January 21, 2013

If It’s Too Loud, You’re Too Old

Image has been manipulated to prove a point.

Image has been manipulated to prove a point.

I want to talk about music. Loud Music. The kind of loud music that can lead to the police knocking on your door at two in the morning and asking you, “What the fuck, homeboy”?

This doesn’t happen to me anymore. I’ve grown into a responsible member of society, somewhat. I mean I still like to rock. I’ll tell you that much. Don’t go questioning my love of the rocking and the rolling. It’s still an important part of my mission statement. But there was a time…..

(We travel back in time. Impossible, you say? Well, actually, I’ve discovered a completely safe and effective method of time travel. It’s going to be fun. Seriously. Now eat these mushrooms.)

Did you eat them? You did? Hahaha, I was only kidding, you didn’t really need to eat them. I was just going to tell a story, that was the “time travel” that I spoke of. Wow, you’re insane. That was a considerable amount of shrooms you just ate. Well, let me hurry up and tell you my tale before you start tripping balls and shit.

The 1980’s. Yeah, you read what I just wrote. It was a decade that happened decades ago. People lived simpler lives back then. You weren’t constantly inundated with information at all hours of the day. No Facebook or Google or Wikipedia to learn your life lessons through. If you wanted to know something you learned it by going to a library and finding the appropriate book via the Dewey Decimal System. This took up a considerable amount of time in a young boys life. Time that could be better dedicated to the pursuit of looking cool.

Nothing was cooler than a long-haired boy with a boombox. At least that’s what that long-haired boy with the boombox told me. So I listened to him, because he was older than me, and he also had a butterfly knife. He didn’t threaten me with the knife or anything like that. He was actually very gracious, letting me check the knife out. He showed me how to handle it properly, and was even kind enough to teach me a couple of tricks with it. Just in case I ever got one and wanted to impress the ladies with it. I miss that long-haired boy with the boombox. He was the coolest.

So I grew my hair and got myself a boombox and a butterfly knife. I was living the dream. I had a denim jacket with the pockets stuffed with cassette tapes. If I asked you to guess how many tapes I could fit into my jacket, what would you say? Oh, one million is way too many. You’ve greatly overestimated the storage capacity of my jacket. It was more like twenty-seven tapes. Which is far less than what you guessed, but in reality is quite a lot of tapes for a boy or girl to carry in one item of clothing. The boombox had to be pumping at all times. At full volume. I loved it loud, much like KISS did. I couldn’t get enough of it.

In the car, my father’s Reliant K-Car, the tunes were always played at an uncomfortable level, in retrospect. At the time, it didn’t seem loud enough. I wanted to strap some Marshall stacks to the roof of that car with bungee cords, just so the whole world could enjoy Sweet Child O’ Mine as much as I did. But it wasn’t realistic, from a financial standpoint. Not only are Marshall stacks expensive, but the number of extension cords needed to travel anywhere beyond the driveway was staggering. Also, Dad said I couldn’t do it anyway.

The stereo in my bedroom was always set at only the highest of decibel levels, due to my youthful ignorance of the intricate workings of the inner ear canal.  Later on I would learn about the damage that noise levels can do to your precious ear holes, thanks to an episode of Growing Pains. Or maybe it was Charles In Charge. But back then, I wouldn’t have even cared. I would have said, “If it’s too loud, you’re too old.” Of course, I would have been completely wrong. Sometimes if it’s too loud, it’s just too loud. So you should turn it down to a more comfortable level. It has nothing to do with age. Just ask a newborn baby. They got wicked tender eardrums.

(How you doing, pal? Those shrooms kicking in yet? Yeah, your pupils are looking really pinned. I can’t believe you ate them all, you fucking animal. I’m sorry for fooling you like that. What started out as an innocent prank is blossoming into a full-scale psychedelic shit show. Come on, I’ll drop you off at the emergency room, psych ward, or Phish concert of your choice.)

Just don’t touch my fucking radio.

Posted by on January 21, 2013 in Comedy, Humor, Humour, Music and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

21 Comments

January 16, 2013

Hot Dog…The Blog

I want my two dollars!!

I want my two dollars!!

January is a cold, fickle bitch. I don’t mean that in a derogatory sense. Or maybe I do. See, the thing is, I don’t care for snow. When I was a younger boy, full of childlike wonder and stupidity, I loved when we got a snowstorm. I would spend the whole day building forts and whatnot. Maybe engage in a snowball fight or three. Or we would go sledding. There is nothing more invigorating to a child than hurtling uncontrollably down a sheet of ice on a thin piece of plastic towards inanimate objects such as trees, parked cars and lazy people. Well, maybe cocaine or pixie stix.

During a snowstorm, I would breathlessly watch the school cancellation notices on the news hoping to get the next day off. One thing you should know, the town I grew up in, Hingham Mass, was notoriously stingy with snow days. I can’t count the times that neighboring towns had a snow day and we didn’t. So I wouldn’t normally find out until the morning whether or not the school principal gave a shit about my safety. He usually didn’t. It is terrible on a child’s morale when you have to go to school and learn shit while there is a winter wonderland right outside the window. I’m pretty sure that’s what happened to Hitler.

We used to have this old pair of wooden skis at my house. When I say “old” wooden skis, I mean they were old back then, thirty years ago. I don’t know where they came from, or whose they were, or why they were covered in dried blood, but they were there. They always reminded me of Little House on the Prairie for some reason. I can’t remember if Pa and Half-Pint ever hit the slopes in an episode or not. They seemed more like snow shoe people. I think skiing was probably more up Nellie Oleson‘s alley. That spoiled bitch. Every once in a while we would take those skis and go use them on the hill in the woods behind our house. There were no poles with them so we would use chopped up broomsticks for balance. I got so good on them that I only fell down most of the time. Yeah, I’m a natural athlete.

When I was in seventh grade, my school had an annual ski trip. I decided to go because I knew how well I handled myself in the back yard, so a mountain wouldn’t pose too much of a challenge to me. We took a charter bus from the school to the ski resort, which is much more exciting to a 12-year-old than to a 42-year-old. When we arrived, I went in to rent some skis and all the proper accoutrements. These things were nothing like the two pieces of pine that I had previously used. They were long and made of some type of non-wood material, and you didn’t secure them to your feet with duct tape. The older boy in charge of doling out the equipment used some type of mathematical equation to figure out which skis to give me. I think it was age divided by height plus the square root of him not giving a fuck about my wellbeing.

I went out to the slope and they were offering a free beginners lesson to anyone who wanted to take it. Obviously I didn’t take them as I was way to cool for that. I didn’t want to get made fun of for taking the time to learn something. So I just headed over to the ski lift and said, “Let’s fuckin’ do this”. Now, in retrospect, a free lesson would have been awesome. Nowadays, a free lesson would fall right in my wheelhouse. If I had to do it all over again, I would be the first one to ask, “How do I stop? Or turn? Or not fall repeatedly?” But not the twelve-year old me. That kid was ready for action.

I psyched myself up on the ski lift, thinking about how impressed everybody on the mountain would be by my crazy freestyle routines. I considered my style to be a cross between James Bond and Suzy Chapstick if she was a dude. As I got to the top of the lift, I prepared to dismount. Then I realized I didn’t know how to do that. It seems like it would have been second nature to me by now. I got on the lift with no problems, so getting back off should be easy. But it was a very difficult procedure. So I fell down. Heres a tip for any prospective skiers out there: apparently it is frowned upon in ski society when you grab the people getting off of the lift with you, even if you only did it to save yourself from dying. After the obligatory curse words and dirty looks, I was left to fend for myself. In the wild. Alone. Except for all those other people there.

After picking myself up off the ground, I skied twenty feet and fell again. Then I skied eighteen feet and fell. The ten feet. I got to a point where there was a sharp turn at a cliff, and I wisely decided that I would take my skis off and walk past that section. I’ve always been a take charge kinda guy. After I had cleared the precipitous drop, I went to put my skis back on. As I was clamping into a ski, I looked up and saw my other ski racing down the hill without me. I picked up the one ski I still possessed and beat feet after the other one, slipping and sliding all the way. I was motivated by the gentle encouragement of dozens of people skiing past me and saying helpful things like, “Get out-of-the-way, asshole”, and, “Hit him in the balls!!”. It’s nice to have motivation. I watched the runaway ski go off the trail into the woods, and spent the next hour or so walking around in waist deep snow looking for that stupid thing.

By the time I located it, I decided that skiing was a stupid sport and I would just walk down the rest of the hill to the lodge. I placed my skis in one of the racks inside the front door and immediately ordered three fingers of hot chocolate in a dirty paper cup. I actually requested a clean cup, but they said clean cups are for big boys who don’t walk down the fucking mountain. I then spent the rest of the day drinking dirty hot chocolate, playing Tron (I was badass at the Light Cycles), and letting my jeans dry. I did mention that I was wearing jeans, right?

Yeah, I was that kid.

Posted by on January 16, 2013 in Comedy, Humor, Humour, Sports, Weather and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

18 Comments

January 14, 2013

Your Call Can Not Be Connected As Dialed…Well, It Could Be, But It Won’t Be.

This is really in my basement. It's not hooked up, but you can still call Santa for a dollar. Sweet Deal.

This is really in my basement. It’s not hooked up, but you can still call Santa for a dollar. Sweet Deal.

.

I have a house phone, or a land-line as some people still call it. I want to point out that I’m not trying to brag. I’m not trying to throw my personal possessions in your face and say, “Look at all of my treasures”. I’m just saying I have a telephone in my house. I also have an iPhone, as does my wife. That part does sound a little braggadocious, but it’s not my intention. Truthfully, I am an extremely humble boy. I’m only telling you this because I didn’t have a home phone for a long time. I really didn’t need one as I’ve had a cell phone for years. My great-great-great-grandfather always used to say,” What’s the point of paying for a home phone when you already carry a cell phone everywhere you go?” He was ahead of his time.

Then a couple of years ago, my wife and I bought a house. As we were doing all the things a person does while packing up their lives and shifting them to another destination, I had to call Comcast about cancelling our cable service. Or actually transferring our service. If you should know one thing about me, I’m tv people. Television, not transvestite. I just feel I need to stress that point, hopefully quash all those nasty rumors. While talking to the cable guy, He informed me that I was paying too much a month for my service. I wholeheartedly agreed with this gentleman’s assessment of my bill, and asked him where he’s been the past seven years that I’ve been paying too much. He said something about rescuing sickly orphans in third world countries and offering them the hope of a better life, but all I was hearing was , “You’re getting fucked, Bill”. So I quickly steered the conversation away from the boring orphans and back to my outlandish cable bill.

“What’s the deal cable guy? How can I lower my outrageous monthly cable bill to something more palatable to my current fiduciary situation?”

He said, “Well you have internet and cable tv with two HD DVR boxes and all the movie channels. If you sign up for the Xfinity Triple Play package with internet, cable, and phone service, you can save a considerable amount of money. In fact with that deal your monthly bill will drop from $220 a month down to $140 a month.”

“Holy Shit! I can save eighty bucks a month just by having more things? How is that possible? Who do I gotta blow?”

“Well sir, oral sex is not necessary, although it does make a nice tip for the field technicians. The thing is, Comcast is trying to expand their phone service so with the bundled package it really makes it an attractive offer”, was the reply.

So naturally, we signed up for the triple play and got a phone.

But here’s the thing, we never use it. Well I shouldn’t say never. If we can’t find our iPhones, we use the house phone to locate them. That’s it. I don’t know my home phone number off-hand. I have to look on my iPhone to find it. I’ve never given the number out to anyone.

But sometimes this phone rings, and it’s annoying. Sometimes it rings at night and it’s horrifying. Maybe not horrifying. That might be too strong. I’m not physically scared of the thing. I’m a grown boy. I’m pretty much not scared of anything when the lights are on and my wife is home. It does spook me though.  Who is calling us?! It can’t be anyone that I care to speak to. When the phone does ring, the number pops up on the television and I never recognize any of them. I wish they would stop. I know I put the number on the Do Not Call registry when we first got it. But apparently that doesn’t work. We have an untold amount of voice mails stockpiled in some mainframe somewhere that are just using up valuable storage space that could be better devoted to Instagram.

Every once in a while I want to answer it and yell, “How the fuck did you get this number?”, or “I have the ransom money, I just want my baby back”. But I don’t because I’m afraid the call might be coming from inside the house. Which means the killer is inside the house. I don’t want to know that the killer is in the house. I’d much prefer to just watch tv and maybe we won’t even run into each other. Maybe the killer just broke in to use my washer and dryer and isn’t even planning on killing me. Just because you kill a lot, doesn’t mean that’s all you do. You gotta have hobbies, ya know?

So this phone will continue to not be answered, and that’s fine by me.

Fucking eighty bucks a month, kid!

Posted by on January 14, 2013 in Comedy, Humor, Humour, Television and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

23 Comments

January 9, 2013

A Child’s Guide To Hitch Hiking Safety

hitchhiker

I feel that I need to preface this post with an important announcement.
Hitch hiking is maybe the coolest thing you can ever do in your life. If you have children, I strongly encourage you to get them hitch hiking as early as possible. Obviously not too young, because they’re going to have to be able to articulate their intended destination to any prospective drivers who happen to see your precious child alone on the street and think, “Mmmm, I’m taking that kid.” So they should probably be at least four or five before you let them thumb.

But the benefits to both you and them are countless. They never need you to take them anywhere so you’ll have a whole bunch of free time. You deserve it, you look like you could use a nap. You can send them to the store for stuff like booze and smokes, just make sure you give them a note. Plus they’ll just seem like a cooler person to their peers. Which makes you a cooler parent. I know this might come as a shock to some people, but it’s true.

The real life lessons a child learns whilst hitchhiking are immeasurable on their development. It’s just them and the road, man. Planning out routes and destinations in their head using basic geometry and advanced quantum physics, on the fly. Running from the fuzz equals physical education. They learn Criminal Law by coming into close , hopefully not too close, physical contact with serial killers, and even just some first time impulse killers who’ve never even thought of murdering somebody before, until they had them trapped in their car. That’s what power locks are for, bitches. You would learn that in Auto Shop.

Hitchhiking was a right of passage back in the days of transistor radios and Rubik’s cubes. Sometimes you’d need to get somewhere, like a party or a court hearing or a Faster Pussycat concert, but didn’t have a ride. So you did what any teenager did back then. You would offer your nubile young body up to the untold anonymous commuters going in your general direction. What’s the worst that could happen?

I did this numerous times in my life, and I only tell you that because I want you to think I’m brave. I want you to come to depend on me when the lights go out and the phone call comes from inside the house. I want us to have that kind of relationship. I want you to need me, as Cheap Trick kinda said. So before I continue, I just really need you to know how wonderfully brave I am. Okay? Thanks, pal.

When I used to be a beautiful younger boy with long hair and a jean jacket with a Mötley Crüe back patch and I had to get somewhere, I’d just stick out my thumb and get it done. Hopefully a carload of sweet beautiful baby ladies would pick me up and show me what’s what, but that usually didn’t happen ever even once. It was predominately hippies in vans. Hippies love to pick up hitch hikers and kidnap them and make them go to Hootie and the Blowfish concerts. They’re like a cult.

The thing about hitch hiking is that it needs to be done in a particular way. Safety is paramount when trying to get from point A to point B without getting sexed up and left for dead in that pre dug pit in the woods. Hypothetically speaking of course, you’ll probably be fully dead when they dump you.. The important thing to remember is that when you are in some random car, you are off the grid, so to speak. You could wake up and find yourself an indentured servant in a Bangladeshi whorehouse if you don’t play your cards right. So I want to help you achieve your goal of getting there without paying any travel expenses.

Hitch hiking guidelines
When choosing to hitch for the first time, it’s important to do it right. How you present yourself to a potential ride goes a long way towards securing a ride. Always walk backwards to show off your beautiful face and/or body for the people. They want to know that you’re not some psychotic lunatic hellbent on killing them and taking their 2002 Kia Sorento that they only owe fourteen payments on. It would have been less, but the credit union offers skip a payment options and they went to Disney that time, and who makes a car payment at Christmas? So show them your face. Don’t do that, “I’m walking, but I’m sticking my left thumb out without looking because I don’t really even care enough about getting a ride to do my due diligence and turn around and give the people a look-see” thing. It’s annoying.

When somebody does stop, approach the situation cautiously. The best thing to do is creep up on the driver’s side while repeatedly shouting, “Driver, show me your hands!” This lets them know that not only might you be a cop, but that you also have a sense of humor and would probably be fun on a long car ride.

Hopefully it’s only one person in the car, because not only will it be theoretically easier for you to fight off any unwanted sexual advances, but you also get to ride shotgun. That is a sweet deal right there. Mom always told me, “The front seats for big boys.” So if anyone is already occupying the front seat, you need to call “shotgun” right away. It should work if the occupants have even the most basic understanding of the Geneva Convention. If they refuse, you should still accept the ride, but you should also get the people’s names and social security numbers and file a complaint with the UN or whichever governing body has arbitration control over shotgun disputes. Maybe it’s NASCAR.
During the car ride you should drop hints about how important of a person you are. This will make them think twice about abducting you. Say things like, “Oh my father would never let anyone hurt me. He’s so rich, and he loves me so much, that he wouldn’t rest until my kidnappers were brought to justice. He owns a helicopter, so I’m not even worried about anything like that ever happening to someone like me. Plus I’m trained in like every form of martial arts known to man, plus a couple I invented by myself in my dojo on my downtime”. This will let your prospective tormentor/ best friend know that you can handle yourself when the proverbial shit goes down.

Make sure you keep a couple of gallons of water with you at all times just in case you do get abducted and locked away somewhere. Hydration is going to be very important to your survival. Plus if you don’t get abducted, you’ll have the precious life saving water that you would need to get somehow anyway. You’re already ahead of the game.

Most of all, just have fun when you’re out on the road. Enjoy the experience and try not to get all mutilated and skullfucked.

And get me some smokes on your way back.

Posted by on January 9, 2013 in Comedy, Humor, Humour and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

20 Comments

January 1, 2013

Dad Always Said, “New Year’s Resolutions Are For Pussies”

Don Draper NY

This year, I’m gonna be this dude.

A new year has arrived. A time to change everything in your life and become the incredibly healthy and succesful human being you were meant to be. People make all types of drunken promises to themselves about improving their lives, such as….

“I’m going to start hitting the gym” is one of the most common resolutions people make. “I really want those six-pack abs I keep hearing about in the men’s magazines and random bath houses. I’m going to sign up for a gym membership, then go there everyday and sweat my way to a beautiful body, thereby making myself more attractive to the opposite and/or same-sex.” Then you see that leftover cheesecake in the fridge. It can be hard to accomplish your stated goal when you’re balls deep in cheesecake. I don’t like the gym. In fact the only way I would hit the gym, is if my name was Jim, and then it would just be a euphemism for masturbation. “Man I’m so tired and sore. I hit the Jim like four times today.”

“I’m quitting smoking” – This is another popular resolution. Quitting smoking is something you should do. Or is it? Once upon a time I would have agreed, but have you watched Mad Men? These gentlemen are captains of industry, and they smoke constantly while making crazy money. So maybe you should keep smoking and perhaps drink a lot more scotch. Then you can be one of the big players in this game called life. Like Don Draper, or Dick Whitman. Plus it makes you look so damn cool!

“I’m quitting drinking” – See “I’m quitting smoking”

“I’m going to stop swearing” – That’s fucking ridiculous. You’ll never be able to function as a valuable member of society if you can’t pepper up your vocabulary with some choice vulgarities from time to time. What if you get stuck in traffic, or kidnapped, or you’re just really happy? How do you express any emotion without using the word fuck? That’s right, you fucking can’t! So maybe instead of not swearing, you should focus on swearing even more just to show everybody that you can handle yourself. Let those people know you got some fucking class, for fuck sake!

The only New Year’s resolution you should make is “No more New Year’s resolutions. Listen, if you want to change your life, change it. You don’t need a special day on the calendar to better yourself. You can do the same thing on February 12th or April 6th or August 20th. Why waste time waiting for a new year when this one is happening now? If you want to do something, do it. Don’t resolve, just evolve.

Can I get a “Fuck, Yeah”?

Posted by on January 1, 2013 in Comedy, Humor, Humour and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

21 Comments

December 24, 2012

Newsflash: Your True Love Is A Dick

The Birds

Merry Christmas, Bitch.

Every year around Christmas time, someone writes an updated fiscal report on how much The Twelve Days of Christmas would cost in todays dollars. One that I read this year states that all these gifts would run around $107,000. That seems a little pricey to me. Are they buying this stuff from Brookstone or Skymall? I think that these horribly outdated gifts could be purchased or stolen for a fraction of that cost. I would like to share this with you, in case you were hoping to alienate your true love this holiday season.

I’ve never been a big fan of the Twelve Days of Christmas. That’s way too many presents for one person to get for somebody. I’m not even taking into account that there’s actually twelve partridges in twelve pear trees by the time the song is done,because gifts get repeated like some ADD induced nightmare. Just based on the gift choices alone, the person giving the presents sounds like a psychopath, not a true love . I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but like half of these presents are birds. Partridges, turtle doves, french hens, calling birds, geese-a-laying, swans-a-swimming. Nobody needs to have that many birds. Not even people who are fucking crazy for birds. Well, maybe those people do, but as I said, they’re fucking crazy. If your true love really wants a bird, just get them a parakeet. Maybe two parakeets, but that’s it. No more than two. A whack job with an apartment full of birds is unacceptable in a civilized society. That’s how the avian flu starts. There’s so much poop everywhere that the stench is horrific , and the noise is going to draw complaints from your neighbors. So, two parakeets it is.

Nobody needs eight maids a milking. At least not in this day and age. Unless they own a farm. Milk has been readily available at your local convenience store for decades now. You don’t even need an old-timey milkman delivering glass bottles to your door, and seducing your wife with his handlebar moustache and promises of “all the cream she can handle”. Plus, the overhead involved with employing eight ladies to milk cows so you can have fresh warm milk for your morning bowl of cereal is astounding. Salary, health care, workers comp insurance, etc. Not to mention that fresh warm milk is fucking chunky and gross. How’s about a little homogenization?

Nine ladies dancing and ten lords a leaping? Are we celebrating Christmas, or is Lady Gaga filming a new music video? This portion of the gift is just horrible. Do you even have enough refreshments to offer to that many dancers? Granted, dancers don’t eat much, but you’re still going to have to offer them appetizers. Maybe a Fresca or something. You’ll also need to buy a whole bunch of talcum powder. Dancers go through talcum powder like it’s cocaine. That adds up. So if you need dancing and leaping for Christmas, I suggest you get liquored up and do it yourself. Drunk dancing in front of the Christmas tree is fun. As an added bonus, it will also help you work off all those sweets you’ve been cramming down your gullet since Thanksgiving. Nobody needs that much pie.

As for the twelve drummers drumming, and the eleven pipers piping? Fuck that noise. It’s just way too loud. You know that you can just sample drum and flute tracks off the internet, right? Wait, is a pipe a flute? I feel like it is. Anyways, why pay a shitload of studio musicians money to travel to your house, steal all of your prescription medication, and most likely clog up your toilet? Just loop some drum and pipe, or possibly flute tracks, and freestyle rap battle your Christmas away. That would be hella dope. As the kids say. Ten years ago.

Which leaves us with golden rings. Out of all of the “gifts” of Christmas, this seems like the only one that someone would open up and not think, “This sucks Christmas balls”. You never want to have someone say that when they open your gift, trust me. It stings. Now, five golden rings might be a little excessive. One gold ring would probably suffice. If you feel the need to go overboard, maybe you could pair it up with some earrings, or a necklace, or perhaps a nice brooch. Do ladies still wear brooches? No matter, you’ve already purchased the rings and I’m pretty sure they are non refundable. Maybe if you had bought them at a reputable jeweler instead of that guy you buy your weed from, you could bring them back. But that dude is a total dick and I know he wouldn’t do it. He has no sense of customer service. I mean, he takes like forever to answer his beeper. Even when you use the “emergency code”.

Well, you live, you learn….Hopefully.

Or you die from the bird flu.

Posted by on December 24, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour, Music and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

20 Comments

December 19, 2012

Blogroll Inductee – Bill McMorrow

I made it back on Le Clowns Blogroll, but I was led to believe there would be fried dough here.

Posted by on December 19, 2012 in Uncategorized.

4 Comments

December 12, 2012

The Coolest Kid On The Block

Before the fall

Before the fall

The day that I got kicked out of New Kids On The Block was one of the worst days of my life. I remember it like it was yesterday.

What’s that you say? You weren’t aware of the fact that I was one of the founding members of NKOTB? So you probably are also unaware of the painful humiliation that I went through during my unceremonious dismissal from the pop music juggernaut that I helped create? Well then, have I got a story to tell you.
We travel back to the year 1984. It was a simpler time, when strangers would smile and say hello to you on the streets before stealing all of your money for crack cocaine and possibly giving you AIDS. The setting is Boston, Massachusetts. Well, more like south of Boston, but whatever.

A young Bill McMorrow is blessed with the voice of an angel, and the sexy hip shakes of the devil. I would spend countless hours in front of the mirror with hairbrush in hand, tirelessly choreographing the sultriest of dance moves. I was sure that one day, I would be discovered and lumped in with some other boys who held the same dreams of synchronized glory. I understood it wouldn’t be easy, but with hard work, and long distance dedications, I knew it would happen.

One day I was at the South Shore Plaza in Braintree, Mass. I was in Filene’s Basement searching for that perfect pair of Girbauds. It wasn’t an easy task, as I have very muscular calves yet remarkably slender thighs. It’s kind of like my trademark. As I made my way to the boys fitting room, I was approached by a creepy older man who said he “liked the cut of my jib”. I awkwardly thanked the stranger and, needing to know exactly how awesome these pants would look on me, I hurried into the changing room. As I slipped into the Girbauds, I heard a gasp from behind me. Turning around, I spotted the creepy dude peeking at me from the other side of the curtain. I said, “What the hell are you doing, weirdo?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t frighten you. I’m just scoping out beautiful young boys for this new musical group I’m putting together. Would you be interested in joining?”
Startled, I replied, “Hell yeah, I am very interested in being a star. But why don’t you have any clothes on?”
He said, “I was waiting to try on some outfits, but the dressing rooms are all full. So I thought I’d save time by disrobing out here, while watching you. You don’t mind do you?”
I did mind, but I didn’t want to ruin the chance of musical infamy by complaining about some petty issue like a grown man with no pants on leering at my beautiful half-naked boy body.
So I said, “Oh no, I hate when the dressing rooms are full, too.”
He asked if he could come in and I could audition for him while he tried on some trousers, and the rest as they say, is history.NKOTB 3

The next thing you know, I’m living the life. I was flying around the world wearing only the finest of Swatch watches, Kangol hats and acid washed jeans. I was drinking unlimited amounts of only the coldest of Jolt Colas, free of charge. I had Emmanuel Lewis and Corey Feldman’s beeper numbers. I hung out at all the coolest, most exclusive parties. People were always coming up to me and saying things like, “Oh Bill, I want to have your baby”, or “Hey, you’re a superstar, have some free cocaine”, or “We are going to beat the living shit out of you because we can’t stand you and your crappy music.”

That’s right I was living the dream. Photo shoots, radio interviews, sold out concerts. It was all happening. But I sensed some friction in the group. Donnie Wahlberg approached me backstage one night after a show. He was mad because he thought I was too good of a dancer. He told me, quite animatedly, to “Cut the shit, and give us other boys a chance to shine”

I couldn’t believe the nerve of this dude. He wanted me to dance less impressively on purpose?

“I’m sorry Donnie, but I can’t just stop being a world-class dancing machine. It’s in my blood, like my predisposition to diabetes. You might as well ask me to stop singing like a delicate songbird, too. Or ask me to stop wearing these pants so well. It ain’t gonna happen. I am an entertainer, and if my outrageously awesome pop locking skills have you concerned, maybe you should step up your game. Maybe try watching Dance Fever or Solid Gold sometime, because you might just learn a thing or two about the art of the dance.”

By this time some of the other Kids had joined the fray. Joey McIntyre piped in with something along the lines of, “Well if you keep dancing so well, people are going to realize that we aren’t nearly as good as you. That’s not fair to us.” I was steaming by now. “Listen Lil’ Joe”, that’s what I used to call him,”I’m not gonna dumb down my sweet ass moves so you feel better about your lack of rhythm. I have worked far too hard at mastering the art of shucking and jiving to all of a sudden be relegated to doing a simple two-step soft shoe.”
Danny Wood was on my side for the most part. We always got along due to our mutual love of collecting friendship bracelets. When we were on tour, D-Wood and I would spend hours scouring local craft stores, yard sales and strip joints searching for just the perfect bracelet to define our friendship. Sadly, we never found it. He was a little bit scared that the rest of the group would be replaced by more experienced dancers who could keep up with me. But he knew that there was no way that they were going to get me to commit to being anything less than the best dancer in the world. He could see the resolve in my haunting blue eyes.
“Bill, whatever you decide, just remember that I think that you are one of the best pure entertainers ever, with dance moves that I can only describe as ‘the freshest’. Do you think that maybe you could mentor me, and enlighten me with your extensive knowledge of choreography?”
I was moved. “Danny, I would like nothing better than to help you achieve your dreams of being almost, but not quite, as good as me. I appreciate your support during this hectic exchange betwixt legitimate musicians, you are a true friend. I just wish we could find a bracelet to prove it.”

I left the arena and went out to our tour bus. I was so mad that I only brought like four or five beautiful ladies with me. After pleasuring all of them multiple times sexually, I fell into a troubled sleep. How could my boy band mates treat me like this, when I was obviously the star of the group. Why couldn’t they see that my sweet, seductive moves are what brought the luscious babies out to the shows? I decided that we would have a serious meeting the next day to straighten this shit out.
But when I woke up the next morning. I was no longer on the tour bus. I was laying by the side of the highway, naked and covered in silly string, my beloved Girbauds beside me, all torn and muddy. They didn’t even have the common courtesy to wake me up before they broke my heart, or my pants.
I will never forgive them for what they did to me. When I heard that they replaced me with that Knight kids brother, I was emotionally destroyed.
Because that kid couldn’t shimmy for shit!

Posted by on December 12, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour, Music and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

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December 8, 2012

The Greatest Gift Of All (No, Not Life)

Sandwich not actual size, image enlarged to show detail

Sandwich not actual size, image enlarged to show detail

The Christmas Season is here, guys and gals. Or lady guys, if you gals prefer? What’s that? You don’t want me to call you gals or lady guys? You want to be taken seriously and therefore you insist that I call you women? Well alright then, message received women.

You are adorable.

Christmas is the time to show your family and friends how much you love them by showering them with exquisite gifts you have thoughtfully purchased for them on a high interest rate credit card.

Whether it be fine jewelery, flashy sports cars, or limited edition Beanie Babies, Christmas shopping can be expensive. In today’s economy, it’s smart to come up with other, less costly presents for your loved ones. Such as:

The Surprise Sandwich Of The Month Club

Imagine the look of joy in your family/friends/co-workers/baby mammas/daddies eyes when they open this gift. Hey, everybody gets hungry sometimes. The Surprise Sandwich Of The Month Club is the perfect gift for those people who feel the need to eat at least once every twenty-eight to thirty-one days in order to stay alive.

The club works like this: Once a month, for one full calendar year, I will show up unannounced (Surprise!!) and personally deliver one handmade sandwich to the intended recipient. The great part about this idea, besides the whole entire thing, is that you never know when the sandwich will arrive. Or for that matter what kind of sandwich it shall be.

Who doesn’t love unexpected sandwiches?

It could be a PB&J at 4:30 on a Tuesday morning, while your snug in your bed. Or a Turkey Club sandwich at 11 pm on Saturday night while you’re on a dance floor shaking your shit. It might be a foot long hoagie or maybe it’s a delicate finger sandwich. Maybe you’re allergic to some ingredients contained in a sandwich? Maybe you’re not? It’s wildly unpredictable and possibly dangerous, and that makes it totally awesome!

You will spend the majority of your waking hours thinking, “Is today Surprise Sandwich Day? I wonder what this months sandwich will consist of, and whether or not it will kill me??? Why can’t I have friends and family that aren’t so fucking cheap all the time?!?!”

That last thought was kind of harsh, and I think you owe me an apology. There are kids in some parts of the world who would go coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs for a monthly sandwich delivered in a surprise fashion. Or for a bowl of Cocoa Puffs.

“Here you go, starving child, have a Tuna Melt.”

“Thank you, kind and generous stranger, you have most assuredly saved my life. I am eternally indebted to you”

“You are welcome, dear child. Might I say your grasp of the English language is quite impressive.”

“Thank you, wise and magnanimous benefactor. I owe it all to Rosetta Stone”

” I always wondered if that worked. Now I know. You have opened my eyes to the true beauty of the world, dear sweet sickly child… Don’t touch me.”

Then I show up the next month with a Philly cheese steak or a Cuban Pork Panini? That kid would be so happy he would lose his shit. He’d be the king of his impoverished village. He would love me forever. Or at least for a year.

Oh, but not you. Look at you going to the grocery store and buying only the finest deli meats and cheeses, just the ones that you enjoy. No liverwurst or headcheese in your shopping cart. That’s so pretentious of you. But you’ve always been like that. It’s nothing new.

Remember that one Christmas when you said you wanted that thing and I got you that other thing, and you told me you liked that other thing but the whole time you were just thinking about that first thing that you really wanted? Then you let out that sigh?

That cut me to my core. I’ve never really forgiven you for that, but I am trying to. I really am, believe me. It’s just so hard to get over something like that. You never think it could happen to you, then it does. Emotions take over and we wind up calling each other all kinds of sex words and drunkenly fighting in, around, and on top of that manger display again. Hopefully this time you’re more careful around the sweet baby Jesus. He’s only an infant for the love of his Dad. You didn’t have to break him.

Just leave Baby J alone and eat the damn sandwich already!!

Sooooo, what did you get me?

Posted by on December 8, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour and tagged , , , , , , , , , .

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December 2, 2012

It’s The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Prepped Fine)

Prepper We are about three weeks away from another end of the world prediction. Coincidentally, or maybe subconsciously not, I have been watching a veritable cornucopia of Doomsday Preppers. If you aren’t clued into all the hip stuff the kids are down with these days, let me school you, sucka.
Doomsday Preppers is a show on the National Geographic Channel, or Nat Geo as they say on the streets. It’s a show that explores the lives of people who are preparing for different catastrophes. From tornadoes, to nuclear war, to economic collapse, solar flares, meteor strikes, NHL lockouts, or whatever. These people plan to be ready when the proverbial shit goes down. Which seems pretty smart when you watch it on tv. So I want to be ready too, and I am also willing to help you get ready for the end of days. Hey, I don’t want to lose you, buddy. We’ve come to far to give up now. Plus you still owe me that back rub and I plan on collecting.

What You Need To Know To Not Die

  1. One of the most important things the human body needs is water. A person can’t survive without it. Thats why I refer to it as the “Essence of Life”. To ensure that you have enough clean drinking water you should stock up on cases of Coca-Cola or Pepsi or Fresca. Pretty much any soda will do. They are mostly made up of water, plus they have all kinds of additives and antibiotics that can help the human body stave of symptoms of biological warfare. There is lots of sugar in them too, which is something any crazy person patrolling the fenced in compound that they now call home can use to stay alert.
  2. Collecting a stockpile of foodstuffs is an important task for any serious prepper. You should try to make as many peanut butter sandwiches as you can everyday. Individually wrap the sandwiches in wet newspaper so that they wont spoil and bury them in your back yard. The easy thing to do would be to bury them all in the same hole. But that would make it very easy to lose your entire stash of deliciousness in one fell swoop if any of the kids in your neighborhood catch wind of your plan. So be smart about it and bury no more than fifty sandwiches per hole. This will keep your enemies guessing, which gives you a distinct advantage in the survival game.
  3. You should be prepared for a world where it’s survival of the fittest. Always carry a weapon with you. Guns, knives, nunchucks, Chinese throwing stars, bowstaffs, blowguns, tonfas, brass knuckles, rape whistles. Any of these can mean the difference between life and death. Say you come across a gang of older boys looking to make a name for themselves by giving you the business. What do you do? Well the best way to handle the situation would be to run far away and hide out until the older boys eventually get even older and die. But that separates you from your treasure trove of freshly made slightly moist peanut butter bonanza. So you should take a more proactive role and go up to the biggest older boy of the bunch, look him dead in the eye, and say, “There are no peanut butter sandwiches buried anywhere in this yard. Don’t bother looking, because you’d just be wasting precious time that could be spent on giving each other wet willies and purple nurples.” The older boy will probably thank you before he sexually assaults you, so, win/win?
  4. You should always have an alternate location to “bug out” to. This is preferably somewhere in a secluded setting that has fortified areas that you can keep all your valuable porno mags away from potential looters. People always worry about their food being taken, but chances are anyone that comes in to steal your dried fish and canned garbanzo beans will also want your stack of Hustler and OUI magazines too. Porn doesn’t grow on trees. To increase your odds of retaining these important written journals from civilized times, you should always keep your porno on your person. At all times. Just tuck them into your waistband and pull your shirt down over them.
  5. This works well, because your shirt hides the magazines, and the magazines hide your erection.

Posted by on December 2, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour, Television and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

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