I didn’t think things could get much worse than the day my mother told me I wasn’t allowed to watch The Boondock Saints. My uncle, her twin brother, was visiting and brought the DVD with him. Whenever he came to visit, my older brother and I were treated to something more obscene and eccentric than our mother would typically allow. We were introduced to such cartoon classics as Ren & Stimpy and Beavis & Butthead thanks to our uncle.
Saints just came out on DVD, so while it wasn’t technically age appropriate for my 15-year-old brother and my elder of three years, our mother thought it would be okay to watch as long as she was there. Of course she had not seen the movie yet and her brother didn’t tell her much except that it was an action movie set in Boston. Being from Massachusetts, my mother felt this was enough to warrant a trial run.
The movie starts off rather tamely with an opening fly-over of Boston and some of the more recognizable sites. The MacManus brothers start off at mass; how nice. The scenes quickly shift to become more crude and profane. Needless to say my mother was cringing throughout the first half hour of the movie, after which she decided enough was enough. I think it was after a couple Russians brought one of the brothers to his knees for an execution when she arrived at the conclusion that this was not just an action movie set in Boston and stopped the whole thing.
“Nooooope! We are not doing this!” I can remember her shouting with disdain and a hint of fear in her voice. My brother and I pleaded to continue the film as my uncle merely chuckled at the whole situation. My mother wasn’t hearing any of it though. “No way,” she said, “go upstairs and play a game or something. I’ll keep watching and if it’s okay then we can go back where you left off and start it up again. At this point I don’t think that’s likely.” That was it and I knew it.
While my brother and I were racing each other on Mario Kart 64 we could hear our mother shrieking and squealing downstairs, though it was nearly inaudible under the cackling of my uncle. It was a sound worse than my brother catching my lead with the Star power-up. It signaled the death of a dream. Or so I thought.
Later that night, after my parents went to sleep my uncle woke my brother and me. He snuck the DVD up to us and told us he would keep watch. Just because our mother wasn’t enthusiastic about a little profanity and gratuitous violence didn’t mean he would let us miss out.
That was our uncle. Always playing the martyr.