My mother loved Jackie Gleason's "Honeymooners" sketches. "What a maroon...!" She thought that was hilarious.
I was more focused on "One of these days Alice..." The huge man with voice and threatening fist raised. Knowing now what I later learned of the abuse my mother had endured I find her humor puzzling. Perhaps the anxiety Ralph Kramden triggered in me was an outcome of infantile memories of that abuse. It would make sense.
The woman who was my partner in my longest and most destructive relationship shared my response. When "The Honeymooners" sketches came on in her childhood home she'd leave the room. Her father was similar to Kramden: big, loud, blue collar, aggressive. But unlike Kramden he was a violent alcoholic, similar to my later ex, the woman who was the partner in my second most destructive relationship. There's some weird form of retribution there, although I don't know how partner number one arranged it.
I don't understand violence. I've never wanted to harm anyone. As a kid during the small number of fights I couldn't avoid I'd always pull my punches, even when I was furious. I once sat on a guy and smacked him a little bit. I thought that made my point. Released, he said, "You hit like a girl." Well, I wouldn't know. No girls ever hit me, until much later in life.
Thus the night the abuse started from destructive partner number two I was absolutely flummoxed. "What? Hey! What are you doing? Why are you doing this?" While dodging intoxicated punches, the first night the police came.
That ex would love "The Honeymooners". She loved anything that was violent. Loved it. She wanted to watch torture porn, like Rest Stop or Hansel and Gretel. I didn't.
Well, so, I hit like a girl. I'm fine with that.