My friend Corbin has been trying to explain “Marging” to his son Brayden. But “Marging” is a difficult concept to convey. Braden simply cannot comprehend any attempts at explanation. And Corbin asked me to step in.

So, Brayden, this is for you. In fact, at the end of this post, I will present you with a gift. 

But first, we have to go all the way back to the 1980s…

In the 80s, your phone looked like this:

No buttons. It was a big ugly brick with a big ugly dial. No portability. It sat in your kitchen and when it rang you ran from wherever you were in the house to get to it. No caller ID. The only way to know who was calling was to pick it up and say hello.

And while in most ways your modern phones are way better, the old 80s phone had one advantage: it allowed for prank calls.

Prank calls were a regular part of life to a middle schooler in the 80s. You just picked up the phone and called a store, a neighbor, a random stranger—and said whatever stupid thing you wanted.

“Could I speak to Phil McCracken?”

“Do you have big meat on sale in your store?”

“I’m calling back about a request for penis enlargement surgery?”

People would get mad, or confused, or whatever… it was so much fun. As a teenager it was a regular part of your lifestyle.

So with that in mind, I now take you to SUNY Fredonia and my freshman year of college, 1989. And I will introduce you to our protagonist. Meet… The Desecrator.

His name was Jim Sorrenzio, an incoming freshman with me. At 18, Jim was already balding on top, but had long stringy hair that went to his shoulders and a Fu Manchu mustache. Jim wore a long green trench coat, black T-shirt, black jeans, huge black high-top sneakers. You could spot him across campus from 100 yards.

Jim smoked heavily, and he was cheap as hell, so he smoked generic discount cigarettes. He also drank black coffee all day long. So the combination of the cigarettes and coffee made him smell like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

Jim’s voice was equally distinct. It was gravely and deep, kind of a snarl. You could hear those generic cigarettes when you spoke. And he didn’t speak, he ranted. His sords came out rapidly and loudly, and every other one was a curse word.

“MY PHYSICS TEACHER! HE’S AN *******! I’D LIKE TO ******* KICK HIM IN THE ******* ****!”

He loved death metal. No, I’m not talking Iron Maiden and Metallica, that stuff was kids play. We’re talking King Diamond, Napalm Death, Prong—horrendous bands where the guitars sounded like power tools and the vocals were just guttural moans. Jim played that garbage loud – way way way too loud.

In fact, he even got himself a spot on the campus radio station. His radio handle? The Desecrator. And while you and I could not stand death metal, a large group of people did. Almost overnight The Desecrator’s Dungeon became not only the top show on the campus station, but one of the top shows in the entire Western New York region.

OK…so now let’s come back to prank calls. Because me and my freshman suitemates had a problem. We had our own prank caller, who was relentless.

The caller’s name was Candy. I think it was a guy, but Candy would speak in an effeminate voice and claim to be a girl. Candy would call all our rooms and tell us all the sexual things she was going to do to us. It was funny at first, but Candy called all the time for weeks. It got really annoying.

Enter, The Desecrator.

Jim was hanging out at our suite and Candy called.

“GIMME THAT ******* PHONE! I’M GONNA ******* TALK TO THAT *** ****!”

Then The Desecrator launched into a violent, expletive-filled tirade that lasted for an epic five minutes. When it was over, Candy hung up and never called again. 

You heard that right, Braden, Jim Sorrenzio had offended a prank caller.

So now that you’ve met the protagonist, let me introduce our antagonist: Your dad’s friend, Frank.

Frank was a freshman along with myself and The Desecrator. Frank lived a few suites over from me. And one day Frank decided he would prank call The Desecrator. Frank dialed Jim’s room and put on his best Simpsons voice (which was awful).

“HELLO.”

“Can I speak to Marge?”

“UH, YOU’VE GOT THE WRONG NUMBER.”

“Marge please”

“WHAT ARE YOU, ******* DEAF? THERE’S NO MARGE HERE”

“I’d like to speak to Marge.”

“TAKE YOUR ***** PHONE AND SHOVE IT IN YOUR **** ***, YOU ***** *****!!”

Boom. The desecrator launched into a tirade of fury and then slammed the phone down. Frank, of course, thought this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. The next day he called again

“Marge, please.”

“I’M GONNA ***** YOU WITH A RUSTY ***** AND STUFF IT IN YOUR ******!!”

Soon it wasn’t just Frank. Soon the whole suite was calling for Marge. Then the whole dorm. Then the entire student body.

It was comedy gold. The pure joy of having The Desecrator go absolutely ballistic was just seven digits away at all times. Marging became an overnight phenomenon in Fredonia—and it lasted all four years. And the best part is, he never stopped responding. If anything, his tirades got even angrier. God it was amazing. Throughout his college experience, Jim Sorrenzio got at least 100 calls a week. Multiple times a year he would have his number changed, but then he’d give his new number to a friend, who of course would give it to everyone else, and within days he was being Marged incessantly again.

After college, Jim lived in New Jersey, then North Carolina, then Seattle—and I know for a fact he continued to get Marged by Fredonia students. Hell, at this point no one even knew who he was—they just knew if you called this number and asked for Marge, the response was off the charts. It was only when caller ID went mainstream that The Desecrator’s nightmare finally ended.

However, fear not, dear Braden, for Marging did not die. Marging evolved. Frank would not be silenced.

Today when any of us get together, whoever is not in attendance can expect to be called—especially when alcohol is involved. On multiple occasions my phone has rung in the middle of the night, I’ve blurrily picked it up, and…

“Marge Marge Marge Marge Marge Marge Marge!”

Your father has been Marged on many occasions over the years, and has Marged people himself as well. It is a glorious tradition that honors The Desecrator and still makes Frank so so happy.

And now that you understand Marging, I take you forward in time. June of 2025! Myself, Frank, my son Jack, and a number of other guys got together in San Diego for a baseball weekend. We all had a blast, had some drinks, and started Marging. (Your father did not pick up when we called him.) However, using my son’s phone, we called my wife Shani. It was very late, but when your child calls you late at night, a mother always picks up.

“Jack is everything OK?” Shani answered, obviously waking from a deep sleep.

“Marge Marge Marge Marge Marge Marge Marge!”

“WHAT THE **** IS THE MATTER WITH YOU, YOU ******* ******!”

A response worthy of The Desecrator. As were the furious texts I received for the remainder of the time we were in San Diego. And while I didn’t like how angry my wife was at me, I still screen grabbed each text and sent it to Frank, who was giddy with glee.

And now, to conclude. Young Braden, I present you with a gift. The next time you and your friends are up late hanging out, take one of your phones, and call this number.

949-374-0703

Ask for Marge. I promise you won’t be disappointed.