A Quick Ramble About The Brady Bunch
Yesterday’s post about the incidence of pubic lice aboard the USS Enterprise got me to thinking about classic television shows, and whenever that happens, my thoughts turn to the Brady Bunch. Of course it doesn’t take much to get me on a Brady Bunch roll, as anyone who was with me this weekend can attest. All I can say to that is look, I’m sorry I ruined your grandmother’s funeral, but in my defense she looked an awful lot like Alice, and all I did was ask her to make me a sandwich. And put a mop in her casket. And then take her out of there to reenact a couple of classic scenes. The point is, stop being such a gigantic baby about it, and come bail me out!
I actually remember the Brady Bunch being on prime time TV (which explains the incredibly dated references to Morey Amsterdam). ABC was making a big deal about the three part Hawaii episode, and my family sat down to watch it because it was the early 70’s, and there wasn’t shit to do. No internet, no computers, no video games, and cocaine and blowjobs weren’t going to be invented for another five years. If there was a test pattern on TV for 6 hours, you watched it. And if you couldn’t find anything that interesting, you watched the Brady Bunch.
Here’s the sum total of what I remember: Greg goes surfing, wipes out horribly, and apparently drowns. And I remember thinking to myself, “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” Even at the age of three, I thought the Brady Bunch was unbelievably cheesy, and if they were going to be pulling Greg’s waterlogged corpse from the ocean on prime time TV, that would’ve been a-ok with me. “If you ask me, the Brady boys need to grow a fucking nutsack between the three of them and go out and get laid! Now give me my teddy bear, I want to go night-night.”
Later, when the Brady Bunch went into syndication, I saw every single episode on WFLD, Channel 32 in Chicago, which was a television station dedicated to engendering a life-long hatred of the medium, a mission it accomplished by showing absolutely horrendous programming at all hours of the day. (It later took this idea to the extreme by becoming a FOX affiliate.)
It wasn’t until college, though, that my knowledge of the Brady’s became encyclopedic. My friends and I would get together at 4:00 PM, get really high, and watch the Brady Bunch, a twisted daily ritual that sometimes caught the attention of our resident advisor, who was ostensibly there to make sure that people didn’t do the sorts of things that we were doing.
Clint: Hey, guys, what are you doing in here?
Me: Getting high and watching the Brady Bunch.
Clint: You know, I am the resident advisor on this floor.
Me: Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners? You want some pot?
Clint: What? No! I mean you guys aren’t supposed to…
Me: Shhhh! Quiet! This is the best part of the episode! Alice burns the pot roast, and as punishment, Mr. Brady drags her in the back and packs her anal cavity full of carpenter ants.
Me: Rule number one in the Brady household: Do not burn the fucking pot roast.
Clint: You know what? I’m just going to leave.
Me: Good idea.
Sometimes, we’d turn off the sound, and overdub the entire episode ourselves with hilarious, if predictable results. (Little known Brady Bunch trivia from these episodes: Did you know that the word “felching” is used in the theme song no less than six times?)
Now I know what you’re thinking to yourself. You’re thinking, “But Greg, get to the fucking point! Did the Brady’s have crabs?” (The Discovery Channel has Shark Week, Dogs On Drugs has Crabs Week.)
Oh my God, the Brady’s had crabs like the 70’s had shag carpeting: All over the fucking place. Remember this heart warming scene?
All right, my work here is done. Please tune in tomorrow when I explain why George Jefferson walks that way. (Hint: It involves crabs.)
You admit to watching The Brady Bunch. No one admits to that. It’s odd then that everyone knows the reference “Marcia Marcia Marcia”.
EVERYONE has watched the Brady Bunch. You could travel to the remotest village in North Korea, and while they’d be puzzled by the fact that you wear shoes on your feet (shoes are for a-cookin’ in them parts), they’d know to a man that the Brady Bunch once vacationed at the Grand Canyon and ran into an Indian boy named Jimmy.
I’m glad we didn’t have to wait until the 90s for cocaine and blow jobs to be invented.
Indeed. We have Led Zeppelin to thank for inventing those things in 1975.