Watching Bart Simpson crank call Moe, messing with his head, brought back some silly childhood memories of being the same age and playing a similar sociopath phone game. I wasn’t as sophisticated in my crime or as clever as Bart, but I did my best.

Once The Banana Splits show – with “Danger Island,” live action and “Secret Squirrel and/or “Atom Ant” cartoons concluded – I would get bored and start dialing numbers, (with that slow rotating disc) always one digit different from our own so I could remember the victim for future harassment. I would go through the rotation until I found one with a person home and say something like:

“HEY YOU BALD-HEADED MOTHER FUCKER!”

Then I would hang up and laugh.  I would sit there and laugh all by myself.

The next day I would call the same injured party:

“HEY YOU BALD-HEADED MOTHER FUCKER!”

I had this one guy so uptight that he whined over the line:

“Why? Why? Why are you doing this?”

After about a weak he snapped and screamed back at me:

“QUIT CALLING HERE, YOU SONOFABITCH! I’LL RIP YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF! GODDAMN YOU! I’M CALLING THE POLICE!”

That made my whole body shake with glee and satisfaction and totally uncontrollable laughter. Just not sure why, so I called him back.

“HEY YOU BALD-HEADED MOTHER FUCKER!”

He really came unglued.

The next day there was no answer.

Perhaps he died, I thought.

Wow, man, did I kill him with all that stress? I didn’t think so. He probably had no one to talk to; no one but me. I was doing him a favor. I was reaching out to him. Besides, words can’t kill. It was society’s fault.

And I’m sure Bart would agree with that.