Somebody's going to whoop his bony ass. A friend grew up here in the south and her Blackfoot grandmother lived with the family. She was very small and the boys grew up very tall. But she was the matriarch, and when they did something wrong, THEY got to choose the switch, cut it off the tree and hand it to her. If it wasn't satisfactory, meaning it wasn't going to hurt enough, they had to go out and repeat the process until it was just right. Down came the pants. And then Grandma meted out her duty.
Just a little story to be accepted on its face. That boy needed a whoopin' the day he was born!
He ain't "right".