Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Flower show makes a nice centerpiece
Every year I go to the Philadelphia International Flower Show. It’s the very least I can do. After all, The Blonde Accountant goes to Phillies games with me, so I try to return the favor by going with her to events that she favors. (For the record, the one event she won’t accompany me to is rasslin’ but if you know her, that is no real surprise.)
Right off the bat, we have a sentence that contains the words "favor" and "favors." That's bad. And then the parenthetical bit is pointless… "Hey, she doesn't like wrestling, but really, if you know her, you'll know she doesn't like wrestling." Well, we don't know her. And you just informed us, in the first part of the sentence, that she doesn't like wrestling. Come on, Morsch!
I usually end up enjoying the flower show for what it is — a flower show. What’s not to like? It’s visually pleasing and smells good (kind of like The Blonde Accountant now that I think about it.)
When you say you enjoy something "for what it is," it usually involves some kind of compromise, like just learning to grin and bear it. Basically, Morsch says, "I enjoy the flower show because it is a flower show. I actually like everything about flower shows." But only "USUALLY" - one assumes there are times when Morsch doesn't have a good time at the flower show, despite the fact that it looks and smells like his wife.
The only problem I ever have at the flower show is that the cement floor of the convention center plays seven kinds of hooey with my knees. But the convention center drinking fountains always seem to offer the coldest water, so that evens the score for me.
I don't know what surprises me more - that a grown man actually uses a drinking fountain, or that the simple act of walking on a cement floor seems to cause him pain.
The other aspect I like about the flower show is that beforehand we usually combine it with a stop at (Shameless Promotion Alert) Reading Terminal Market and then afterwards, we have dinner at (Another Shameless Promotion Alert) Maggiano’s.
The "Shameless Promotion Alert" seems to be an attempt at being funny, but I don't really think that merely mentioning a place you patronize is "Shameless." Does he own the Reading Terminal Market or Maggiano's? I could see it being more of a "shameless plug" then.
It’s not a ballgame, but the flower show makes a nice centerpiece for a trip into the big city. And it’s all wrapped up within a few blocks.
Do his Phillies comments count as unnecessary references to baseball?
I wonder what came first - the painfully lame pun (flower/centerpiece) title of the story, or this last sentence. I'm thinking he thought up the title first, and then wrote this last sentence in a painful attempt to "tie it all together." Regular Outta Leftfield readers will note that MM does this a lot.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Morsch Tells a Vague Story(ies)
Outta Feltfield: The magic of baseball cards continues well into adulthood
Published: Wednesday, February 24, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
It's a bad sign when the name of your own blog is misspelled. I assume that "Outta Feltfield" will include discussions on pool table coverings, etc. After leaving a comment in that vein, my comment was deleted and the spelling was corrected.
There has always been a little magic in baseball cards. They almost always remind me of a story that makes me smile.
I think Morsch just writes these and doesn't review them, because I would certainly correct two consecutive sentences that so clumsily use "always." And as we shall see, this story that brings a smile to the author's face is pretty hard to peg down.
Pitchers and catchers reported last week, which is the first sign for me that maybe all this snow won’t hang around forever. As a nod to the start of the new season, I decided I would buy my first pack of 2010 Topps baseball cards, kind of my own official kickoff ceremony.
I go way back with baseball cards. The first time I remember my dad buying me a pack of Topps cards was in 1964, and the first card I remember seeing was of Gus Triandos, who longtime Phillies fans will remember. It was a bit confusing for a 5-year-old because the card said “Phillies” on it but Gus was pictured wearing a Detroit Tigers hat. (He had been traded to the Phillies in December of 1963 and had not yet been pictured in a Phillies uniform when the baseball card was produced.)
So is this the story? His dad buying him a pack of Topps cards in 1964? Plus, two sentences of meaningless detail on the history of Gus Triandos.
And it’s a bit odd to think about more than 40 years later that the first card I remember was a Phillies player. I would have had no idea then as a lad growing up in the middle of Illinois that suburban Philadelphia would someday be my home and that the Phillies would someday be my team.
Wow. What an amazing coincidence. Did you know that "Kennedy" and "Lincoln" have the same number of letters?
The pack of cards cost a nickel, I think, and I got it at a little diner called “Ginny’s” in South Pekin, Ill., a town of about 1,000 people. That was where my dad was born and raised, and by 1964 he, a couple of his brothers and some of his other South Pekin cronies were playing what was called “town team” baseball. Many of the small towns in that area of Illinois had teams and every Sunday during the summer months we would be at one of those local ballparks, watching my dad play baseball. He was in his mid-30s at the time and still a pretty good ballplayer.
Okay, so… is this the same story he mentioned above - how he acquired his first pack of cards? And what the heck - nobody cares about the town of South Pekin, Ill.
After each game, our family would join other team members at a local watering hole or at Ginny’s diner. My folks weren’t drinkers, and even though the rules for 5-year-olds frequenting taverns in 1964 seemed to be a little more liberal than they are today, we’d usually end up at the diner for a cheeseburger.
… What? I'm confused… are they at Ginny's or at the "local watering hole" - or are they one in the same? To sum up (I think): people went to Ginny's or the watering hole; his parents didn't drink; kids could go in bars; they went to the diner. This paragraph is unnecessary.
Ginny’s had a glass case near the front door on which the cash register sat, and it just happened to be at the perfect eye level for a 5-year-old to peer in and look at all the candy, bubble gum and of course, the baseball cards. And that’s how I got started collecting baseball cards, with that first pack out of Ginny’s glass treasure case.
Keep that in mind: 1964 - "And that's how I got started."
Through the years, I don’t recall my dad ever collecting ballcards himself, although he certainly was aware how much joy they brought to his young son. I recall in 1971 — and I know it was 1971 because of the style of the Topps baseball cards from that year — that my dad provided me with a lifelong memory.
Alright - so is THIS the story that always brings a smile to his face? The 1971 lifelong memory story? And what the heck, is he claiming he can ID a baseball card by its year of issue, based on the style of said card?
Pop was an elementary school superintendent, as I have mentioned many times in this space. As such, he carried a briefcase, one of those hard-shelled ones. One day he came home from school and called me into the dining room, where he sat his briefcase up on the table. When he clicked open the latches and lifted the lid, the case revealed what appeared to me to be dozens of packs of unopened ballcards, lined up throughout the entire briefcase like stacks of $100 bills ready to be used as ransom money, just like in the movies. You can imagine how cool that was to a little kid.
I sat out on my front stoop and opened all those packs of 1971 Topps cards, complaining because I got seven Pete Rose cards. I was a Pirates fan then — 1971 became even bigger for me because the Pirates eventually won the World Series that year — and didn’t much care for Rose and the Cincinnati Reds. (Years later, in the mid-1980s, I packaged some of those extra 1971 Pete Rose cards into trade deals that got me a 1960 Mickey Mantle, a 1963 Sandy Koufax and a 1964 Willie Mays, so it turned out pretty good after all.)
To be honest, at this point I stopped reading. I felt like Steven Seagal confronting the naked cake girl in "Under Siege" - "What kind of babbling bull*&$# is this???"
I collected baseball cards off and on through the years, well into adulthood. And my mom was one of those moms who didn’t throw out all my old cards — we were a baseball family and mom would never have done that. So I have all those old cards from when I was a kid.
And that’s part of the history that prompted me to buy a box of 10 packs of Topps cards last week on the very day that pitchers and catchers reported. One attraction of this year’s Topps cards is that one in every six packs contains a redemption card, good for one original Topps card from a past year. You could get a 1957 Hank Aaron, a 1979 Bombo Rivera or last year’s Ryan Howard.
"And that's part of the history"… what is? He told two separate stories, each filled with paragraphs of inconsequential detail, all leading to… what? I don't understand this at all.
The first official card I laid eyes on this year was Angels shortstop Erick Aybar. The first Phillies player I got was Roy Halladay, although he is still pictured in a Toronto Blue Jays uniform.
I did get one redemption card and logged into the Topps Web site and typed in my code, to see what card I got. It was a card of a player named Bill Zepp, who had a cup of coffee as a pitcher for parts of three seasons with the Minnesota Twins and Detroit Tigers. It looks like he was around long enough to have his picture on only one year’s bubblegum card, the card that eventually will be mine.
From 1971. And the magic continues. How cool is that?
Um… what's from 1971? The Bill Zepp card? Because that's not cool. That's a crappy card to get stuck with.
Did he mean the suitcase full of cards he got from 1971? Because I thought he got his first cards in 1964 at Ginny's, when he stated "And that's how I got started collecting baseball cards."
Published: Wednesday, February 24, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
It's a bad sign when the name of your own blog is misspelled. I assume that "Outta Feltfield" will include discussions on pool table coverings, etc. After leaving a comment in that vein, my comment was deleted and the spelling was corrected.
There has always been a little magic in baseball cards. They almost always remind me of a story that makes me smile.
I think Morsch just writes these and doesn't review them, because I would certainly correct two consecutive sentences that so clumsily use "always." And as we shall see, this story that brings a smile to the author's face is pretty hard to peg down.
Pitchers and catchers reported last week, which is the first sign for me that maybe all this snow won’t hang around forever. As a nod to the start of the new season, I decided I would buy my first pack of 2010 Topps baseball cards, kind of my own official kickoff ceremony.
I go way back with baseball cards. The first time I remember my dad buying me a pack of Topps cards was in 1964, and the first card I remember seeing was of Gus Triandos, who longtime Phillies fans will remember. It was a bit confusing for a 5-year-old because the card said “Phillies” on it but Gus was pictured wearing a Detroit Tigers hat. (He had been traded to the Phillies in December of 1963 and had not yet been pictured in a Phillies uniform when the baseball card was produced.)
So is this the story? His dad buying him a pack of Topps cards in 1964? Plus, two sentences of meaningless detail on the history of Gus Triandos.
And it’s a bit odd to think about more than 40 years later that the first card I remember was a Phillies player. I would have had no idea then as a lad growing up in the middle of Illinois that suburban Philadelphia would someday be my home and that the Phillies would someday be my team.
Wow. What an amazing coincidence. Did you know that "Kennedy" and "Lincoln" have the same number of letters?
The pack of cards cost a nickel, I think, and I got it at a little diner called “Ginny’s” in South Pekin, Ill., a town of about 1,000 people. That was where my dad was born and raised, and by 1964 he, a couple of his brothers and some of his other South Pekin cronies were playing what was called “town team” baseball. Many of the small towns in that area of Illinois had teams and every Sunday during the summer months we would be at one of those local ballparks, watching my dad play baseball. He was in his mid-30s at the time and still a pretty good ballplayer.
Okay, so… is this the same story he mentioned above - how he acquired his first pack of cards? And what the heck - nobody cares about the town of South Pekin, Ill.
After each game, our family would join other team members at a local watering hole or at Ginny’s diner. My folks weren’t drinkers, and even though the rules for 5-year-olds frequenting taverns in 1964 seemed to be a little more liberal than they are today, we’d usually end up at the diner for a cheeseburger.
… What? I'm confused… are they at Ginny's or at the "local watering hole" - or are they one in the same? To sum up (I think): people went to Ginny's or the watering hole; his parents didn't drink; kids could go in bars; they went to the diner. This paragraph is unnecessary.
Ginny’s had a glass case near the front door on which the cash register sat, and it just happened to be at the perfect eye level for a 5-year-old to peer in and look at all the candy, bubble gum and of course, the baseball cards. And that’s how I got started collecting baseball cards, with that first pack out of Ginny’s glass treasure case.
Keep that in mind: 1964 - "And that's how I got started."
Through the years, I don’t recall my dad ever collecting ballcards himself, although he certainly was aware how much joy they brought to his young son. I recall in 1971 — and I know it was 1971 because of the style of the Topps baseball cards from that year — that my dad provided me with a lifelong memory.
Alright - so is THIS the story that always brings a smile to his face? The 1971 lifelong memory story? And what the heck, is he claiming he can ID a baseball card by its year of issue, based on the style of said card?
Pop was an elementary school superintendent, as I have mentioned many times in this space. As such, he carried a briefcase, one of those hard-shelled ones. One day he came home from school and called me into the dining room, where he sat his briefcase up on the table. When he clicked open the latches and lifted the lid, the case revealed what appeared to me to be dozens of packs of unopened ballcards, lined up throughout the entire briefcase like stacks of $100 bills ready to be used as ransom money, just like in the movies. You can imagine how cool that was to a little kid.
I sat out on my front stoop and opened all those packs of 1971 Topps cards, complaining because I got seven Pete Rose cards. I was a Pirates fan then — 1971 became even bigger for me because the Pirates eventually won the World Series that year — and didn’t much care for Rose and the Cincinnati Reds. (Years later, in the mid-1980s, I packaged some of those extra 1971 Pete Rose cards into trade deals that got me a 1960 Mickey Mantle, a 1963 Sandy Koufax and a 1964 Willie Mays, so it turned out pretty good after all.)
To be honest, at this point I stopped reading. I felt like Steven Seagal confronting the naked cake girl in "Under Siege" - "What kind of babbling bull*&$# is this???"
I collected baseball cards off and on through the years, well into adulthood. And my mom was one of those moms who didn’t throw out all my old cards — we were a baseball family and mom would never have done that. So I have all those old cards from when I was a kid.
And that’s part of the history that prompted me to buy a box of 10 packs of Topps cards last week on the very day that pitchers and catchers reported. One attraction of this year’s Topps cards is that one in every six packs contains a redemption card, good for one original Topps card from a past year. You could get a 1957 Hank Aaron, a 1979 Bombo Rivera or last year’s Ryan Howard.
"And that's part of the history"… what is? He told two separate stories, each filled with paragraphs of inconsequential detail, all leading to… what? I don't understand this at all.
The first official card I laid eyes on this year was Angels shortstop Erick Aybar. The first Phillies player I got was Roy Halladay, although he is still pictured in a Toronto Blue Jays uniform.
I did get one redemption card and logged into the Topps Web site and typed in my code, to see what card I got. It was a card of a player named Bill Zepp, who had a cup of coffee as a pitcher for parts of three seasons with the Minnesota Twins and Detroit Tigers. It looks like he was around long enough to have his picture on only one year’s bubblegum card, the card that eventually will be mine.
From 1971. And the magic continues. How cool is that?
Um… what's from 1971? The Bill Zepp card? Because that's not cool. That's a crappy card to get stuck with.
Did he mean the suitcase full of cards he got from 1971? Because I thought he got his first cards in 1964 at Ginny's, when he stated "And that's how I got started collecting baseball cards."
In Lileks World...
You know that scene in "American Beauty" when Kevin Spacey reflects on the plastic bag blowing in the wind? That's Lileks World. It's a world full of stale old cliches - Innocent-Yet-Wise Children, Loyal Dogs, Near-Mystic Old Folks - that take on new "significance" because none other than James Lileks is pontificating about them.
A blog from March 29th about an abandoned Howard Johnson's in Cleveland is a perfect example. Let's count the tired old boilerplate, shall we?
We’re used to dead motels, but dead high-rise hotels are something else. This has the look of something from “The Road,” with its apocalyptic sky and forbidding sense of abandonment and dread: what horrible thing could have happened here to make this place die?
The terrible economy? Better, cheaper hotel options? Movies aren't real, Jimmy; they're just make-believe.
Just knowing it was a HoJo builds all sorts of backstory into the place – the brochure with mutton-chop’d men enjoying fried clams in a restaurant with the family, little Johnny and Suzie making snaggle-toothed grins of glee over bowls of ice cream; the picture of the swank lounge, everyone swaddled in dim light and whiskey hues, perhaps an out-of-focus couple dancing in the background. The crisp sheets, the toilet sanitized for your protection and no one else’s...
The true mystery of Lileks is that he is a cliche who talks about cliches. "Johnny and Suzie"? This is being self-consciously generic. What's with the "and no one else's" - is that so profound I'm not getting why it was included?
The reality: businessmen in brown polyester, with a few strands of hair plastered over his bald pate, Harry Mudd’s accountant brother, checking in, taking the elevator up, opening the room, smelling the smell of soap and legacy cigarettes and bleach, testing the bed, opening the window and looking out: that’s always what you do when you get the room.
Ah, "the reality." This perfectly illustrates the fractured nature of Lileks World. On the one side is the sunny, happy, nostalgic past that he so desperately yearns for, but beneath it is an equally fictional "real" world full of Mad Men-style depression, emptiness, cigarettes and dust.
You go as far as you can and you look out the window and you crack the window and light a cigarette.
Yep, that's right - it's "the REAL past," so everyone smokes. EVERYONE. If you don't smoke you're some kind of secret queer. Plus this sentence looks like it was lifted straight out of Ernest Hemingway.
Well, here we are. Cleveland for God’s sake. Then you turn around and look for something, anything, that’s different, but nothing ever is. There’s art where there’s supposed to be art and there’s a desk where there’s supposed to be a desk and there’s a bathroom and a big mirror, and the guy in the mirror never seems entirely happy to see you here, does he?
This is meaningless. Who thinks like this? It's even worse because the creator of this world, James Lileks, was never a traveling salesman in the 1960's. He's a boring newspaperman/blogger in the 2000's. This is stuff he's dredged up from movies and Dashiell Hammett novels.
You sit on the bed and turn on the TV, and if it’s the seventies you lean over and turn the channels yourself, chunk chunk chunk chunk. There’s always something in the two-to-four range. Never had a room where there was a two and a three. Never had a three, come to think of it.
I love how he says "you," as though we can all picture ourselves in this shadowy re-enactment of the past.
Seven hours later with a belly full of steak and Chivas you return to the room and fumble with the TV – hey, it’s Carson. Crap, the monologue’s over. Wobby-aimed pee, brush and a gargle, bed – oh, crap. Wake up. One day these places will have alarm clocks. You call the front desk, and it’s that guy who watched you when you came out of the lounge and said “good night, sir,” and you try not to slur a request for seven.
Wow, JOHNNY CARSON! Unfortunately not every night of Carson was worthy of inclusion on those "Best of Carson" DVD's. But in Lileks World, he's at his most hilarious every night. And really, who HASN'T gotten stumbling drunk while you're staying alone at a hotel on a business trip? Show of hands.
You wake and leave and never go back. The little room in the sky where all this happened is gone now; they demolished the building, and no one will probably ever stand in that precise spot by the window and smoke a cigarette and think: Cleveland.
I think I'm going to cry. So he starts out dreaming of that idyllic past from the Howard Johnson's brochure, then gleefully tears it down to present that terrible image of the lonely traveler taking a wobbly pee in his bathroom with the big mirror. And... now we're supposed to be sad that the scene won't be repeated, over and over again, throughout eternity?
This is a man who, deep down, hates his life, or hates SOMETHING.
A blog from March 29th about an abandoned Howard Johnson's in Cleveland is a perfect example. Let's count the tired old boilerplate, shall we?
We’re used to dead motels, but dead high-rise hotels are something else. This has the look of something from “The Road,” with its apocalyptic sky and forbidding sense of abandonment and dread: what horrible thing could have happened here to make this place die?
The terrible economy? Better, cheaper hotel options? Movies aren't real, Jimmy; they're just make-believe.
Just knowing it was a HoJo builds all sorts of backstory into the place – the brochure with mutton-chop’d men enjoying fried clams in a restaurant with the family, little Johnny and Suzie making snaggle-toothed grins of glee over bowls of ice cream; the picture of the swank lounge, everyone swaddled in dim light and whiskey hues, perhaps an out-of-focus couple dancing in the background. The crisp sheets, the toilet sanitized for your protection and no one else’s...
The true mystery of Lileks is that he is a cliche who talks about cliches. "Johnny and Suzie"? This is being self-consciously generic. What's with the "and no one else's" - is that so profound I'm not getting why it was included?
The reality: businessmen in brown polyester, with a few strands of hair plastered over his bald pate, Harry Mudd’s accountant brother, checking in, taking the elevator up, opening the room, smelling the smell of soap and legacy cigarettes and bleach, testing the bed, opening the window and looking out: that’s always what you do when you get the room.
Ah, "the reality." This perfectly illustrates the fractured nature of Lileks World. On the one side is the sunny, happy, nostalgic past that he so desperately yearns for, but beneath it is an equally fictional "real" world full of Mad Men-style depression, emptiness, cigarettes and dust.
You go as far as you can and you look out the window and you crack the window and light a cigarette.
Yep, that's right - it's "the REAL past," so everyone smokes. EVERYONE. If you don't smoke you're some kind of secret queer. Plus this sentence looks like it was lifted straight out of Ernest Hemingway.
Well, here we are. Cleveland for God’s sake. Then you turn around and look for something, anything, that’s different, but nothing ever is. There’s art where there’s supposed to be art and there’s a desk where there’s supposed to be a desk and there’s a bathroom and a big mirror, and the guy in the mirror never seems entirely happy to see you here, does he?
This is meaningless. Who thinks like this? It's even worse because the creator of this world, James Lileks, was never a traveling salesman in the 1960's. He's a boring newspaperman/blogger in the 2000's. This is stuff he's dredged up from movies and Dashiell Hammett novels.
You sit on the bed and turn on the TV, and if it’s the seventies you lean over and turn the channels yourself, chunk chunk chunk chunk. There’s always something in the two-to-four range. Never had a room where there was a two and a three. Never had a three, come to think of it.
I love how he says "you," as though we can all picture ourselves in this shadowy re-enactment of the past.
Seven hours later with a belly full of steak and Chivas you return to the room and fumble with the TV – hey, it’s Carson. Crap, the monologue’s over. Wobby-aimed pee, brush and a gargle, bed – oh, crap. Wake up. One day these places will have alarm clocks. You call the front desk, and it’s that guy who watched you when you came out of the lounge and said “good night, sir,” and you try not to slur a request for seven.
Wow, JOHNNY CARSON! Unfortunately not every night of Carson was worthy of inclusion on those "Best of Carson" DVD's. But in Lileks World, he's at his most hilarious every night. And really, who HASN'T gotten stumbling drunk while you're staying alone at a hotel on a business trip? Show of hands.
You wake and leave and never go back. The little room in the sky where all this happened is gone now; they demolished the building, and no one will probably ever stand in that precise spot by the window and smoke a cigarette and think: Cleveland.
I think I'm going to cry. So he starts out dreaming of that idyllic past from the Howard Johnson's brochure, then gleefully tears it down to present that terrible image of the lonely traveler taking a wobbly pee in his bathroom with the big mirror. And... now we're supposed to be sad that the scene won't be repeated, over and over again, throughout eternity?
This is a man who, deep down, hates his life, or hates SOMETHING.
Running Out of Material?
Outta Leftfield: Hot-diggity-dog! Phillies expand the feedbag for upcoming season
In this 3/31 print column, Morsch seems to be covering old ground. Can we really stomach two hotdog articles in the span of two days? Actually, that might be a better pun than the "hot-diggity-dog" that MM settled on.
There really isn't much to cover here. MM attended a media event at Citizen's Bank Park to help them select their new "signature" hotdog for Phillies games. A few highlights:
All the big club has to do is offer a free meal — in the name of good journalism of course — and there’s not a reporter in Southeastern Pennsylvania who wouldn’t show up for the feedbag.
Me included.
Wow, so after stating that there isn't a reporter in the whole region (of which he is one) who wouldn't go, Morsch feels the need to add: "Me included." As usual, that goes without saying.
Now as a big fan of ballpark fare — I am especially partial to much of what is served at Bull’s Barbecue; the Schmitter; the cheesesteaks at Tony Luke’s; and despite the sometimes long lines, I enjoy the Chickie’s and Pete’s crab fries — I am particularly fond of hotdogs in general.
He just named "much of" the food at every eatery in Citizen's Bank Park.
You may recall from past columns that back in our younger days in Illinois, Larry and I would go to the ballpark in St. Louis and buy three seats — one for him, one for me and one between the two of us to put all the hotdogs we were going to eat during the ballgame. So he knows good hotdog player evaluation practices when he sees them.
WHAT? "Good hotdog player evaluation practices"? At this point I'm completely lost. And I don't recall him every mentioning Larry from Illinois before.
MM then describes the hotdog choices in terrible, terrible detail, and notes:
Notice how the descriptions all included the words “all-beef Hatfield hotdogs” in them. The public relations professionals at food vendor Aramark did their job on that press release, huh?
If by "did their job" you mean accurately describing what the hotdogs are made of, then you are correct, Mr. Morsch. You might try "doing your job" sometime by including some actual humor in your column.
In addition, I had difficulty keeping the dog on the pretzel roll. I like my pretzels just the way they are, thank you, so I can tear off bits and dunk them in mustard or cheese, like a guy who’s looking for a real heart attack.
Clumsy, fat, dripping mustard and cheese all over himself… the Blonde Accountant has my sympathy.
And finally, I took the opportunity to spill something from each hotdog on my shirt — which from experience I know happens every time a get a hotdog at the ballpark — and I thought the Amish pepper hash spillage coordinated best with my ballpark attire.
I didn't even read this before I wrote "dripping mustard and cheese all over himself." The "every time a get a hotdog" is [sic], of course.
In this 3/31 print column, Morsch seems to be covering old ground. Can we really stomach two hotdog articles in the span of two days? Actually, that might be a better pun than the "hot-diggity-dog" that MM settled on.
There really isn't much to cover here. MM attended a media event at Citizen's Bank Park to help them select their new "signature" hotdog for Phillies games. A few highlights:
All the big club has to do is offer a free meal — in the name of good journalism of course — and there’s not a reporter in Southeastern Pennsylvania who wouldn’t show up for the feedbag.
Me included.
Wow, so after stating that there isn't a reporter in the whole region (of which he is one) who wouldn't go, Morsch feels the need to add: "Me included." As usual, that goes without saying.
Now as a big fan of ballpark fare — I am especially partial to much of what is served at Bull’s Barbecue; the Schmitter; the cheesesteaks at Tony Luke’s; and despite the sometimes long lines, I enjoy the Chickie’s and Pete’s crab fries — I am particularly fond of hotdogs in general.
He just named "much of" the food at every eatery in Citizen's Bank Park.
You may recall from past columns that back in our younger days in Illinois, Larry and I would go to the ballpark in St. Louis and buy three seats — one for him, one for me and one between the two of us to put all the hotdogs we were going to eat during the ballgame. So he knows good hotdog player evaluation practices when he sees them.
WHAT? "Good hotdog player evaluation practices"? At this point I'm completely lost. And I don't recall him every mentioning Larry from Illinois before.
MM then describes the hotdog choices in terrible, terrible detail, and notes:
Notice how the descriptions all included the words “all-beef Hatfield hotdogs” in them. The public relations professionals at food vendor Aramark did their job on that press release, huh?
If by "did their job" you mean accurately describing what the hotdogs are made of, then you are correct, Mr. Morsch. You might try "doing your job" sometime by including some actual humor in your column.
In addition, I had difficulty keeping the dog on the pretzel roll. I like my pretzels just the way they are, thank you, so I can tear off bits and dunk them in mustard or cheese, like a guy who’s looking for a real heart attack.
Clumsy, fat, dripping mustard and cheese all over himself… the Blonde Accountant has my sympathy.
And finally, I took the opportunity to spill something from each hotdog on my shirt — which from experience I know happens every time a get a hotdog at the ballpark — and I thought the Amish pepper hash spillage coordinated best with my ballpark attire.
I didn't even read this before I wrote "dripping mustard and cheese all over himself." The "every time a get a hotdog" is [sic], of course.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Enter Mr. Lileks
Everyone knows who James Lileks is, right? Well for those of you who don't... here he is!
I felt that would be a good way to bring you into the world of Lileks, because that's his style - he rattles off meaningless details in a quick, wry manner, tries to make them seem profound, and makes a few stabs at humor. Here's the transcript, in case you couldn't keep up:
And generally I'm used to a diner that has the long boomerang pattern formica counter, but this'll do.
You just know he thinks he's a genius for being able to rattle off details and brand names so fast. So erudite! He's practically the second coming of Don DeLillo. And note "but this'll do," which usually indicates that, although you're not entirely pleased, you're perhaps somewhat satisfied.
This'll do even better.
... Oh. "This isn't what I like, but it's okay. It's SO okay, actually, that it's superior!"
It's got all the basics. It actually has the little ridges of metal here. It's got the seats you can spin around and make yourself dizzy.
Metal ridges! Spinning seats! Please find a diner not featuring these items. Anywhere.
It's got coffee that'll spin you around and make you dizzy if you drink enough of it.
Lileks looks at life like a 1960's movie. "Coffee's strong today, Mabel! Good thing I've got my Camels to take the edge off."
Heaps of food to come - hash browns, English muffins, mounds of eggs with sausage. This is perfect.
Wait a minute - a DINER that serves FOOD??? He has truly stumbled onto something here.
I have fallen in love with Denver pretty much, from the start when I got here, but coming to Sam's #3 has cinched the deal. If it weren't for Minneapolis, this is the place where I'd go, this is the place where I'd write, this is the place where I might even broadcast if they didn't kick me out for running a competing, fictional diner while they were trying to carry on with the business of doing the real thing.
Brevity is the soul of wit, Polonius.
If you got the impression from his meaningless rant that Lileks is a self-important windbag who styles himself a master of all things obscure and cultural, you'd be right.
I felt that would be a good way to bring you into the world of Lileks, because that's his style - he rattles off meaningless details in a quick, wry manner, tries to make them seem profound, and makes a few stabs at humor. Here's the transcript, in case you couldn't keep up:
And generally I'm used to a diner that has the long boomerang pattern formica counter, but this'll do.
You just know he thinks he's a genius for being able to rattle off details and brand names so fast. So erudite! He's practically the second coming of Don DeLillo. And note "but this'll do," which usually indicates that, although you're not entirely pleased, you're perhaps somewhat satisfied.
This'll do even better.
... Oh. "This isn't what I like, but it's okay. It's SO okay, actually, that it's superior!"
It's got all the basics. It actually has the little ridges of metal here. It's got the seats you can spin around and make yourself dizzy.
Metal ridges! Spinning seats! Please find a diner not featuring these items. Anywhere.
It's got coffee that'll spin you around and make you dizzy if you drink enough of it.
Lileks looks at life like a 1960's movie. "Coffee's strong today, Mabel! Good thing I've got my Camels to take the edge off."
Heaps of food to come - hash browns, English muffins, mounds of eggs with sausage. This is perfect.
Wait a minute - a DINER that serves FOOD??? He has truly stumbled onto something here.
I have fallen in love with Denver pretty much, from the start when I got here, but coming to Sam's #3 has cinched the deal. If it weren't for Minneapolis, this is the place where I'd go, this is the place where I'd write, this is the place where I might even broadcast if they didn't kick me out for running a competing, fictional diner while they were trying to carry on with the business of doing the real thing.
Brevity is the soul of wit, Polonius.
If you got the impression from his meaningless rant that Lileks is a self-important windbag who styles himself a master of all things obscure and cultural, you'd be right.
Monday, March 29, 2010
A New Era in Comedy
Outta Leftfield: Scratchy beard could make necking a little hairy on Valentine’s Day
Published: Friday, February 19, 2010
You can imagine the entire column, can't you? MM has stumbled upon the revolutionary idea that beards are scratchy! That's basically it.
But if you think I’m splitting hairs, then maybe I just won’t stick my neck out on this issue.
It ends as it began. My comment, posing under the clever name of "Bic Morrow":
For every Seinfeld that was discovered, I think there are a million who just haven't been recognized yet. People think it's easy to discover these oft-seen but seldom-illuminated slices of everyday life. But it's NOT. I mean, itchy beards? Bald guys with hairy bodies? You can't make this stuff up! It's gold, Jerry. Gold.
Published: Friday, February 19, 2010
You can imagine the entire column, can't you? MM has stumbled upon the revolutionary idea that beards are scratchy! That's basically it.
But if you think I’m splitting hairs, then maybe I just won’t stick my neck out on this issue.
It ends as it began. My comment, posing under the clever name of "Bic Morrow":
For every Seinfeld that was discovered, I think there are a million who just haven't been recognized yet. People think it's easy to discover these oft-seen but seldom-illuminated slices of everyday life. But it's NOT. I mean, itchy beards? Bald guys with hairy bodies? You can't make this stuff up! It's gold, Jerry. Gold.
Morsch's Greatest Hit
This is undoubtedly the most commented-on entry in the entire history of Outta Leftfield. Two of the comments are mine.
Outta Leftfield: You need to bulk up on patience if you’re going to shop at Costco
Published: Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Get it?
There are three things that I can count on virtually every single time I go to the grocery store: (1) I will not be able to find a parking spot within two miles of the front door; (2) I will choose a cart that has a bad wheel; (3) When it is time to check out, I will get into the slowest checkout line in the history of grocery stores.
Bad parking! Carts with bad wheels! Slow checkout lines! Where does he come UP with this stuff??? Sometimes I wonder whether, instead of being a humor column, this is some kind of post-modern commentary on bad humor columns.
Knowing this, I still go to the grocery store because, well, that’s where a lot of the food and bathroom tissue can be found. I usually need a lot of both.
Paging Archie Bunker! You've got competition in the "fat guy who goes to the bathroom" department!
There is a place, though, that compounds my usual difficulties in this area: Costco. The place is like Texas. Everything is bigger. So given the aforementioned problems, those of you who frequent this Genuardi’s on steroids probably can surmise three things about my infrequent visits to Costco: (1) that I will not be able to find a parking spot within eight miles of the front door and will in fact need to take a bus just to get to the dadgummed place; (2) that I will choose a dump truck in which to carry my items that has at least one bad wheel; (3) that when it comes time to check out, I will need to take vacation time away from work because I will be standing in line from now until next Wednesday.
It appears as though MM's usual difficulties with the English language are also increased by Costco. His standard run-on sentences have ballooned into a mighty Mississippi of compositional butchery.
It’s always an adventure at Costco. The place is usually packed, which makes negotiating the aisles with a three-wheeled cart, uh … challenging. It reminds me of going to the county fair when I was a kid and watching the demolition derby — all kinds of drivers going all kinds of directions bashing into each other like their undershorts were on fire and the other car was carrying a bucket of water. (This is not in any way a reference to the Underwear Bomber because I don’t need the Idiot Terrorists Anti-Defamation League starting a petition drive to get you to cancel your subscription because I have offended one of its members.)
To go from "undershorts" to the Underwear Bomber... what kind of a brain makes that leap? I'm pretty sure that nobody, ever, would make that connection.
The other thing about Costco is that, as you know, it’s a bulk item store. One can’t just buy one bottle of ketchup. Everything is measured in kegs: a keg of potato chips, a keg of peanuts, a keg of paper towels, a keg of mouthwash — although in my particular situation, a case could be made for buying mouthwash by the keg.
Something tells me a keg of potato chips wouldn't be much of a problem for MM. And for the record, this is just the first of many references to his purportedly horrendous breath.
The only thing I can’t find there is a keg of beer, but it’s a big place and the possibility exists that I haven’t found it yet because I’m out of vacation days at work and just haven’t had the time for a thorough search of the premises.
And the twisting, tortured sentences continue. Please also note that this will not be the last time MM sings the praises of beer.
Of course, a store that big has everything. Why, if I had wanted to, I could have bought The Blonde Accountant a diamond engagement ring from Costco. Now it may be that Costco carries fine jewelry, but I wouldn’t know it. What I do know, however, is how that conversation would go had any guy come home from a trip to Costco toting a diamond ring and a marriage proposal.
The Blonde Accountant seems to be his code-named wife. Also, what? Here is the evolution of this "joke" thus far:
1.) MM jokes that Costco carries jewelry.
2.) He admits that maybe Costco does carry jewelry... but maybe not.
3.) He continues to craft an entire "comical" scenario based on this rather murky jewelry concept.
Well Intentioned Guy: “Hey honey, look what I found. Would you marry me?”
Female Jewelry Expert: “Oh, it’s a beautiful ring. Where did you get it?”
WIG: “Aisle 7 at Costco.”
FJE: “You’re an idiot.”
WIG: “Uh, I will need to inform my friends at the Idiot Terrorists Anti-Defamation League of your insult. Does this mean you’re not going to marry me?”
FJE: “Oh, just be quiet and go back to Costco and get a 30-pack of bathroom tissue, will you.”
Direct from an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond to your local newspaper. And BONUS! We get a callback to the "undershorts/Underwear Bomber" joke, which in retrospect was much funnier than this is.
There’s a fun story to tell the kids, huh? I remember the day I got your mother’s engagement ring at Costco. It was the same day I had a coupon for bathroom tissue.
Joke... wearing... painfully... thin... And we've got our second toilet paper reference.
I will say this, though, about Costco: It will at least feed you while you’re hiking around its warehouse. I love those little stands set up at the end of some aisles that serve up bites of whatever food products the store is pushing that day. Why, those customers who are in pretty decent shape that can make two or three trips around the entire store can get the equivalent of a fairly decent lunch.
In general, I try to avoid the place. However, the advantage of Costco — bulk buying — also becomes the disadvantage quite quickly. The cart fills up with heavy bulk items and then becomes difficult to negotiate. Since I am generally considered the muscle in my family, it falls to me to navigate the overloaded three-wheeler for the right to stand in line for three days to check out.
Um, usually a "however" is followed by an idea that differs from the previous one. Here he says, "I don't like Costco. However, there are also things I don't like about Costco."
And just once, I’d like to find a decent parking spot close to the door. After shopping at that place with all the challenges that it brings, I really have little patience left for the eight-mile bus ride, especially toting groceries that haven’t been bagged.
I always forget the bags.
And finis! Way to leave them with a big laugh, MM. Someone named George Luken actually commented on this story, defending Costco from MM's rapier wit and Swiftian satire. I couldn't resist responding:
A very passionate defense of Costco! Could it be because Mr. George Luken is in fact Jim Sinegal, the PRESIDENT AND CEO OF COSTCO??? Seems like you have the attention of some real 90-caliber pezzonovante here, Mr. Morsch... keep speaking truth to power!
Some dope named Steve then said:
Yeah, I'm sure the CEO of Costco has nothing better to do than scour tiny weekly newspapers across the country looking for any mentions of his company.
To which I replied:
Well spoken Steve, a.k.a. Jeffrey Brotman, CO-FOUNDER OF COSTCO! I'm not sure what your current involvement with the company is, Mr. Brotman, but don't you think the earthquake victims in Haiti are more deserving of your attention than indulging in petty conspiracies with your corporate confederate? Don't back down, Mr. Morsch - they're coming out of the woodwork now!
Outta Leftfield: You need to bulk up on patience if you’re going to shop at Costco
Published: Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Get it?
There are three things that I can count on virtually every single time I go to the grocery store: (1) I will not be able to find a parking spot within two miles of the front door; (2) I will choose a cart that has a bad wheel; (3) When it is time to check out, I will get into the slowest checkout line in the history of grocery stores.
Bad parking! Carts with bad wheels! Slow checkout lines! Where does he come UP with this stuff??? Sometimes I wonder whether, instead of being a humor column, this is some kind of post-modern commentary on bad humor columns.
Knowing this, I still go to the grocery store because, well, that’s where a lot of the food and bathroom tissue can be found. I usually need a lot of both.
Paging Archie Bunker! You've got competition in the "fat guy who goes to the bathroom" department!
There is a place, though, that compounds my usual difficulties in this area: Costco. The place is like Texas. Everything is bigger. So given the aforementioned problems, those of you who frequent this Genuardi’s on steroids probably can surmise three things about my infrequent visits to Costco: (1) that I will not be able to find a parking spot within eight miles of the front door and will in fact need to take a bus just to get to the dadgummed place; (2) that I will choose a dump truck in which to carry my items that has at least one bad wheel; (3) that when it comes time to check out, I will need to take vacation time away from work because I will be standing in line from now until next Wednesday.
It appears as though MM's usual difficulties with the English language are also increased by Costco. His standard run-on sentences have ballooned into a mighty Mississippi of compositional butchery.
It’s always an adventure at Costco. The place is usually packed, which makes negotiating the aisles with a three-wheeled cart, uh … challenging. It reminds me of going to the county fair when I was a kid and watching the demolition derby — all kinds of drivers going all kinds of directions bashing into each other like their undershorts were on fire and the other car was carrying a bucket of water. (This is not in any way a reference to the Underwear Bomber because I don’t need the Idiot Terrorists Anti-Defamation League starting a petition drive to get you to cancel your subscription because I have offended one of its members.)
To go from "undershorts" to the Underwear Bomber... what kind of a brain makes that leap? I'm pretty sure that nobody, ever, would make that connection.
The other thing about Costco is that, as you know, it’s a bulk item store. One can’t just buy one bottle of ketchup. Everything is measured in kegs: a keg of potato chips, a keg of peanuts, a keg of paper towels, a keg of mouthwash — although in my particular situation, a case could be made for buying mouthwash by the keg.
Something tells me a keg of potato chips wouldn't be much of a problem for MM. And for the record, this is just the first of many references to his purportedly horrendous breath.
The only thing I can’t find there is a keg of beer, but it’s a big place and the possibility exists that I haven’t found it yet because I’m out of vacation days at work and just haven’t had the time for a thorough search of the premises.
And the twisting, tortured sentences continue. Please also note that this will not be the last time MM sings the praises of beer.
Of course, a store that big has everything. Why, if I had wanted to, I could have bought The Blonde Accountant a diamond engagement ring from Costco. Now it may be that Costco carries fine jewelry, but I wouldn’t know it. What I do know, however, is how that conversation would go had any guy come home from a trip to Costco toting a diamond ring and a marriage proposal.
The Blonde Accountant seems to be his code-named wife. Also, what? Here is the evolution of this "joke" thus far:
1.) MM jokes that Costco carries jewelry.
2.) He admits that maybe Costco does carry jewelry... but maybe not.
3.) He continues to craft an entire "comical" scenario based on this rather murky jewelry concept.
Well Intentioned Guy: “Hey honey, look what I found. Would you marry me?”
Female Jewelry Expert: “Oh, it’s a beautiful ring. Where did you get it?”
WIG: “Aisle 7 at Costco.”
FJE: “You’re an idiot.”
WIG: “Uh, I will need to inform my friends at the Idiot Terrorists Anti-Defamation League of your insult. Does this mean you’re not going to marry me?”
FJE: “Oh, just be quiet and go back to Costco and get a 30-pack of bathroom tissue, will you.”
Direct from an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond to your local newspaper. And BONUS! We get a callback to the "undershorts/Underwear Bomber" joke, which in retrospect was much funnier than this is.
There’s a fun story to tell the kids, huh? I remember the day I got your mother’s engagement ring at Costco. It was the same day I had a coupon for bathroom tissue.
Joke... wearing... painfully... thin... And we've got our second toilet paper reference.
I will say this, though, about Costco: It will at least feed you while you’re hiking around its warehouse. I love those little stands set up at the end of some aisles that serve up bites of whatever food products the store is pushing that day. Why, those customers who are in pretty decent shape that can make two or three trips around the entire store can get the equivalent of a fairly decent lunch.
In general, I try to avoid the place. However, the advantage of Costco — bulk buying — also becomes the disadvantage quite quickly. The cart fills up with heavy bulk items and then becomes difficult to negotiate. Since I am generally considered the muscle in my family, it falls to me to navigate the overloaded three-wheeler for the right to stand in line for three days to check out.
Um, usually a "however" is followed by an idea that differs from the previous one. Here he says, "I don't like Costco. However, there are also things I don't like about Costco."
And just once, I’d like to find a decent parking spot close to the door. After shopping at that place with all the challenges that it brings, I really have little patience left for the eight-mile bus ride, especially toting groceries that haven’t been bagged.
I always forget the bags.
And finis! Way to leave them with a big laugh, MM. Someone named George Luken actually commented on this story, defending Costco from MM's rapier wit and Swiftian satire. I couldn't resist responding:
A very passionate defense of Costco! Could it be because Mr. George Luken is in fact Jim Sinegal, the PRESIDENT AND CEO OF COSTCO??? Seems like you have the attention of some real 90-caliber pezzonovante here, Mr. Morsch... keep speaking truth to power!
Some dope named Steve then said:
Yeah, I'm sure the CEO of Costco has nothing better to do than scour tiny weekly newspapers across the country looking for any mentions of his company.
To which I replied:
Well spoken Steve, a.k.a. Jeffrey Brotman, CO-FOUNDER OF COSTCO! I'm not sure what your current involvement with the company is, Mr. Brotman, but don't you think the earthquake victims in Haiti are more deserving of your attention than indulging in petty conspiracies with your corporate confederate? Don't back down, Mr. Morsch - they're coming out of the woodwork now!
The Usual Suspect
If you check out his profile, you will note the following things about Mr. Michael "Mike" Morsch:
1.) He refers to himself in the third person.
2.) He is the executive editor of a newspaper group, leading one to assume that he possesses some degree of writing skill.
3.) He describes his brain child, Outta Leftfield, as a "humor column," leading one to assume that he possesses some sense of humor.
Let's put those facts to the test with his latest column, shall we?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
A ballgame breaks out at the spelling bee
MM loves two things - baseball (which he finds a way to shoehorn into every one of his columns), and bad puns. For instance, he might entitle an essay on having to take a dump during a poker game "These deuces don't add up to a timely flush."
The spelling bee is a useful educational tool that promotes learning and competition, but really, it’s not a spectator sport.
He's right, but in the wrong way. It's obviously not a sport, but people love watching a good bee when it's on TV. The fact that it isn't a "sport" akin to football or hockey is so obvious it shouldn't even need to be stated - but then, we wouldn't have this undoubtedly hilarious article!
For those of you who have been to a spelling bee, this is not news. But believe it or not, I hadn’t been to one in a very long time until last weekend when Son of Blonde Accountant represented his school at the Our Lady of I Before E Except After C spelling bee in Quakertown.
I understand that bloggers assigning "code names" to friends and loved ones is a way of preserving their privacy (I guess)… but really, he can't even name his son OR the school he goes to? I'm virtually the only person reading this blog - does MM think he has stalkers?
It was what you would expect from a spelling bee of about 30 or so sixth, seventh and eighth graders. It was sponsored by the local Kiwanis Club, always and forever a noble group of community-minded folks. Our guy went out in the third round after having some difficulty on the word “difficulty.” He had added and errant “l” to make it “difficultly.”
Come on, kid. "Difficulty"? You're in middle school.
But the reality is that watching a spelling bee is about like watching the proverbial paint dry . . . with one exception this time: At intermission, a ballgame broke out at this spelling bee with the serving of . . . hotdogs!
Um… how does the serving of hotdogs qualify as "a ballgame"? As loyal reader The Jammer points out: "Why didn't a picnic break out at the spelling bee? Or a vacation? A walk on the boardwalk? An eating contest? A carnival? Or the zillion other places that people eat hotdogs." Well said, Jammer. Also, I like how he's more excited about the possibility of eating fatty pig intestine than about his son (or son-in-law) competing.
Hotdogs. H-O-T-D-O-G-S. Hotdogs. That I can spell. With M-U-S-T-A-R-D, of course.
This isn't funny.
I can’t help but think that spelling bees in general would be more entertaining if hotdogs were served at every competition. I’m going to call the Kiwanis guys and see if they can get that done.
Labels: Kiwanis, Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
So basically he's bored until they serve hot dogs. He makes a flimsy connection between the spelling bee and hot dogs, and suggests that they serve them all the time. I'm sure it wouldn't be too hard to serve hot dogs at events… they're like one dollar per ton. Also, note that he labels the story with "Kiwanis" but not "hot dogs" or "spelling bee." He also labels every article with his own name, his employer, and the title of his own blog, pretty much negating the purpose of labels.
Later, MM changed every "Kiwanis" reference to "Knights of Columbus," but failed to update his label, further illustrating his absolute blogging cluelessness.
1.) He refers to himself in the third person.
2.) He is the executive editor of a newspaper group, leading one to assume that he possesses some degree of writing skill.
3.) He describes his brain child, Outta Leftfield, as a "humor column," leading one to assume that he possesses some sense of humor.
Let's put those facts to the test with his latest column, shall we?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
A ballgame breaks out at the spelling bee
MM loves two things - baseball (which he finds a way to shoehorn into every one of his columns), and bad puns. For instance, he might entitle an essay on having to take a dump during a poker game "These deuces don't add up to a timely flush."
The spelling bee is a useful educational tool that promotes learning and competition, but really, it’s not a spectator sport.
He's right, but in the wrong way. It's obviously not a sport, but people love watching a good bee when it's on TV. The fact that it isn't a "sport" akin to football or hockey is so obvious it shouldn't even need to be stated - but then, we wouldn't have this undoubtedly hilarious article!
For those of you who have been to a spelling bee, this is not news. But believe it or not, I hadn’t been to one in a very long time until last weekend when Son of Blonde Accountant represented his school at the Our Lady of I Before E Except After C spelling bee in Quakertown.
I understand that bloggers assigning "code names" to friends and loved ones is a way of preserving their privacy (I guess)… but really, he can't even name his son OR the school he goes to? I'm virtually the only person reading this blog - does MM think he has stalkers?
It was what you would expect from a spelling bee of about 30 or so sixth, seventh and eighth graders. It was sponsored by the local Kiwanis Club, always and forever a noble group of community-minded folks. Our guy went out in the third round after having some difficulty on the word “difficulty.” He had added and errant “l” to make it “difficultly.”
Come on, kid. "Difficulty"? You're in middle school.
But the reality is that watching a spelling bee is about like watching the proverbial paint dry . . . with one exception this time: At intermission, a ballgame broke out at this spelling bee with the serving of . . . hotdogs!
Um… how does the serving of hotdogs qualify as "a ballgame"? As loyal reader The Jammer points out: "Why didn't a picnic break out at the spelling bee? Or a vacation? A walk on the boardwalk? An eating contest? A carnival? Or the zillion other places that people eat hotdogs." Well said, Jammer. Also, I like how he's more excited about the possibility of eating fatty pig intestine than about his son (or son-in-law) competing.
Hotdogs. H-O-T-D-O-G-S. Hotdogs. That I can spell. With M-U-S-T-A-R-D, of course.
This isn't funny.
I can’t help but think that spelling bees in general would be more entertaining if hotdogs were served at every competition. I’m going to call the Kiwanis guys and see if they can get that done.
Labels: Kiwanis, Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
So basically he's bored until they serve hot dogs. He makes a flimsy connection between the spelling bee and hot dogs, and suggests that they serve them all the time. I'm sure it wouldn't be too hard to serve hot dogs at events… they're like one dollar per ton. Also, note that he labels the story with "Kiwanis" but not "hot dogs" or "spelling bee." He also labels every article with his own name, his employer, and the title of his own blog, pretty much negating the purpose of labels.
Later, MM changed every "Kiwanis" reference to "Knights of Columbus," but failed to update his label, further illustrating his absolute blogging cluelessness.
Where Stuff Comes From
For those of you who are interested:
I go here for the on-line content. It seems to update mainly on Tuesdays.
I go here for the print content, which gets updated every Wednesday.
I also take an occasional glance at this, which can provide choice material.
Just for the sake of diversity, I might go here.
I go here for the on-line content. It seems to update mainly on Tuesdays.
I go here for the print content, which gets updated every Wednesday.
I also take an occasional glance at this, which can provide choice material.
Just for the sake of diversity, I might go here.
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