.

“Now I really must see to my other tables.  I hope you enjoy your brunch, and to you, sir, happy Father’s Day.”

It had started as a very happy day, with cards, a few small gifts, and this delicious brunch, but with the thoughtful look on my wife’s face as she watched me squirm in my chair, and the gleam in my daughter’s eye, I was a little uneasy about how it might turn out.  And I’m not even Scottish.

THE END

I hope all you fathers get what you want (and then some) for Father’s Day.

Copyright © 2022 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.