Tongue Lashing

     Even at a young age, I never quite understood the point behind two physical gestures: Sticking out your tongue or sticking up your middle finger at someone.  Now, I do understand that the latter is considered sign language for "Bleep-you!"  Sisters Jackie and Dianne led the six of us in flip-offs behind the backs of our parents.  And as best as I can tell, sticking out your tongue is probably some sort of G-rated version of that.  To me, both just seem so random and inane.  I mean, if Anne Sullivan decided that flipping the bird or sticking out the tongue actually could be translated into proper English vocabulary, then I'd be all for it.  But childish is as childish does. Not that I've never dabbled in the derogatory gesture game myself, mind you.
     Back-and-forth, me and my sisters used to stick out our tongues at each other all the time.  Typically to express some contempt and disdain over behavior that didn't reach fista-cuff status.  Plus, compared to physically fighting one another, we could do it without any potential punishment from out parents.
     Maybe he made me shut off a TV program I was watching.  Or maybe he forbade me from eating any more Carmel-cremes from the two-pound bag of assorted candy he used to buy weekly from Pudgy's Variety.  Whatever the reason, I deemed it warranted that my dad endure the disapproving admonishment of an 8-year old.  So I stuck my tongue out at him.
     "Do that again"  Dad said stoically while sitting on the couch, without looking away from his newspaper (his peripheral vision was Cousy-like).
     Not fully grasping this was a dare with potential consequences, I obliged.  With cat-like reflexes, Dad's left thumb and forefinger went from The Daily News to my protruding tongue in mach speed.  I yelled loud in agony, as much as a yell can be heard when your tongue is being squeezed like a lemon rind.  After about ten seconds Dad finally let go, leaving my tongue pulsating and my entire body in residual shock.  He returned his attention to his paper.  I sat still, my hands over my mouth, fighting back tears.
     "Do it again" he said.  This time not as a dare, but as a warning for any thoughts I might have of ever attempting this again in the future.
     Fast forward a couple decades later.  I was stopped behind a school bus of elementary kids.  Behind the the protection of the bus and the back windows, two boys looked at me and decided for some reason, that I was in need of some sort of admonishment.  So they stuck their tongues out at me.  I shot back my hairy-eyeball look, complete with squinty eyes and furrowed brow.  The blond-haired boy decided to take it up a notch.  He pulled the sides of his mouth apart with his thumbs, and stretched his eyelids up, exposing the insides of his orbital cavity.  His brown-haired friend followed suit, both of them with tongues waggling.
     That was it.  I had had enough.  Too far away from implementing Dad's do-that-again technique, I had to resort to my rarely used R-rated counterattack.  I pulled out my version of  Dirty Harry's Magnum 357:  my right middle finger.  I stuck it up and pressed it against my front windshield.  Right there, you little punks, I thought.  Instead of backing down from my obviously superior response, the two young hooligans were unfazed.  They shot back at me their own middle fingers, using double-fisted action no less--four middle fingers flashing my way. I briefly thought of resorting to both a middle finger and a stuck out tongue, but then I thought maybe I had reached my level of childishness for the day.  Either that or the streetlight turned green and the bus pulled away.