Are You Ready To (Expletive Deleted) Rock?

This is what the Golden Girls look like when I'm drunk.

The 1980’s were a turbulent time. The Cold War was still raging. Kids stomachs were exploding from mixing Pop Rocks and Coca-Cola.The world watched in horror as Adrian Zmed cold-heartedly wrested control of Dance Fever away from Danny Terrio. But even scarier than these things, musicians were swearing on albums. What?!! You heard me, Internet savvy readers. Profanity was being recorded and then mass-produced in record and tape form, and distributed to impressionable young children, usually out of the back of rape vans. How did we reach this point in America? Cowardly musicians hiding behind “Freedom of Speech” and then having the unmitigated gall to speak freely. We all know they were probably on drugs. Booting up in a dirty bathroom , all smacked out on amyl nitrate poppers and Jolt cola.
Don’t they know that this is unacceptable? That angry parents would band together, as they have always done, and start a powerful group that would change the face of the music industry as well as planet Earth, once and for all? It was bound to happen, and it did like a motherfucker.
The PMRC, or Parents Musical Resource Center was founded by future former second lady Tipper Gore. I don’t know if the vice presidents wife is called second lady, but whatever. She’s been called worse. Hey, Tip-Tip needed something to keep her busy whilst Al was off inventing the Internet and discovering global warming. So she got together with some other like-minded whores who hated the idea of free speech and they were off and running. These ladies felt that the rest of society should be responsible for parenting their children for them. They would say, “How are we supposed to make sure our children grow up without being exposed to anything that actually happens in the real world if everyone doesn’t agree to our list of demands?” They were sick and tired of their beautiful baby children being exposed to sex through music. Who can blame them? I believe that children should learn about sex the old-fashioned way, by spying on their drunk babysitter while she’s banging her boyfriend, or whoever that dude was. As it has been since biblical times, amen.

I was a longhaired sensitive souled ragamuffin who loved a good swear set to music. It’s my passion, always has been. I was enraged by these women trying to decide what was “acceptable” art. Trying to regulate morality. I’ve always believed that if a song offends you, turn it off. If a tv show offends you, change the channel. Don’t try to enforce your moral guidelines on someone else. Your child? Your problem. It all comes down to freedom of speech, which some people mistakenly think is only for speech they agree with. Fuckers.

The PMRC raised such a fuss that the United States Senate held hearings about the outlandish behavior of tax paying adults. No surprise since Tipper’s baby daddy also happened to be a senator. So a big to-do was had in Washington D.C and members of the music industry were called to task to explain themselves. What gave them the right to say dirty words in sing-song fashion? Frank Zappa, Dee Snider from Twisted Sister, and John Motherfuckin’ Denver testified in front of the world against this blatant act of censorship. The PMRC thought John Denver would be on their side in the fight against moral turpitude, but he was adamantly opposed to censoring in any form. He essentially said, “This bullshit is fucking fucked, you twats must be fuckin’ rocky mountain high outta your fuckin’ minds.” I miss that dude.

What came out of this whole debacle is that the music industry agreed to start labeling explicit material with warnings.The little black and white Parental Advisory stickers. We’ve all seen them. It always made me want to buy an album even more. In fact I would be a little disappointed if an album didn’t come with a warning label. But that’s the way it works. Tell a kid not to do something and sure as shit that’s what they want to do. Tell them “don’t smoke cigarettes”. They smoke. Tell them “don’t drink alcohol”. They drink. Tell them “don’t steal my Reliant K-Car and go on midnight marauding bone cruises down Jerusalem Road”. They go Midnight Marauding.

Fuckin’ kids.

And their fuckin’ mothers.

Posted by Bill McMorrow on April 26, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour, Music and tagged 1980s, Adrian Zmed, Arts, Comedy, Dee Snider, Frank Zappa, Freedom of Speech, Growing up, Humor, I learned it by watching you!, life, marijuana, mature, Parents Music Resource Center, Tipper Gore, United States, United States Senate, Washington DC.

Defendering My Life

We'll save them together, man

I was born in the year 1970, as the world cheered wildly. A few short years later Pong was introduced to the world. They cheered even wildlier for Pong. I don’t blame them, it was pretty exciting. Thus began my love affair with video games. It’s a love that has carried on through the ages. Through good and bad and indifference. A whole lot of indifference.

I used to go down the street from my house to the East Weymouth Bowl A Wey as a child. Don’t look for it, it’s not there anymore. It’s now a parking lot for the commuter train. That’s fun. But in the late 70’s and early 80’s, Saturday mornings were reserved for cartoons and bowling league. We were called The Lane Devils. We got cool satin jackets with our names on the sleeve at the end of the year. Yeah, it is pretty sweet. The Bowl A Wey was a fun place to hang around because they had arcade games. Not a huge array of games, but they always had 4 or 5 arcade games and a few pinball machines. Plus the stupid crane machine where you spent all your money trying to win a 25 cent stuffed animal or some such nonsense.
Donkey Kong, Defender, Asteroids,Track & Field. You know, the classics. I spent countless hours and quarters playing these machines. One of my best friends as a kid, Paul D., I met while playing Defender. Well, it wasn’t the first time we met, it was the first time we met without a fight happening. See, I lived in Hingham Mass and Pauly D lived in Weymouth Mass. Bigtime rivalry there, for the uninitiated readers. Every time kids from one side would see kids from the other side, it was on. Like the aforementioned Donkey Kong. And it was on constantly, because I lived literally three houses over the town line. We saw each other all the time. Kids are stupid like that. It shouldn’t matter where you lived, what your zip code or area code was. But it did then and still does today. Although area codes don’t really matter, what with all the cell phones out there. Well, unless you’re a rapper.

One day I was walking through Weymouth by myself, because not only was I an incredibly brave boy, but I also knew that the closest store that sold Pop Rocks was Burrell’s in Jackson Square, situated in East Weymouth Mass. Lil Bill loved him some Pop Rocks. Probably because they were good for your teeth. At least that’s what that fifth dentist, the one that doesn’t recommend sugarless gum to their patients who chew gum, told me.

As I was heading back to the sanctity of Home Base, I stopped in to the Bowl A Wey to take respite from the harsh summer sun, buy a bag of Andy Capp’s Hot Fries, and play some Defender. As I entered the building, I saw my enemy at the very machine I intended to put my hard-earned allowance money into. Not only was he at my machine, but he had a couple of dollars in quarters lined up ready to go. This hoodlum wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon. I was taken aback by his brazen display of chutzpah, and I wasn’t even Jewish. I’m also still not, but I wasn’t then either. I should just say I’m not Jewish, but now I kind of feel like I’m being anti-semitic, and that’s not my intent. I’m just saying the word chutzpah fit the occasion, and it’s a Jewish word. Or hebrew. Yiddish? Am I being anti-semitic again? This post will not go over well at temple. Or is it synagouge?..Where were we?

Oh yes, Defender. I sidled up to the machine, with all the cool toughness my 12-year-old self had learned from Arthur Fonzarelli and Vinnie Barbarino. I remember saying something along the lines of “Aaayyyyy, what’s up, can I get next game?” You know what happened? This kid from the wrong side of the tracks looks me dead in the eyes and he says, “Want to play two player?” then proceeds to pay for my games of Defender for the next two hours courtesy of tip money from delivering The Patriot Ledger. This is a kid who I have a sworn vendetta against and as far as I know I am morally obligated to rain haymakers to his face, neck and chest if given the opportunity. Why would he do such a selfless thing when all we’d ever been is enemies?
Because it was just the two of us. No other kids to sway opinions and cast the proverbial first stone. Nobody else there to tell us we weren’t supposed to like each other. Just two youngsters playing a video game, no big deal.

But also a very big deal.

Posted by Bill McMorrow on April 23, 2012 in Comedy, Games, Humor, Humour and tagged 1970's, 1980s, Aging, Arcade game, childhood, Coin-Op, Donkey Kong, East Weymouth Bowl A Wey, Games, Growing up, Humor, humour, I learned it by watching you!, Life Lessons, memories, Patriot Ledger, Pong, Recreation, Video game.

The Boston Marijuanathon

I think Boston's that way, man

Monday, April 16th, was the 116th running of the Boston Marathon. One day a year thousands of runners from around the world gather in Hopkinton, Massachusetts to make the trek 26.2 miles to Boston, in an organized, symbolic flipping of the bird to the driving public who need to get places because they work for a living. Why do they do this? Do these people not know that they can ride the MBTA commuter train into town? Maybe not, since there are a lot of out of towners/staters/countriers who might not be familiar with the area. Do they just run it because they enjoy running? No, nobody enjoys running. Forrest Gump enjoyed it ,but, well, you know.

Who likes getting all sweaty and out of breath and shit? Sweating is the body’s way of saying, “Whoa, reel it in douchebag, you’re messing up my delicate pheromone levels. I don’t know about you, but I’m trying to get laid here. What the fuck?” Now, every bodies body’s are different. Maybe yours doesn’t swear at you and treat you like a two-bit whore when you displease it. I’m just talking in generalities.

Listen, I have friends that have run the marathon. I’m not bragging, I’m just telling truths. They always say to me, “Bill, you look like you want to run a really long way non-stop without the police trying to arrest you or zombies trying to catch you and eat your delicious brains. You should go buy a sharp outfit and come run the Boston Marathon with us. It’ll be wicked fun” in my head…..To which I reply, “Huh?”

Hey, I’m not knocking it. Well actually I am, but it’s all in good fun sucka. I understand that people enjoy the physical activity. Get the blood pumping, elevate the heartbeat. I get the whole “runners high” effect, when endorphins course through your veins. smacking your medulla oblongata with dopamine. But I’m kind of lazy. Well I wouldn’t call it lazy, but my doctor would, and does.

See, I have a driver’s license and a car. Once again, I’m not bragging. But it’s hard to justify running 26.2 miles away from where my car’s parked, when I’m just going to need to get a ride back to it. So I like to partake in a different, albeit just as prestigious, athletic endeavour.

I call it The Boston Marijuanathon. Once a year (on a day pre-selected by a highly qualified panel of judges, including but not limited to me) I take a 26.2 mile bone cruise along the marathon route. Not on Marathon Monday though, because you will definitely be pulled over and arrested on a litany of charges. The least of which will be marijuana possession, because they’ve decriminalized fun in Massachusetts.

It was tough going the first time, I was all worried about fueling up the car before the marijuanathon.Am I properly hydrated? What cd’s are in the car? Should I go to the bathroom now, or can I hold it for 20 minutes? The trick is to work yourself into shape by taking shorter bone cruises throughout the year. Start off with a 5K and a one hitter and work yourself into peak physical shape for the ultimate challenge, The Boston Marijuanathon

It’s a thrilling time and quite an incredible achievement. You not only work out your gas foot and steering hands, but you work out your mind as well. Constantly thinking ahead. Am I gonna make this light? Can I turn on red here? What the fuck is this shitstick in the Hummer doing? Gas is four bucks a gallon, is this guy going to the mall or going to liberate Fallujah? Sure there’s no fanfare when I cross the finish line, except for the ceremonial lighting of a fresh fatty. Just completing The Boston Marijuanathon is its own reward. I still get to experience a runners high, although it’s more of a drivers high.

Plus, Heartbreak Hill isn’t so heartbreaky in a car.

And at least I don’t have to ride the fucking T home.

Posted by Bill McMorrow on April 17, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour and tagged Boston, Boston Marijuanathon, BostonMarathon, Comedy, Fallujah, Forrest Gump, Hopkinton Massachusetts, Hummer, Humor, humour, marijuana, Massachusetts, mature, Monday, Recreation, satire.

I’ve Got A Lazy Grandpa

I got your everlasting gobstopper right here

I got your everlasting gobstopper right here

When I was just an impressionable young lad one of my favorite movies was Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory starring the phenomenal Gene Wilder. Not the remake called Charlie and the Chocolate Factory starring the phenomenal Johnny Depp. Or Little Eddie Scissorhands as I call him, because he doesn’t know me so he can’t tell me to stop. Take that J-Depp… Although his lawyers did send me something called a “cease and desist” letter. I’ll have to google that later and find out what that’s all about. I probably won a contest or something.

I don’t know how many times I’ve watched Willy Wonka over the course of 41 years, but I know it’s definitely more than twice. For anybody that hasn’t seen it, why? What’s wrong with you? Don’t you like sweets? Aren’t you a fan of tripping your balls off? Do you not care for orange midget’s dressed identically and singing silly songs about the untimely demise of little ungrateful bitch-bastard children? Well you should. Because make no mistake about it, they deserved what they got. Especially that Veruca Salt chick.

Charlie Bucket lived with his parents and all four of his grandparents in a decrepit shack. His mother worked washing other people’s dirty clothes with one of those washboards that only exist in museums and in hillbilly bands where they are accompanied by a one-stringed washtub bass and someone blowing into a moonshine jug, . His father has been laid off from his job at the toothpaste factory. Which is odd because their sales numbers had been steadily improving over the last seven straight fiscal quarters, and there was talk in the break room that the toothpaste factory was going to be expanding into the mouthwash side of the preventative dental care racket. Possibly even dental floss, but that was apparently just wishful thinking. Oh, if only the kids weren’t so in love with gingivitis.

His grandparents had been bed-ridden for 20 some odd years. In the same bed, all together. It was weird, and gross and kind of sexy, if your into ~~handicapped~~ handi-capable geriatric group gropes. Hey, I’m not judging you, you fucking creep. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this game called life, it takes different strokes to move the world, yes it does, it takes different strokes to move the woooorld.

But Charlies ancestors were really old and feeble, and they depended on Baby Boy Bucket for all of their daily needs. Charlie loved his grandparents but he loved Grandpa Joe the most. Every night after Charlie had finished his numerous chores such as washing the dish, sweeping the dirt floor and changing four shitty bedpans , Grandpa Joe would tell him a story. Charlie loved these stories, but he loved to hear all about Willy Wonka’s magical chocolate factory in particular.

Grandpa Joe once worked for Wonka before some kind of crazy shit went down somewheres, and Wonka threw everyone out and locked the doors. Or at least that’s Joes story. Word on the street is that he got shit-canned for shooting dope on his lunch break and then eating an entire case of Wonka Bars in the mens bathroom. One of the Oompa Loompas found him passed out in a puddle of his own sick. When he came to he violently assaulted the Loompa who revived him, he had to be physically restrained.

Do you know how many Oompa Loompas it takes to physically restrain a normal sized person? Dozens. It’s actually quite horrifying and comical. Luckily for Gramps he didn’t get sued. That was partly because Mr. Wonka intervened and paid the little guy off, but mostly because it would be hard to find an unbiased jury when no one believes in Oompa Loompas.

When Willy Wonka announces his golden ticket promotion to the world it causes widespread pandemonium. Candy shops across the globe are inundated with crazed pre-diabetic children wildly grabbing for all the sweets they could find. Spending untold amounts of currency on chocolate bars and other assorted treats. Supply can’t keep up with demand. There were riots as angry customers were turned away empty-handed.

Charlie lacked the financial resources to be considered a real player in the high stakes world of international candy contests. He got an occasional Wonka Bar from his family for his birthday. His birthday present was a fucking candy bar. Thanks guys. Hey, for Christmas could you put me up for adoption?

One time he found a silver coin in a gutter and splurged on two Scrumdiddlyumtious bars in a last-ditch effort to cash in on Willy Wonka’s dementia. He opened the last bar and saw the glint of sweet victory winking back at him. He ran straight home and didn’t stop ’til he got there.

He told his family of his good fortune, and Grampa Joe got up and danced. What the fuck is that shit?

“I’ve been waiting on you hand and foot my whole life because of your inability to even make it out of bed to use the bathroom, now you’re the fucking Lord of the Dance because you get to go see how candy is made? You have tricked me for the last time old man. Not only am I not taking you to Candyland, but you better get your ass out on the street and find yourself a job.”

‘Cause we broke as a joke up in this bitch ever since all the toothpaste money dried up.

Posted by Bill McMorrow on April 15, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour, Movies, Uncategorized and tagged 1970's, Aging, Charlie, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, childhood, classis movies, Comedy, elementary school, Gene Wilder, humour, I learned it by watching you!, Johnny Depp, List of characters in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, memories, satire, Willy Wonka, Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, Wonka Bar.

An Open Letter To Axl Rose

I'll just start my own Guns N' Roses

Dear Axl,
You probably don’t remember me because we’ve never met. I’m writing to tell you some things that I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while now, you know, if we ever meet. I know we probably won’t, since you only seem to come out of hiding on only the rarest of occasions in order to say some douchey thing and then disappear again. Or to play a concert with the “New GN’R”, which nobody gives a shit about.

I remember when I first heard about Guns N’ Roses. I was a gorgeous 16-year-old long-locked lad with an insatiable hunger for heavy metal music and steak and cheese subs. In that order, unless I was hungry for actual food. I used to ~~steal~~ borrow copies of heavy metal magazines from the local convenience store, conveniently named Convenient, where my sister worked. Sorry, Donna. Every month I would walk out of that place with my kick ass jean jacket (with patches and pins) bulging with all the latest issues of Hit Parader, Circus, Kerrang!, Tiger Beat, etc. I would read every article and then I would cut the pictures out and hang them up in my room like an adorable pre-teen girl. An adorable pre-teen girl with a penis. (I wonder how many hits I’m gonna get off of that search term?)

Motley Crue was my favorite band back in the day. I so badly wanted to be in the Crue, my lack of musical ability be damned . I drank Jack Daniels because that’s what Nikki Sixx drank. I was sixteen and stupid. One day I was reading an article about Motley Crue in Hit Parader and it mentioned how this hot new band from Los Angeles, Guns N’ Roses, was going to be opening shows on the Girls, Girls, Girls tour. I had never heard of such a band but I had to find out about them. Nikki Sixx said so, then he dared me to chug boilermakers until I blacked out. Challenge accepted, good sir.

When I came to, I reread the article so I could remember the band’s name. Then I cut their picture out and hung it next to Leif Garrett’s. Their debut album was still a month or two away from being released, which was painful. Today, you hear about a band and you can just go on iTunes, or Pandora, or Amazon or any other of the million online options available to anyone with an internet connection and see if you like it. Back then you had to travel to the record store. This usually involved putting on pants. Although it’s not specified on the No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service sign, not wearing pants is frowned upon and will also greatly diminish your chances of getting served. They should have to tell you that up front. Right? It’s not like I keep a spare pair of pants in the car. Oh wait, yes I do.

I bought Appetite For Destruction the day it came out at the record store at the Hanover Mall in Hanover, Massachusetts. I bought it on cassette tape, because those were the wave of the future. Stupid, stupid future. I remember leaving the mall in my friends 1970-something Monte Carlo, and popping Appetite into the tape deck. As the opening skull-fuck of Welcome to the Jungle kicked in, I remember thinking, “What the fuck is this shit?”. But in a good way, like the way the kids say it when the shit’s crack-a-lacking. They say that, too. I was completely blown away by the whole album. I have probably listened to that album more times than any other I’ve owned. I know they’re not called albums anymore, but I still call them that. Appetite is my favorite album of all time. There, I said it.

I love the Use Your Illusions albums, too. I know some people say there’s only one albums worth of good songs mixed with a bunch of filler, but I disagree. There are a few songs that I’m not totally crazy for, but I think the majority of both Illusion albums are ballsy. This was the point you started adding more people to the band. What started as 5 guys was now 7 or 8. I was cool with it.

Somewhere along the way, you lost it. Constantly showing up on stage HOURS late, shitting on the people paying their hard-earned money to see you perform. That shit is bush-league, man. Storming off stage like a petulant child who doesn’t like the game so he’s taking his ball and going home. Complete bullshit. But what you have done with this whole “I’m Guns N’ Roses” nonsense is comical. Just because you found 7 guys at the VFW in Indiana that can play Sweet Child O’ Mine doesn’t make them GNR, and just because your guitarist wears a top hat doesn’t make him Slash.

Now I don’t want to bash you completely, because I think there’s still hope for you. Listen, it’s confession time. I actually like Chinese Democracy. I’d even go so far as to say I love it. That disc spent over two straight months in my car stereo. Yes, I own it. No, I didn’t pay for it. A friend burnt me a copy. I refused to buy a fake Guns N’ Roses album. He apparently did not. But it’s good. If you had just called it The Axl Rose Project or some such thing, I bet it would have done far better than it did. The opening scream on the title track made me realize I missed you. But now you’re making me realize I didn’t.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has come calling for those 5 boys who made the world take notice so long ago. Now, whatever your thoughts on the R&RHOF may be, it’s still a pretty big honor, or honour, for my transcontinental peeps. But once again you have taken the low road and turned down the invitation to appear, perform, acknowledge, look at, speak to, wink at, break bread with, give the common courtesy of a reach around to, the band mates that made you famous

I don’t want your Guns N’ Roses. I want my Guns N’ Roses.

Hey you’re one fifth of GN’R, and that’s only one fifth more than I am. Fuck this, I’m gettin’ the band back together.

Who’s with me?

Posted by Bill McMorrow on April 12, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour, Music and tagged 1980s, Aging, Appetite, Appetite For Destruction, Arts, Axl Rose, Comedy, GN'R, Growing up, guns n roses, Hair metal, Hanover Mall, heavy metal, Humor, humour, life, Life Lessons, mature, memories, Motley Crue, Nikki Sixx, Rock, Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, Rose, Slash, Sunset Strip.

Hey, Who Brought The Cool Kid?

I don’t know how that kid got in here. He wasn’t invited, I know that much…..I had the grooviest party planned out and he just ruined it, like he always does. I hired this really great magician I heard about through some older boys I know. You just page him on his beeper, then he shows up and does these wonderful tricks that you could barely believe or hardly even remember when you finally wake up half-naked and facedown on the shag carpet in his van. He’s pretty cool.

Although I really don’t like how he keeps staring at me as he licks his lips and whispers “abracadabra” over and over again.

Posted by Bill McMorrow on April 10, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Humour, Television and tagged 1970's, airplane glue, childhood, classic tv, Comedy, commercials, drugs, Effects, elementary school, Growing up, humour, I learned it by watching you!, Life Lessons, LSD, Magic, Magicians, marijuana, pot, PSA, Public Service Announcement, shag carpet.

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Kickin’ It Old School

Through the legs is a welt!

I was wracking my brain for a blog idea this afternoon. Thinking about days gone by, and things I loved. One thing that I loved was hacky sack. There was a time when I thought I was good enough to swiftly rise through the world rankings and capture the Hacky Sack World Championship. Which I believe entitles you to a cash prize, a trophy of some sort, and a badass one-hitter belt buckle like the one Randall “Pink” Floyd wore in Dazed And Confused. Or at least that’s what you should get for being the coolest hippie alive.

As I’ve gotten older I have realized that I probably wasn’t even good enough to qualify for regionals. But that wouldn’t have stopped me back then. I’ve never been one to pay attention to the writing on the wall. Even if it was addressed to me personally and comprised of very well-reasoned points while just trying to be helpful, without passing judgement or coming across as preachy. I ignored these things partly out of teenage rebellion but mostly because of that whole illiteracy thing.

I would have trained for the big Hack meet by hacking off every chance I would get. I would hack until my sack was busted wide open and emptied of its contents ….metaphorically speaking. Then I would hack some more. The street lights would come on and it would phase me none. For anyone not old enough to remember, there used to be these things called street lights. They would come on at dusk, at which time you were supposed to go home for dinner. Or you got your ass kicked. This was to ensure safe passage for pedestrians and motorists alike, as well as to curtail the staggering amount of fun kids were having back then. At some point we as a society said “Fuck that, let’s turn the lights off and just use the poles as a place to advertise yard sales, and also as a public shaming post where we can show everyone that you don’t deserve to own a pet by your inability to control, contain, or even find your pet.”

If I would have chased the dream, I would have done it up right:

I would have bought matching head and wrist bands, and possibly even ankle bands if those are things that exist. I think that they are, but we just call them socks.
I would choose a theme song to be introduced with. Something catchy, that has high-octane energy but also says to people,”Hey this guy might seem like a super hero to you, but he’s just a normal, regular hero, doing super things.” Something like Van Halen‘s Big Bad Bill (Is Sweet William Now)
I would happily pose for pictures and sign autographs for all the crazed Hacky Sack fans crowding around outside my deluxe economy suite at the Best Western Inn, or other comparable motor lodge that offers all the amenities. Such as free continental breakfast with the qualifying purchase of a second full priced breakfast. Or complimentary toothpaste. Don’t forget the indoor pool and hot tub, you. Oh, I shan’t, me. But is the water supposed to be foamy like that? That doesn’t look right to me.

When I got famous and toured the world, I wouldn’t get all diva like. But I would have a rider in my contract to make the stresses of footbag fame a little more tolerable:

Only the freshest of bottled waters are to be chilled to an exact temperature of ice-cold without actually being ice.
Talcum powder for my ballbag

That’s it. That’s all I would need to succeed.

Proper hydration is important.

But a dry ballbag is a must.

Posted by Bill McMorrow on April 10, 2012 in Comedy, Games, Humor, Humour and tagged 1980s, ballbag, Big Bad Bill, Comedy, contract, Dazed And Confused, footbag, Games, Growing up, Hackysack, humour, life, Life skills, mature, memories, Randall Pink Floyd, Recreation, satire, street lights, talcum powder, Van Halen.

Sweet Mother’s Reggie Reader Profile #1 (Ok, fine, Call It A Blogroll.)

Sweet Mother has shown me some love. Happy zombie jesus day to us all.

The community here at Sweet Mother is so good. So good. It is part all-hands-in Amish barn building and part communal-commiseration, bitch-fest. It is not all due to me. A lot of it has to do with you. As a way to pay back my oh so wonderful readers and new blogger friends out there, Mother is introducing the “Reggies List”. It’s like a blogroll, only more high on itself. Today, I will introduce our first “Reggie” – the requirements are simple. You read this blog regularly. You have a blog. You post things on that blog regularly. And, lastly, but probably most important – you believe in good colon health. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you…

Bill McMorrow

Bill hails from the Boston area. Bill is a blogger. Bill is WICKED cool. (That’s right I said Wicked! Where are Matt Damon and Ben Affleck?) Bill is also…

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Posted by Bill McMorrow on April 8, 2012 in Uncategorized.

Liar, Liar, Tights On Fire!

The House That God Built

The House That God Built

When I was eleven years old I found out professional wrestling was fake. It was very upsetting to me, especially being raised Catholic. I had invested untold countless hours in both verbally and physically defending the honor of these fakers, which made me a worshipper of false idols. Which made God angry, and we all know an angry God is a vengeful God. Shortly thereafter my mother died from cancer and I was left a half-orphan.

I’m just kidding guys, my mother died from cancer before this happened. You should have seen your face though…priceless.

I immediately severed any and all ties with this satanic cult, whilst also donating a healthy weekly tithing to the church. I assume that money went to feed the poor and not to pay for that matching jewel-encrusted solid gold toilet and bidet set that was installed in the popes master bathroom. A kings gotta have his thrones, am I right lowly peasants? Why is it that Jesus was born poor in a manger and to honor him the pope lives extravagantly in a city of gold? You want to feed the poor and help the needy? How about having a fucking yard sale?

Boston, Massachusetts – March 6th, 1982
Interior shot: The hallowed ground of one of the most beloved buildings in the world, Boston Garden.

My uncle Dan McMorrow has worked as an usher at the Garden since 1957, still does to this day at the TD Garden (They call it that, but it’s not the Gahhhhden). One night he brought my brother Mike and I to the Garden to see the WWF wrestling matches. I was pretty pumped and jacked because we went in with Uncle Dan and he had to be there 2 or 3 hours before the doors opened. So we just walked around Boston Garden for a couple of hours by ourselves. That wouldn’t happen today. Two boys, the younger nine, the older one eleven and far more handsome and mature than a silly nine-year old, walking around by themselves with no parental supervision in a sports arena. They would either be abducted and molested by a pedophile in a bathroom stall, or they would be accused of trying to blow up the building or trying to steal shit and then they would be abducted and molested by a security guard in a security office. Either way someones getting loved. But not back then. I mean not in this story, at least.

While walking around the building we saw Adrian Adonis, one of the big villains or “heels” of the day. He was sitting inside the arena, talking to a female lady person with boobs and probably a vagina. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor… My brother and I walked up and introduced ourselves and shook his hand. He was extremely polite and as we were leaving my brother said, “Bye Mr. Adonis, hope you do good”. When we got further away I yelled, “But not as good as Bob Backlund!”, and we ran away screaming and laughing like donkeys down the hallway. I was positive he was going to chase us. But he didn’t. Pussy.

So during the matches we were sitting in the balcony watching the “Unpredictable” Johnny Rodz fighting Baron Mikel Scicluna from the Isle of Malta. Johnny Rodz throws a punch that clearly does not connect. The Baron stumbles backward. Rodz throws another “haymaker” that misses by two feet. The Baron falls down. I couldn’t believe it. I’d heard the rumors of it being “staged” or “set up” or “total fucking bullshit”, but I thought that was just normal jive talk that all growing boys participated in over pouches of Big League Chew and cans of Mello-Yello. But now I knew it was true, having seen it with my own brilliantly blue eyes. I was seriously bummed out. I believe traumatized is the clinical term.

A little while afterwards Cyndi Lauper released the video for Goonies R Good Enough and a whole bunch of wrestlers were in it. As well as the Goonies themselves.

I quit watching wrestling immediately after seeing this.

Except for G.L.O.W, ’cause that shit was real…….sexy.

Posted by Bill McMorrow on April 7, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Music, Television and tagged 1980s, Adrian Adonis, Aging, Baron Mikel Scicluna, Big League Chew, Bob Backlund, Boston, Boston Garden, Comedy, Growing up, Humor, humour, I learned it by watching you!, Johnny Rodz, life, Life Lessons, mature, memories, TD Garden, Unpredictible Johnny Rodz, wrestling, WWE, WWF.

Oh, That’s How People Die?

I always do it for Johnny. Always.

During the summer of 1986, at the tender age of 15, I stared death in the face for 6 straight hours. I miraculously lived to tell the tale. So tell the tale I shall.

It was a hot, humid New England summer day. The kind of day that makes you long for winter so you could bitch about how cold it is and wish it was summertime.. We were hanging down at the pond. Not the, “hey it’s too hot out, let’s go skinny-dipping at the local swimming hole” type of pond. It was more of the, “hey it’s too hot out, too cold out, just right out, let’s drink some beers and smash the bottles on the rocks in the water and run if you see the cops” kind of pond.
Somebody suggested trying out some of this marijuana stuff that Nancy Reagan was encouraging all the kids to smoke, by telling them not to smoke it. She was very adamant that children of all ages do at least 2 bong rips everyday before school, or not, even going so far as to D.A.R.E them to. I loves me a good dare. We figured it would behoove us to acquire some first-hand knowledge of the delicious epidemic facing the youth of the day, then we could help spread the word to other teenagers who hadn’t been fortunate enough to acquire a pinner for a finner from the neighborhood tough guy. While also appearing cooler and more mature than them. She was right, it was awesome. Good lookin’ out, ghost of Nancy Reagan.

After wandering around giggling in the woods for a while we decided that we should go watch a movie, so we wound up at the local video store. For any of you who are too young to remember, video stores were establishments which dealt in the sale and/or renting of video tapes. A videotape was designed to be played in a Video Cassette Recorder, or VCR. A video cassette recorder or VCR was a machine designed to eat video tapes. A videotape cost approximately one million American dollars.

So there we were, standing in the 12′ x 12′ room that was known as Hometown Video faced with a serious dilemma: What movie should we rent? That was the question. The very same question teenagers have pondered since first emerging from Gods vagina.

Better Off Dead? Cheech and Chong’s Next Movie? Kentucky Fried Movie? ? Caddyshack ? This is Spinal Tap? The Outsiders? C’mon guys, let’s get The Outsiders! We’re total outsiders ourselves, look at us, all high and shit, wearing jean jackets and what not!…. I got dibs on Ponyboy….No way, I wanna be Ponyboy….Too late I already called it. Besides dude, you’re a total Soc! …..Ooooh, faced!!! Cue uncontrollable laughter and high-fiving… We bantered good-naturedly as boys were prone to do back in the day. Not like today where every Johnny on the block has a switch blade tucked in their Uggs and a set of brass knuckles or a blackjack in the glove compartment of the Mini-Cooper they borrowed from their stepmother, out cruisin’ for bruisin’s.

Then we saw it on the shelf. It was called Faces Of Death and it billed itself as 2 hours of real video footage of actual deaths, compiled for your enjoyment. Holy shit, we need to rent this!! Wait a minute, they have Faces of Death II and Faces of Death III here too. Let’s rent them all and watch them consecutively….What’s consecutively mean?…In a row….Why can’t you just say in a row, why you gotta get all wordy on us for, you fucking show off?… Linguistics are my passion….Fuck you, Sodapop.

We haggled with the proprietor for 15 minutes about letting us rent the FOD (not Funny or Die) trilogy because none of us was 18 yet. He wasn’t about to contribute to the delinquency of a minor, and risk losing his license to rent videos, if that is actually a thing that could happen. But he finally relented when we gave him some weed. It truly does make the world go ’round. We left the video store and went to my house filled with youthful enthusiasm for the marathon of death we were about to embark on. It was gonna be sweet.

But it wasn’t sweet at all, it was fucking horrible. I sat through six plus hours of death. Suicide, Homicide, Car Crashes, Guy On Fire, Elephant Tramples Midget, etc. All set to a creepy upbeat soundtrack, or at least that’s how I remember it. After an hour I didn’t want to watch anymore but we did just spend six whole dollars renting them, so watch I did. By the end of the last tape I was not the same adorable boy who started this journey. I had grown into an adorable man. I also had trouble sleeping and was semi-nauseous for a couple of weeks, while still retaining a high level of adorableness. The trauma of this experience follows me to this day. I still can’t go into a restaurant, order a live monkey, bash its head in with a mallet and eat his brain without cringing just a little bit.

We all miss you, Ralph Macchio

In retrospect, I wish we had just rented The Outsiders again. We should have done it for Johnny.

Because he sure as shit would have done it for us.

Posted by Bill McMorrow on April 5, 2012 in Comedy, Humor, Movies, Television and tagged 1980s, childhood, Comedy, Growing up, Humor, humour, I learned it by watching you!, Life Lessons, mature, memories, Nancy Reagan, New England, Videocassette recorder.