September 15, 2012

Bill, I Am Your Father

Damn you, Dad Vader!

When I was a beautiful, blue-eyed, pre-pubescent boy, my father took me to see “Star Wars” at the Loring Hall Cinema, in Hingham, Massachusetts. It is still there today. The theater, not Star Wars. A theatrical run’s gotta end sometime. It’s basic economics, supply and demand. The Loring is one of those old magical movie houses with only one screen. Yes, they did use to exist. Whenever we would go there it was always a fun, dare I say groovy time. I do dare. Usually we would get dropped off to see a movie without adult supervision. You would buy your ticket and make your way into the theater hoping to find a well positioned seat. Occasionally you could get into the balcony, but more often than not it was guarded by an older usher telling you “Move along, you young luscious boy”. That dude was creepy. But the theater had a rule where no children were allowed to sit in the balcony unaccompanied by an adult. He would always offer to not only accompany me, but to also spring for popcorn and lube. I never understood why you would want lube with your popcorn. I mean back then I didn’t understand. I totally get it now, he wanted to make sex on me. I’m kind of offended, because it would take more than free popcorn to get me into the balcony and make sex on me. I need some Raisinets or something before I allow you to “make me a man”, as they say in some religious institutions, and all prisons. Plus the free lube really wouldn’t be so much for me as for him. I’m on to you cheap, creepy usher. Belatedly so, but whatever.
When Star Wars came out I remember saying to my father, “That looks really, really, really, good. Can we see it? Can we? Huh? Huh? Can we see it? Dad?! Can we see Star Wars? Huh, Dad?”

He completely blew my mind by agreeing with me that it looked good because that usually didn’t happen as far as movies went. John Wayne wasn’t in Star Wars, so how could my father like it? He obviously couldn’t, would be the conclusion any sane, rational, not addicted to crack cocaine individual would arrive at. But he seemed all for it. We went to a matinée showing of it and the grand old Loring was packed. People stood in line for their tickets, as people have done since time immemorial. And still do today. Except back then nobody was staring at their iPhone pretending to text so they didn’t have to see someone who they haven’t seen in a while and have that awkward small talk about “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity”, or “How are the Pats gonna do this year?”, or “Why did you fuck my girlfriend?” and such. No, nobody had a single cell phone. They all just stood there staring at each other, like human beings. I think one dude did have a beeper, but he was an older boy with a Camaro and a mustache….. Pretty cool, older boy…. pretty cool indeed.

As we entered the theater, we passed by the balcony because my father didn’t want to sit up there. Damn, I finally have the opportunity to sit I the good seats without sacrificing my boy cherry and my legal guardian says nay. Will Smith was right about parents not understanding. My father thumbed his nose at my coveted balcony seats in favor of seats located in the middle of the theater. I was not happy about it, but that didn’t factor into the equation back in 1977. You could force your child to be happy back then with little to no reprisal from the law. Good times were had by all. When the house lights went down the theater erupted into shouts and whistles. I miss that, because I can’t do it anymore. You get strange looks from people when you’re a 41-year-old man screaming and whistling in the movie theater when everybody else is just waiting to watch “High School Musical 4: The Abortion Years”. Thats uncomfortable for everybody, including the church group picketing outside chanting “Make-believe abortion is make-believe murder”!

The movie started and I loved it. My father did too. We were drawn into this magical world of intergalactic space travel. But as the movie progressed Dad did something that horrified me. He was rooting for Darth Vader. He was openly, loudly, enthusiastically rooting for the dark side.

Dad: “Yeah, go Darth!” (Notice the first name basis. He was serious.)

Me: “No Dad, he’s the bad guy!”

Dad: “Yeah I know.”

Me: “You do? Then why are you cheering for him.”

Dad: “Because I want him to win, I don’t like Luke.”

Me: “No, you’re supposed to root for Luke. You’re supposed to root for the good guy.”

Dad: “Fuck the good guy.” (I’m paraphrasing)

Me: “I want to be adopted.”

Dad: “Again?”

Me: “Whhhaaaaaaattttttt?!?!?! (Uncontrollable sobbing)

-End Scene-

The whole ride home I don’t think I said a word. I couldn’t believe that my father would root for the bad guy. It seriously changed my whole outlook on life. It simply mystified me. My father has been gone for 16 years but I wish he was here today so I could talk to him and say, “Hahaha, that’s some funny shit motherfucker.”

Get it?

He’s my Dad.

He had sex with my mother, motherfucker.

Posted by on September 15, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour, Movies and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

3 Comments

July 30, 2012

Dear Olympics, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?

Breakfast of champions, bitches.

The Summer Olympics have kicked off in Old England as I write these words at home in New England. Yes, once again I have been denied the opportunity to represent my country on a worldwide stage.

My non-acceptance into the games is due to a series of unfortunate events. Very much like Lemony Snickets. Once again I failed to file the proper paperwork, or any paperwork for that matter. I didn’t even receive any type of literature on how to sign up. Not even a brochure. Way to fall asleep at the wheel United States Olympic Committee. How’s a boy supposed to fulfill his childhood dreams of bringing home a gold medal and getting his picture on a box of Wheaties, when you can’t even give him the common courtesy of junk-mailing him an application? It’s appalling what this world has come to.

My inability to find a suitable leotard also hindered my Olympic dreams. You would think that it would be as easy as going to Rent-A-Center and picking up something in a boys husky, but it’s not. First of all, they don’t rent leotards at Rent-A-Center. Apparently those are more of a “buy it/own it” item. But when I go to purchase one there’s a lot of factors involved. Buying the right fabric is important, because I want a breathable material. But Leviticus states that I’m not to wear clothing woven from two different fabrics. Naturally I will only wear bible approved athletic apparel, it’s how I was raised. But that really limits me in my choices. Then I wind up sinking to the bottom of the swimming pool in my woolen bathing pants, getting laughed at in a myriad of exotic languages by the other athletes in their sleek and sexy poly-lycra blend suits. Fucking heathens.

Another reason I’m never invited to join in any reindeer games is that I show no particular athletic ability for any of the various sports in the Olympics. It makes it hard to earn a spot on the team if you do wind up getting an interview, and they ask you what you’re good at and you say “I’m really good at trivia and I enjoy playing Xbox. They like athletes who know how to “play the game”. The USOC is very exclusionary like that. Their actions are borderline racist, you say? No they’re not. Those are your words, not mine. But I can’t stop you from starting some massive letter writing campaign to protest my shoddy treatment at the hands of these soulless dream crushing borderline racist jerkfaces. You know, if that’s what you think you need to do.

I think if I ever decided to try gymnastics I could probably become like one of the top two or three gymnasts in the world. But that would take months, and I’d have to shell out a shitload of sheckles on talcum powder and ankle tape. I really don’t have that kind of lootcakes to spend right now with all my funds tied up in this sandwich that I’m hoping to get in the next couple of days. Some potato chips and a Fresca would be sweet too, but that’s unrealistic.

Hey, I’m not Thurston Howell the Fourth.

Posted by on July 30, 2012 in Comedy, Games, Humor, Humour, Television and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , .

3 Comments

July 19, 2012

Tell A Bully That They Suck, And Show Them You Don’t Give A Fuck

Bullying is a hot topic in today’s world. No, not the Hot Topic at the mall where you buy all your body glitter and nose rings, you slut. I mean a hot topic as in a widely discussed issue.

“Prepare to eat my fuck, mean old Buddy Hinton”

Face it, kids are mean. Not necessarily on purpose, but mean is mean regardless of intent. They’re even meaner when they come in packs, like wolves or cigarettes. Back in simpler times bullies just did their dickhead thing at school and then went back to their shitty homes where they were probably bullied by their shitty parents. It’s a vicious cycle.

In the Internet age, it seems like its harder and harder to get away from these assholes. With the advent of social networking, or anti-social networking as it were, the bullying can follow you home. I feel bad for the kids that have to deal with that nonsense non-stop. Almost everyday you hear something in the news about some poor kid taking their own life because they couldn’t stand it anymore. The name calling, whispering and physical abuse. That’s fucking unacceptable. When you’re a teenager every decision or action seems like life or death. What you wear, who your friends are, what kind of car your parents drive, etc. As you get older, you realize that it doesn’t matter what any of those twatsicles think. What that goofy fuckstick in 8th grade thinks of you will have no consequence on your life. None! Chances are you won’t even remember their name.But at the time it seems like it’s the only thing that matters. Every day is spent dealing with someone else’s shitty outlook on life. And that really sucks.

If I had my way every bully would be held down and taunted about their stupid haircut or ill-fitting attire, or their pug ugly mugs and woefully unkempt unibrows . I would vociferously pontificate on their shitty test scores and barely functional illiteracy. I would wax poetic on their inevitable future full of low paying jobs and failed marriages, all wrapped in a foggy shroud of alcoholism and drug addiction until they cried and maybe peed their pants. I would ask them why they were hitting themselves. Then I would take their lunch money and give them a wedgie. Yes, I see the irony, Alanis.

One of the most effective ways of dealing with a bully, besides cold-cocking them in the snot locker, is through laughter. Although it can be hard to take the abuse with a smile on your face, nothing shuts a bully up quicker than showing them what they think doesn’t matter to you. Besides the aforementioned haymaker to the proboscis. The ability to laugh at yourself is maybe the single most important skill you can possess to combat a bully. Besides a scary big brother, or a sweet pair of nunchucks or throwing stars.

I grew up in an “affluent” town, but we weren’t wealthy by any stretch of the imagination. My mother died when I was 11, and my father turned to drinking to cope with it. Money was tight and new, hip clothes didn’t exist in my world. It was mostly K-Mart and second-hand clothes. I used the old make fun of myself before you can do it routine, and it worked. But by not caring, or not showing that I cared, I was able to deflect criticisms aimed at me. At least in public. It still bothered me, but what fun is it laughing at someone who laughs at themselves?

Not much.

Besides, I made some really sweet nunchucks out of a mop handle and some chain.

Always have a backup plan, fuckers.

Posted by on July 19, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

16 Comments

July 17, 2012

What Would I Do? Hmmmmmm, Let’s See.

That broads fucking crazy

It’s Summertime.

The dog days of Summer. Heat and humidity really take a toll on a young boys ability to blog. Oh there are ideas and what not, but no good ones. At least none that are seen to fruition. How many times can you write about exactly what you would do for a Klondike bar?… 50?…. 100? Here’s an easier question. What wouldn’t I do for a Klondike bar?

  1.  I wouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain for a Klondike bar….. Jesus Christ guys, I’m kidding. I would totally diss God for free ice cream. That’s a no-brainer.
  2.  I wouldn’t punch a new-born baby in the face while anyone was looking, for a Klondike bar. Once again, no-brainer. But give me 5 minutes alone with that bundle of joy and someone’s getting some free ice cream….. I meant me. Although I suppose I should get the baby one too. Maybe that will shut him or her up. Waaaaahhhhh!!! A little advice: Learn to take a punch, kid. Life is full of ’em.
  3. I wouldn’t go swimming in the ocean for a Klondike bar. Apparently there are sharks in the ocean. They’ve been all over the news the last few weeks. Sharks off the coast of Cape Cod. In the water? who’d a thunk it…..I would totally take a dip in a pool or freshwater lake for one though….Wait, was Jaws 4 set in someones swimming pool? Fuck it, can I take a bath for one?
  4. I wouldn’t get a face tattoo for a Klondike bar. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I’ve always felt that you should only get a face tattoo out of love. Or have it forced upon you in some type of prison rape scenario. Like in the Bible.

And that’s about it. I would do just about anything else for a Klondike bar. Yeah, I know I didn’t put murder, or banging a dude on the list. But I didn’t put a lot of shit on the list.

Hey, it’s free ice cream.

Free…. Ice….Cream.

Posted by on July 17, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour and tagged , , , , , , , , , .

10 Comments

June 26, 2012

I Love Rock ‘N Roll, So Tape Another Penny To A Postcard, Baby

No Fucking Way!

When I was a younger boy, around 11 or 12, I was given the investment opportunity of a lifetime. I was personally asked if I wanted to join a very exclusive club. I was raised to believe that membership has its privileges, so I jumped at the chance. It was called Columbia House Records and Tapes. They offered an unbelievable deal where I could send one American penny and receive thirteen records and/or tapes of my choosing through the U.S Postal Service. They even went so far as to allow you to check a “Bill Me Later” option in case you couldn’t come up with the initial penny for your down payment. But you knew your finances were bound to pick up soon and you would have more pennies than you knew what to do with.

A neighbor of mine approached me with this fantastic, too good to be true offer. Having an insatiable love of music, as well as a penny, I immediately accepted the challenge and filled out the proper paperwork. I ordered cassette tapes because they were the wave of the future and I do love being hip. The albums I recall getting are Ozzy Osbourne’s “Blizzard Of Ozz”, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts “I Love Rock ‘N Roll”, Meatloaf’s “Bat Out Of Hell” and Molly Hatchet’s “Flirtin’ With Disaster” .  I wish I could remember them all, but it was thirty years ago. There might have been a Cheech and Chong tape too. I scotch taped the penny to the appropriate “Tape Penny Here” location on the postcard, because that’s what you did, and then waited for my loot to arrive. All the while, I was worried the penny had been stolen in transit and I would be denied access to this exclusive club for non-payment of dues.

Remember when everything you bought off tv or in the back of an old copy of OUI magazine said “Please allow 4 to 6 weeks for delivery”? That was painful. As a child with little to no comprehension of time, 4 to 6 weeks was a fucking eternity. It’s two to three fortnight’s, for the love of old-timey terminology. Every day was spent waiting by the mailbox. Or asking if the mail had come yet. Or if anyone had seen the mailman today. Or masturbating. It was a horrible, sexy way to live your life. At the mercy of the mailman, and his whims. And hormones, and their whims.

Finally the day arrived when the mailman stopped at the McMorrow house with a delivery for little Billy McMorrow. I excitedly accepted my package and bid the mailman good day. As I rushed into my bedroom to start enjoying the fruits of my laborious waiting game, I passed my father in the kitchen.

Dad: “What’s that?”

Me: “It’s my tapes from Columbia Records and Tapes. I sent them a penny and they sent me thirteen tapes”

Dad: “Did you read the fine print?”

Me: “What’s fine print?”

Dad: “You fuckin’ moron.”

As it turns out, to receive the thirteen records or tapes for a penny, I had agreed to buy another 8 records or tapes over the next two years at “regular club prices”. That was like between $15-$20 a record…or tape. In 1982 that was a considerable amount of money for a pre-teen boy to be carrying in the hip pocket of his husky sized Levi’s corduroy jeans. Alright, they were Lee corduroy jeans. Okay, Osh Kosh B’Gosh.

Every month you would get a postcard in the mail that would have an Album of the Month on it. You were supposed to check a NO box and mail the card back if you didn’t want to receive the album. Because that makes more sense than checking a YES box and sending the card back. I don’t think I ever actually mailed the card back and every month they would send me a new tape, that I didn’t want and refused to pay for. Hey, I was not old enough to legally enter into a binding contract for services rendered, and I shouldn’t have to return Olivia Newton-Johns “Physical” because of Columbia House Records and Tapes inability to comprehend simple legalese. That’s their problem.

They never did take me to court, although I did get a number of sternly worded letters threatening legal action. Like they were going to garnish my allowance. Or take all my desserts. “I’m just a boy, I don’t even know where to get stamps to mail the postcard with, Your Honor” is what I would say to the judge if they took me to court. Then I would cry. Like a confused and slightly hungry baby.

Shit. I hope the statute of limitations has passed on this.

Posted by on June 26, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour, Television and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

13 Comments

June 23, 2012

Remember Days Of Skipping School, Racing Cars & Being Cool?

Yeah, I'm beautiful. Whatever.

Yeah, I’m beautiful. Whatever.

This is a tale of betrayal. It’s sordid and vulgar and probably long-winded and maybe hard to read. But it’s a story that must be told. It must be recorded in the annals of time, so that it may be studied and learned from. As the old saying goes, “Those who don’t learn from history are doomed to get an F on the final exam and that counts for like 50% of your grade and then you won’t get into a good college and you’ll wind up working some shitty minimum wage job that you have to supplement by walking the streets at night giving handjobs for ham sandwiches”. Which is ridiculous, because ham isn’t THAT expensive. The trick is to buy the domestic ham. Stop living it up with these fancy imported hams that you crave so much that you’re willing to degrade yourself for it with anonymous strangers on the street. Why don’t you start charging money for all these hundreds of handies you’re giving out, like any self-respecting whore would? Then maybe you could get that steak and cheese sub you’ve had your one good eye on all this time. Maybe even get the eye fixed..

I did mention this might be long-winded, right?

Summer 1986:

I was a beautiful younger boy with glorious long flowing locks and a faded jean jacket. I was banging my head, and metal health was driving me mad. I would go to all the concerts I could. Bon Jovi was one of the biggest bands in the world at the time. They had just released Slippery When Wet and were riding a wave of popularity not experienced by humans since Jesus Christ. Or maybe Menudo. They had women offering to have sex on them, and clean their apartments for them. Whenever they would go out somewhere people would just come up to them and say hi and stuff. They probably never paid for dry cleaning, ever. Just go in and take a picture and sign it. That’s it.”Here’s your garments, Mr Bon Jovi. Thank you for your patronage.” Cha-Ching! That’s a substantial amount of savings when your wardrobe consists of nothing but spandex and Poly-Lycra blends.

Tickets went on sale for Bon Jovi at either the Worcester Centrum (now the DCU Center) or the Providence Civic Center (now the Dunkin’ Donuts Center, or “The Dunk”….Seriously). I don’t remember which, and I’m sure they played both. But that’s not germane to the story. A group of us decided to get tickets for the show, so we formulated a plan. This was back in the days when you either had to show up in person to a Ticketmaster or you had to call them on the phone. I’m pretty sure Ticketmaster only had one phone that some old lady answered. It was probably Ticketmaster’s grandmother. I remember she used to live at their house after Ticketmaster’s grandfather died. He was sick for a long time and he’s better off not suffering, but Ticketmaster was devastated by his death and has never been the same. Now he’s all about “convenience fees”. How can you charge me a convenience fee to sell me tickets when that’s your business. It’s in your fucking name. It’s what you fucking do. Listen, if I come to Ticketmaster and ask you to change my oil or check my prostate, by all means charge me a convenience fee. Because that’s not what you do. But if I come to Ticketmaster and buy tickets, just sell me the tickets and stop being a dick about it. Anyways it was almost always impossible to get tickets by phone due to the fact that Nana Masters was partially deaf because of the war. One of them, I forget which one. Maybe the Falkland Islands thingy?

So we went and camped out overnight for tickets at the South Shore Plaza in Braintree, Massachusetts. Outside Sears & Roebuck (before their messy divorce) on the third floor of the parking garage. Tickets went on sale at 9 in the morning, but word comin’ down the wisecracker line was that they would hand out wristbands at 7 AM, securing a spot in line, but not actually guaranteeing tickets. We arrived at the plaza at around 1AM or so and there were about 10 people already waiting in line, swapping spit and swearing, as teenagers have done through all of time. We might have smoked some pot out of homemade pipe fashioned out of my asthma inhaler and some aluminum foil, or we might not have. But we totally did. Then we got in line.

And stood there.

For a very long time. Well, a very long time for a 15-year-old boy who gets tired like any boy does. As the night progressed more people kept showing up. It got pretty crowded towards dawns early light, but I was comforted by the knowledge that I had recently seen Karate Kid II a couple of times and felt that I would be able to handle any rough housing that came my way. Plus I’m really good at faking a seizure. Nobody wants to come near you when you’re having a seizure. It’s important to have a Plan B.

Finally the awaited hour of 7 AM arrived, and nothing happened. By this point there had to be over a million people outside waiting. Or maybe a hundred. I always mix up those two amounts. It makes it fun at tax time. At about 7:30 AM the door was unlocked and the dude with the coveted wristbands came out. He then walked to the back of the line and started handing out the wristbands. “What the fuck is this shit you fuckin stupid piece of shit motherfucker?” We all chanted in unison. It was an awkward chant, we could have done better. If we had time to work on the song structure and maybe choreograph some dance moves. But this was spur of the moment. This dude was trying to deny us our right to rock. We weren’t gonna take it anymore. Didn’t he listen to the radio at all? There were angry shouts from the crowd and delicate sensibilities were offended. One guy said something about calling his older brother. The douchebag beat feet back into the sanctity of the store and some other guy came out and handed out the wristbands, at the front of the line.

I wound up getting 4 tickets and the next guy behind me got the ol’ “Sorry, Sold Out” rigmarole. But I still bear the scars of that wristband trauma to this very day. Mostly when I hear Bon Jovi or go to Sears.

Or watch Karate Kid II.

Or fake a seizure.

Posted by on June 23, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour, Music and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

6 Comments

May 31, 2012

Don’t Worry Doc, That’s Not My Lovemaking Wrist

The doctor said, “Make sure you keep it elevated”. I said, “Don’t worry Doc, it’s what I fuckin’ do”

Dear Reader,

What’s up my friend? Long time, no blog. Sometimes shit happens. That’s what a bumper sticker told me one time, and bumper stickers don’t lie. Plus I saw it on a t-shirt, so…..
It’s been over two weeks since my last post…Two Weeks! That’s right, there are fourteen day old babies running around the world who don’t even realize billmcmorrow.com exists. That is unacceptable in any language. But since English is my primary and only language, I’ll say it in English. It is unacceptable. Cut the shit stupid, adorable, defenseless babies!
I haven’t written because of a few reasons. I’ve suffered from of lack of writing time due to the fact that I’ve been doing more stand up comedy lately. Which is a blast, but also cuts into precious night-time writing. That blows because stupid work cuts into precious daytime writing. Very little time in betwixt day and night.
Also, I’ve had a hard time coming up with ideas to blog about. Well, not entirely. I have ideas that I have started and stopped. I have like 12 drafts going on simultaneously. Well, you know what William Shakespeare said, “The first fifty blog posts are the easiest, but post fifty-one is gonna be a motherfucker, motherfucker”. Well said Shakespeare, kind of vulgar and prophetic, but well said. I guess that’s why you’re the bard.
On Friday I had surgery to re-attach the left radial nerve in my hand, due to a work injury (bottom photo) This is the first surgery I’ve ever had. I was somewhat apprehensive about it because I watch the news. I know there are unscrupulous doctors are out there hoping to harvest my stem cells to create a race of super babies who have the ability to take over the world. You need to cut the shit as well, stupid, adorable, genetically altered and well armed super babies.
In a defensive countermeasure I had all my stem cells removed and placed in a Zip-Lock bag that I stored in my wife’s pocketbook for safekeeping. I was going to use a Zip-Lock freezer bag, but I usually like to keep my stem cells at a steamy 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Also my wife’s pocketbook isn’t refrigerated. She offered to immediately go shopping for a new one, because she loves me. But in the interest of not going pocketbook shopping, I talked her out of it.
I had the operation at New England Baptist Surgical Center even though I’m not Baptist. Apparently the Baptists are cool with that, I never asked. They didn’t even try to convert me or anything as far as I recall. I was a little doped up. I was hoping for one of those fun gospel sing-a-longs that I’ve seen in the moving pictures and what not, but no dice. That would have been fun. I love when the people faint. It’s my favorite part.
The surgery went well and now it’s just a matter of letting it heal.
And putting all these stem cells back. How do you do that?
Never mind, I’ll ask Jeeves.

Posted by on May 31, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour and tagged , , , , , , , , , , .

14 Comments

May 12, 2012

How To Not Get Stabbed In The Face By A Drug Dealer

This rocket ride is gonna be super awkward, huh Kelso?

Life is hard. That’s why so many babies are wearing helmets today. If only there was a book of rules to live by to make things easier. No, not the Bible, I mean a non-fiction book of rules that doesn’t make you feel like a filthy sinner. Well not so much “rules” as helpful hints. But there’s no such book. Okay there probably is, but we need another one. If only we could find someone to write it.
Okay, calm down, I shall compile my own list of important things that everyone should know in order to not die in some stupidly tragic way that will land them on whatever new show the Spike channel is developing . Now this list will not be all-encompassing. There are more things you should know. But those will be in the “Pay to Read” section, once I either figure out how to use that, or I invent it. Man, I hope it’s already a thing. Inventing shit ain’t my strong suit. I wish it was, though. I would invent the shit out of shit, if I could invent shit. I almost invented the Snuggie one time when I put a bathrobe on backwards, but I never applied for a patent. Or filled out the proper paperwork. Or even thought about doing either of those things. But I will the next time I wear a common piece of clothing the wrong way. Believe me you. Or believe you me. Wait, who’s doing what now?

Some of the helpful hints on this list are pretty simple. Things everyone should already know. Others are more obscure and are probably less likely to be known, or followed or even considered socially acceptable. But rulemakers can’t be bothered with trivial things such as customs and applicable laws. That’s for other suckas to figure out. So let’s start with the obvious.

Don’t lick the live wires – This just make sense all around, Live wires contain electricity. Licking contains spittle. Yeah, spittle. Good word, me. Thanks, you. Me? Yes, you. Spittle conducts electricity. Henceforth, if you lick the live wires you will get electrocuted. That shit hurts. Remember that time you licked the 9-Volt battery to see if it was dead, and it was almost dead, but not quite dead? Like it was a 1-Volt? You screamed and cried and ran around like a baby. We all pointed and laughed at you good-naturedly but that only made you madder. You stormed away in a huff and we all talked about how insensitive we all were and how we should apologize to you. Maybe get you a Furby or a gift subscription to Tiger Beat magazine. Sorry buddy. Anyways, live wires contain a bit more electricity than a 9-Volt battery. So don’t do it, you fuckin’ pussy.

Look every which way before crossing the street – Conventional wisdom states to look both ways before crossing the street. I think that’s just plain lazy and dangerous. I mean you should obviously look both ways, but you should also always look behind you too. You never know when you’re gonna get Punk’d and have Ashton Kutcher or his lackey Dax Shepard push you in front of a fuckin’ Vespa. It might not kill you, but it’ll sting like a bumblebitch. Plus you might wind up looking like a douche on that channel that used to show music videos. No, Not VH1, the other one. You should always look down, because a manhole cover could fly up and smack you in your pretty mug. Water mains burst all the time, it’s a danger not to be trifled with. You should also always look up because shit’s constantly falling from the sky. What with all the satellites and space debris floating around up there from when Bruce Willis and his lackey Ashton Kutcher blew up that asteroid in Armageddon. I know it was Ben Affleck in Armageddon, but whatever. It’s a Demi Moore joke. And last but not least you should always look across the street before you cross because there might be something, or someone, over there that makes you not want to go there. Maybe a growling dog, or a terrorist, or a group of older boys. Stupid older boys always being mean, playing tricks and twisting tits. Damn you older boys!

If it looks infected, it is – Listen, I care about you. That’s why I’m trying to help you stave off this obvious painful infection. How did this even happen? Did you travel to the rainforest and get bitten by an indigenous spider and just let the wound fester for a month? How long has it been like that? Have you sought medical attention? No, I know how much it costs, even with health insurance. But you might lose your finger/hand/arm/toe/foot/leg/face/and/or genitalia if you don’t do something about that soon. Real soon. Hydrogen peroxide is your friend, liberal application is recommended. As well as salves and ointments. Antibiotics are also a good thing. If you don’t have any on hand try borrowing some from a friend. Luckily all medicines are interchangeable so there is no health risk involved. Thank you, FDA. If your friends don’t have any antibiotics or painkillers or weed, try finding a sick looking neighbor or maybe just an elderly one. They usually got the goods. Just wait until they’re asleep or out of the house or something and go all cat burglar on their houses ass. Normally I wouldn’t condone pulling a B&E, but you might really be dying by now. It looks so bad, all swollen and shit. You gotta go get that medicine, man. No, I’m not doing it, no way. Sorry but that shit is illegal. Why do you keep asking me to do it? You trying to set me up? Are you wearing a wire? Are you a cop? You know you have to tell me if you’re a cop if I ask you if you’re a cop, right? Oh, that’s not true? What are you, a lawyer?

Those are just a few of the great pieces of advice I have painstakingly researched and compiled for my book, How To Not Get Stabbed In The Face By A Drug Dealer. I know it’s also the title of this post, and you read this post and didn’t find out how to not get stabbed in the face by a drug dealer, and that must be disappointing to you. I understand, and I empathize with you. But that information will be provided in my book,How To Not Get Stabbed In The Face By A Drug Dealer, which will be available on the “Pay to Read” section. Once again, whether I ever invent and/or successfully Google such a thing. It will be right after the chapter on How To Avoid The Old Bait And Switch.

Be safe, friends.

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

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May 5, 2012

That Time I Ruined Christmas

I shall chop down this tree with my axe

I shall chop down this tree with my axe

During my formative teenage years I did some stupid things. Hey, everybody does. Kids are plain dumb. It’s been proven time and time again. You always hear about some kid blowing his hand off playing with fireworks. Or burning their house down playing with matches. Or going blind playing with themselves. That last one was a joke. You won’t go blind by masturbating. Trust me, I know, first hand. Or right hand, as it were… So have at it.

One December morning my father gave me twenty dollars to go buy a Christmas tree for the McMorrow homestead. It seemed like a solid plan. We needed a Christmas tree, and I was blessed with the god given strength to lift one. So I took the money and set about the task of acquiring the most beautiful tree that had ever been found in the forest, lovingly admired, and then murdered for its beauty. I called a buddy of mine from the trusty rotary phone in my kitchen and said something along the lines of, “I got twenty bucks to get a Christmas tree, let’s get fucked up”. So we did.

We got a local miscreant to purchase us a pint of Jack Daniels, because as I have stated before, that’s what Nikki Sixx drank. We paired the JD up with a pack of Marlboro Lights and all the unbridled youthful enthusiasm of two sixteen year old boys being cool…. So fucking cool. We went up to the old railroad tracks and we drank whiskey and we smoked cigarettes and we laughed laughs and swore swears. A good time was had by all. And by all I mean by the both of us.

The next day my father inquired about the tree. He asked me where it was. Being a boy with impeccable on the fly storytelling skills, I deftly spun a web of lies about this majestic tree that I had hand selected from thousands of other, less desirable trees. I told him I had used my intimate knowledge of horticulture to select the perfect tree for our particular needs. Full bodied, robust in woodsy pheromones. Not too fancy, but fancy enough to say, “Hey it’s not too fancy but it’s fancy enough to say it’s not too fancy”.

I purchased said tree for exactly twenty dollars, cash. No change. The register was out of paper so no receipt was given upon purchase, which made me a little uneasy about the transaction. But the proprietor assured me that everything was on the up and up, and that all applicable state and federal taxes were being withheld and reported on the sale as required by law. Being a concerned citizen I felt it my duty to delve deeper into the issue and investigate further, but in the spirit of Christmas I decided to take the man’s word for it. I also had shit to do, and the paperwork alone involved in uncovering a massive widespread yuletide flavored tax fraud was overwhelming in and of itself.

So I said I got the tree, but that I had taken it to a friend’s house to open it and let it fall, to make sure it was the right one. Now the friend whose house I said I brought it to actually lived in an apartment. A third floor apartment. On the third floor. Of an apartment building. Yeah, that made sense.

I carried this ruse on for weeks. My father would ask about the tree and I would make up another story about the plumage not being right, but I was waiting to see it in the right sunlight before I knew for sure. I just wanted Christmas to be magical, for Baby Santa. He did die for my sins after all, the least I could do is get a fucking sweet ass tree in his honor.

“Soon Dad, soon. This tree is gonna blow your mind with its Christmasity. It’s that awesomely awesome.”

“Oh, I’m waiting for Scott to get out of work so we can tie it on the roof of his Monte Carlo and bring it home. No, I can’t tie it to the roof of your K car because it’s to small. The Monte roof is six inches bigger….Oh shit, the Monte got a flat. We’ll get it tomorrow. Or the next day.”

As Christmas Day fast approached I got anxious about finding a proper tree and redeeming myself to myself. We drove around at night looking to steal a tree from some tax dodger. We almost got a nice one but were chased away at the last moment by some dude with a gun. Or maybe it was his car keys. I don’t know, it was dark.

Christmas Eve Eve, we convened down Elias Pond, the local teen watering hole, to assess the situation and determine a course of action. Just drinking and thinking and solving riddles. I decided that I would just cut down my own tree like my forefathers had done for generations. My friend Mike said, “Hey I got a saw. Why don’t you take it with you whilst you walk home through the woods all drunk and find your family the Christmas tree they so rightly deserve. Claim your birthright!”

So, invigorated by the challenge at hand, as well as a few too many boilermakers, I set off. I walked the old railroad tracks home, eyes scanning the woods surrounding me. There had to be a suitable tree. A pretty pine, a fine fir, a supple spruce. Something…….. anything.

As I left the railroad tracks to cut through the half mile or so of woods to my house, I felt the panic set in. I was going to have to fess up to my misdeeds. I was going to be judged in front of Baby Santa for the crimes that I had committed. I was not gonna be getting shit for Christmas. No gifts for you! I fervently eyefucked the landscape for my prey.

And then I spotted him. Nestled on a hill. In two feet of snow. Sleeping. I scaled the mountain and arrived at the tree around three in the morning. I spent the next two hours digging snow with bare hands and cutting down my precious with a very, very, very dull saw. I carried the tree the last quarter-mile home and set it on the back porch at 5:30 AM. I crept ninja style into the house, so as not to awaken anyone, and then went to bed for a victory sleep.

I was awoken a short time later to the wonderful tones of my younger brother joyously screaming, “HE RUINED CHRISTMAS!!’. I had to get up and find out what was going on. Who had ruined Christmas? What had they done? And was the damage beyond repair? Was there nothing we could do to salvage Christmas? Or was it just a wash, better luck next year type of gig? As I walked out into the kitchen my brother was frantically pointing at the tree and yelling that I ruined Christmas. Me. Wait, Me? How the fuck did I ruin Christmas?

Well, evidently the beautiful Christmas tree I had hand-selected had thorns and berries on it. It sure looked like a Christmas tree in the dark and cold, when your drunk. It was pretty horrible looking in the light of day. It was even worse looking when I woke up 9 hours later with a hangover. We decorated the tree, I even remember picking berries off of it before just saying fuck it and trying to cover them with tinsel. The funny thing is that my father never said anything about it to me. Not a word. He either didn’t know or he didn’t care. I prefer to think that he didn’t care. Because there’s no way he didn’t know.

The fucking thing had thorns and berries, for Baby Santa’s sake.

Posted by on May 5, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour and tagged , , , , , , , , , .

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May 2, 2012

It’s Only Teenage Wasteland

If a keg falls in the woods, but no one hears it, we're taking it

If a keg falls in the woods, but no one hears it, we’re taking it

One of the most exciting things that can happen to a growing boy is going to a keg party in the woods. Oh what good times the kids have, drinking alcohol, and having sex on each other, and watching out for cops, and falling down but probably getting back up at some point unless they’re dead. Hey, it happens.

Some of the fondest memories that I can vaguely recall happened at a keg party in the woods, I think. Listen, I’m not trying to promote underage drinking, so calm down. I’m just acknowledging that it happens all the time, as it has happened since Adam held Eve upside down for her first keg stand. That’s love. Don’t fear it, embrace it.

We used to have keg parties down at a spot called Millers Place. It was a rock pit just a couple of hundred yards through the woods from a cemetery. There was a big fire pit in the middle of two rock hills on either side. It was a great spot for teenage tomfoolery. Sadly it doesn’t exist anymore. It’s now part of a fancy private golf course. Every time I’m around the old neighborhood I think about going out there and sitting on the golf course at night and light a fire, crank Metallica’s “Master of Puppets“, smoke Marlboros and drink So-Mo-Dew-Co’s.(That’s Southern Comfort and Mountain Dew, but you knew that, right dear beautiful reader?) Unfortunately that would be illegal according to the groundskeeper, and the police. I’m a little sad to know that Miller’s Place is not being enjoyed by younger generations of awesomely cool kids doing awesomely stupid things.

There was always a palpable excitement whenever word got out about a kegger, leading to numerous questions. What should I wear? Will there be sluts there? Should I drink my face off?  Who’s getting the keg? Do we have a buyer lined up or are 15 of us going to stand in front of the package store and accost every “cool” person that pulls in? Who’s carrying the keg out to the woods? Where’s the tap? What do you mean you don’t know? Who’s running this shitshow? Should we pour a gallon of gas on top of the wood to light the bonfire? A half-gallon? Just a cup? That doesn’t seem like enough gas, let’s go with the gallon. Woah, that was way too much gas, Crosby almost blew up. Write that down for future reference, just a half cup will do.

Which way do I run if the cops show up?

Running away from the police in the woods is a right of passage that all unruly children should get to experience at least once before they go to lock-up, or juvie, or boot camp, or whatever correctional program they’re heading to. Most of my advanced evasive maneuvers were learned from running through the woods, clutching onto whatever concoction was on tap that night and giggling like a schoolgirl. A handsome schoolgirl. You really should see me barrel-roll.

I also have this move where I actually become part of the forest, where my skin takes on the colors of my environment. It’s breathtaking. I’m not saying I’m magic, I’m saying I’m magical. There’s a difference. A slight difference. Okay it’s the same.

I have found that one of the easiest and most effective ways to run from the police is to just fall down and stay there. Which really plays to your strengths when you are having a hard time standing up anyway. Just don’t keep screaming “Take me down to the Paradise City where the grass is green and the girls are pretty”, over and over again while you’re lying there.

You’re supposed to be hiding, so cut the shit, kid.

Inevitably a fist fight would break out because it was the 80’s and every other fucktard wasn’t carrying a gun to shoot you in your sweet pretty face when you’re not looking, like today. So two dudes would square off, with little to no respect for the Marquess of Queensberry rules. There would be hair pulling and eye gouging and occasionally some biting. Sorry about that, apologies all around.. Karate stances would be assumed. Name calling would commence forthwith. The whorish behavior of the combatants respective mothers would be discussed loudly, as well as the outlandish sexual proclivities of the gladiators themselves. Someone would make that fake punch shoulder move. (Two for flinching) Eventually it would devolve into a wrestling match. Then someone would finally break it up and everyone would shake hands and laugh about how stupid the whole thing was. Then we would go back to partying and talking about how we would stay young and beautiful and best friends forever.

At least that’s how I remember it, but it’s been awhile.

Posted by on May 2, 2012 in Comedy, Humor and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

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