The words fuck, shit, bastard, cocksucker, pussy, bitch, faggot, and the whole gamut of swear words could be seen as mindless hollering from people too incompetent to rationally explain why they deserve recognition, or humbly admit that they are wrong. Flaccid mudslinging and hollering of ad hominems run rampant when something goes awry, and our fellow man is unable to immediately come up with a response. As time goes on, threats and curses become more obsolete, as humans are trained to ignore these hollow hollerings, stale swears and general tomfoolery. In a pinch, every word can be ignored as one recedes into their own mind and their own temple of righteousness, not taking in any more information.

Every word can become stale, then. All threats can be scoffed at.

All except “I’m taking off my belt.”

That, boys and girls, is the warning of reckoning. It is not something that is said merely to scare one into obedience; it is a boiled, meditated, measured and venomous statement that spells trouble for all. Do not—I repeat, do not!—take this lightly.

When you hear these words, shut the fuck up. Stand at attention.  Give the belt-wielder your undivided devotion, for they are the queen (and sometimes king) of that situation. If they tell you to do something, do it, or face the consequences.

It doesn’t even matter if they have the belt! The pen is mightier than the sword, but the belt is mightier than all; it is best not to take any chances with it. And why is this?

Because Mama will find you, and she will make all of your disobedience, all of your primal rage, impotent.

If one ever says “I’m taking off my belt,” don’t look to see if they have a belt on. If you decide to be a smartass about it and point out that they don’t have a belt, then they will make a belt materialize. They will have one nearby; I’ve yet to discover how, but they will have one nearby.

You may not use belts anymore, but trust me when I say that these are the scariest weapons. They are wielded by people who’re out to get you. Other weapons can intimidate; these viper-tongued monstrosities will only be out to get you. All will be silent—no gall, no name-calling, not even an argument—until it bites you in the ass.

Politicians, generals, philosophers, scientists, music artists, and the most curmudgeonly people you can think of—they are all at the mercy of the belt.

And if you can’t escape you fate? Don’t run. Don’t move. Let it have its way with you. Because if you try and run, Mama will find you. And she will make it worse. It’s a symbiotic relationship. The belt has a host, and that host’s name is Mama.

I still look over my shoulder to see if Mama’s there with her pet belt.

You may think you’ve outgrown it. You may think that you’re too wise for it. You may think that you can ignore the pain. But you can’t. The belt supersedes all arguments, ignores every fiber of your personality except for whatever agitated it. It doesn’t just go after your skin, either; it strikes you in the heart.

Oh, how does it strike. I’m sorry, Mama, I won’t do it again, I swear!

I still feel the sting.

Heaven preserve me.

Listen, those who feel like all opinions can be ignored, who think you are the apex of humanity, that you can ignore all others and do whatever you want: the belt will find you. It comes out when you call to it with your actions. It will find you. It is the most powerful tool in a Mama’s arsenal, for when Mama pulls it out and does what Mama wants, you will be reduced to a broken shell of your former self. When someone takes off their belt, they are declaring that you have royally fucked up the natural order. The worst part about it? You will deserve Mama's bite, and the belt will deliver it full force, whether you get away or not.