I've never enjoyed car shopping. Today is no different.
9:14 AM Oct 30th via Twitter for Android
The world just lost four words that it will never get back.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Bowling for ClodDumbine
Outta Leftfield: Bowling brothers’ side-splitting antics strike a chord
Published: Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Get it? "Bowling" and "strike"? Prediction: the aforementioned antics will be neither side-splitting nor chord-striking.
Pardon the you-know-who-esque pun in my title.
The first thing one noticed when walking into Roxy’s Lanes was a blue haze of smoke, hovering near the low ceiling over the proceedings like a mushroom cloud, providing cover for the sounds of bowling balls crashing into pins and the whoops, hollers or swear words that followed each roll.
Woah woah, what is this?!? Could he be trying to duplicate the "success" he enjoyed from his "Joy of Baseball Cards" article? He's really going all-out with the "haze was like a cloud" thing.
It was a smallish bowling alley — 24 lanes, I think — near one end of a mostly blue-collar town. Smoking was allowed, so was drinking, and there was lots of both at this bowling alley.
So there was smoking allowed at this smoke-filled bowling alley. Interesting. Continue.
Inside the entrance along one wall was information about all the leagues, lined up like the box scores on the sports pages. Here one could see the current standings, averages, high score and high series from the previous week and lane assignments for the current week. There must have been 40 different leagues and hundreds of bowlers, both men and women.
This is a feature, I am sure, is completely unique to this particular bowling alley. Surely you could find information on LEAGUES and HIGH SCORES in no other place. The effort he is expending to describe this completely generic aspect of a bowling alley must be killing him.
It’s where the Morsch brothers bowled every Wednesday night at 9 p.m. during the 1970s in the central Illinois town of Pekin.
Ah, and he brings it all together. What an artist!
I was of driving age, around 17 or so, and enjoyed watching the brothers bowl, not because they were great bowlers but because they were just that entertaining, so much so that I’d stay up late on a school night just to observe the shenanigans.
Oh boy, what did they do? Eye-pokes and nose-twists a la the beloved Stooges? Crack jokes about their nagging wives? Discuss how often they spill things on themselves? Talk baseball? That bowling alley must have been a regular proto-Outta Leftfield!
My dad also bowled in a 6 p.m. league that same evening, so he was there all night. There was no entertainment value in the early league,
Why not? I suppose that, much like Mo, Larry or Curly, Morsch's dad couldn't cut it on his own. Nowhere is the distinction between Stooge brother and Marx Brother more distinct.
so I’d wait and drive myself down to the bowling alley for the second league, where the Morsch brothers, in their maroon bowling shirts, would hold court.
"Hold court"! If he's trotting out the metaphors, Morsch must really be shooting for some kind of award for this one.
It was relatively easy to pick them out of a big crowd.
The biggest, fattest guys usually are.
I never looked at the bulletin board to see their lane assignments; I just walked into the blue haze … and listened.
Sorry. Biggest, fattest and loudest.
Even amidst the hubbub and noise of a bowling alley, I could find the Morsch brothers. They were the loudest voices in an already loud atmosphere.
And there wasn’t a more charming band of rascals and rogues. They would do a little bowling, but mostly what they’d do is drink, curse, smoke, curse, gamble, curse, yell and curse.
Sounds like a good time! Weren't those the good old days, when drinking, smoking, gambling and cursing were COOL? Oh, to be a kid again!
They were characters, individually and collectively,
Except for Morsch's dad, who individually provided "no entertainment value."
and they enjoyed all the drinking, smoking, gambling, yelling and cursing that went with bowling night.
Okay, okay, we get it. They did those things, and they're not sounding any more enjoyable no matter how many times you repeat it.
In general, bowling isn’t a spectator sport, but with these guys — Uncle Louie, Uncle Bill, Uncle Nick, Uncle Poncho (Paul) and my dad, Ed — it was indeed a spectacle.
Uncle Bill bowled leadoff.
Question - is the first bowler on a team actually described as the "leadoff" bowler? I suspect this is an unnecessary baseball reference.
I always thought he and my dad looked the most alike of all the brothers. His nickname was “Pat,” a nickname my grandfather gave him. One of the younger brothers, he wasn’t as demonstrative on the alleys as some of the others, but he had a wonderfully unique laugh that he employed early and often on bowling night.
Yeah, you gotta have that uniquely-laughing guy in any comedy troupe.
Uncle Louie was second, and he was the weakest bowler average-wise of the bunch. I don’t think he ever threw a ball down the alley that he was pleased with.
Woah, woah, Morsch - a negative comment? "Weakest bowler"? Don't you want to qualify that, as you do with any negative comment you'd make about a celebrity or doctor's office? "Not to say he was bad - actually he was a fine bowler." Try that.
He’d turn around and mumble and curse his way back to prepare for his second shot, occasionally kicking the ball return in disgust. He never seemed happy with his performance, even when he threw a strike. And he eventually had to stop kicking the ball return because he actually broke his foot one time trying to dropkick the machine.
Reader comprehension question: what did Uncle Louie do to the machine? The clue is contained THREE TIMES in the last paragraph.
Uncle Poncho was third in the lineup. Perpetually happy and animated, he employed a bowling strategy that I had never seen up to that point: If he threw a shot that wobbled a pin, he’d try to pick the corresponding board on the alley over which the pin wobbled, and he’d stomp on it.
I'm pretty sure Moses did that when he bowled.
Like there was some possibility that the board was loose enough at the far end of the alley that his stomping at the point of the ball’s release would somehow cause the pin to fall 60 feet away.
Woah, great observation! And the longer the observation goes, the funnier it becomes! Like Morsch thinks that there's a possibility that by continuing to describe how ridiculous that suggestion is it will become even more amusing since he's being so specific about how ridiculous it is that his uncle thinks that this strategy will actually knock over a pin that is so far away!
It was only an illusion, of course, but Poncho was an experienced kegler and had a sense of knowing when a teetering pin was likely to fall and was able to make it look like he had stomped it down.
Question - if it was all an "illusion," why make a big joke of the strategy?
And Poncho wouldn’t just stomp, but stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp in rapid fire succession, so much so that one time he broke his foot stomping so hard.
WE GET IT. Try reading that sentence in a "dumb guy" voice - it's amusing.
His antics absolutely cracked me up to the point that once I began bowling in leagues as an adult, I would employ The Poncho Stomp, mostly to entertain myself and as a tribute to him.
And thus his long, plagiarism-based comedy career began.
If you’re keeping track, that’s two different ways the Morsch brothers found to break a foot in a non-contact sport.
Uncle Nick bowled fourth in the lineup. Seemingly always chomping a cigar, he had a sidearm kind of delivery on the ball, which caused it to have a big, sweeping hook. He may have been the least loud of the bunch, but that’s really not saying much. There were only degrees of loud with these guys.
If it's not saying much, don't say it at all. There's also no need for "on the ball" - we know he's bowling, unless anyone bowls with, like, a cube or a tetragon.
My dad was the anchor and had about a 180 average. He was a little less demonstrative than Poncho and Louie, a little more animated than Nick and Bill.
That reads like an SAT question.
When Dad threw a ball he thought was going to be a strike, he’d raise his right arm straight into the air and stand on one leg, much like a sleeping swan.
Again, totally unique in the bowling world.
They’re all gone now. Uncle Bill died last week, and the Morsch brothers bowling team now belongs to the ages. I miss them, but one thing I learned when my dad died more than four years ago is that although our loved ones are no longer here, they’re still always with us. They live on through us, through the memories and stories we tell.
You gotta be kidding me. The whole point of this was a generic "they will live on in songs and legends" thing?
I think I’m going to go out and bowl a few games as a tribute to my father and uncles. And I’ll try very hard not to break a foot.
Oh... Kay? So to summarize, the side splitting antics were:
Drinking
Smoking
Cursing
Gambling
Yelling
Having a unique laugh
Kicking the ball return/breaking foot
Stomping on the floor/breaking foot
Bowling sidearm
Posing after bowling
Dying (?)
Published: Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Get it? "Bowling" and "strike"? Prediction: the aforementioned antics will be neither side-splitting nor chord-striking.
Pardon the you-know-who-esque pun in my title.
The first thing one noticed when walking into Roxy’s Lanes was a blue haze of smoke, hovering near the low ceiling over the proceedings like a mushroom cloud, providing cover for the sounds of bowling balls crashing into pins and the whoops, hollers or swear words that followed each roll.
Woah woah, what is this?!? Could he be trying to duplicate the "success" he enjoyed from his "Joy of Baseball Cards" article? He's really going all-out with the "haze was like a cloud" thing.
It was a smallish bowling alley — 24 lanes, I think — near one end of a mostly blue-collar town. Smoking was allowed, so was drinking, and there was lots of both at this bowling alley.
So there was smoking allowed at this smoke-filled bowling alley. Interesting. Continue.
Inside the entrance along one wall was information about all the leagues, lined up like the box scores on the sports pages. Here one could see the current standings, averages, high score and high series from the previous week and lane assignments for the current week. There must have been 40 different leagues and hundreds of bowlers, both men and women.
This is a feature, I am sure, is completely unique to this particular bowling alley. Surely you could find information on LEAGUES and HIGH SCORES in no other place. The effort he is expending to describe this completely generic aspect of a bowling alley must be killing him.
It’s where the Morsch brothers bowled every Wednesday night at 9 p.m. during the 1970s in the central Illinois town of Pekin.
Ah, and he brings it all together. What an artist!
I was of driving age, around 17 or so, and enjoyed watching the brothers bowl, not because they were great bowlers but because they were just that entertaining, so much so that I’d stay up late on a school night just to observe the shenanigans.
Oh boy, what did they do? Eye-pokes and nose-twists a la the beloved Stooges? Crack jokes about their nagging wives? Discuss how often they spill things on themselves? Talk baseball? That bowling alley must have been a regular proto-Outta Leftfield!
My dad also bowled in a 6 p.m. league that same evening, so he was there all night. There was no entertainment value in the early league,
Why not? I suppose that, much like Mo, Larry or Curly, Morsch's dad couldn't cut it on his own. Nowhere is the distinction between Stooge brother and Marx Brother more distinct.
so I’d wait and drive myself down to the bowling alley for the second league, where the Morsch brothers, in their maroon bowling shirts, would hold court.
"Hold court"! If he's trotting out the metaphors, Morsch must really be shooting for some kind of award for this one.
It was relatively easy to pick them out of a big crowd.
The biggest, fattest guys usually are.
I never looked at the bulletin board to see their lane assignments; I just walked into the blue haze … and listened.
Sorry. Biggest, fattest and loudest.
Even amidst the hubbub and noise of a bowling alley, I could find the Morsch brothers. They were the loudest voices in an already loud atmosphere.
And there wasn’t a more charming band of rascals and rogues. They would do a little bowling, but mostly what they’d do is drink, curse, smoke, curse, gamble, curse, yell and curse.
Sounds like a good time! Weren't those the good old days, when drinking, smoking, gambling and cursing were COOL? Oh, to be a kid again!
They were characters, individually and collectively,
Except for Morsch's dad, who individually provided "no entertainment value."
and they enjoyed all the drinking, smoking, gambling, yelling and cursing that went with bowling night.
Okay, okay, we get it. They did those things, and they're not sounding any more enjoyable no matter how many times you repeat it.
In general, bowling isn’t a spectator sport, but with these guys — Uncle Louie, Uncle Bill, Uncle Nick, Uncle Poncho (Paul) and my dad, Ed — it was indeed a spectacle.
Uncle Bill bowled leadoff.
Question - is the first bowler on a team actually described as the "leadoff" bowler? I suspect this is an unnecessary baseball reference.
I always thought he and my dad looked the most alike of all the brothers. His nickname was “Pat,” a nickname my grandfather gave him. One of the younger brothers, he wasn’t as demonstrative on the alleys as some of the others, but he had a wonderfully unique laugh that he employed early and often on bowling night.
Yeah, you gotta have that uniquely-laughing guy in any comedy troupe.
Uncle Louie was second, and he was the weakest bowler average-wise of the bunch. I don’t think he ever threw a ball down the alley that he was pleased with.
Woah, woah, Morsch - a negative comment? "Weakest bowler"? Don't you want to qualify that, as you do with any negative comment you'd make about a celebrity or doctor's office? "Not to say he was bad - actually he was a fine bowler." Try that.
He’d turn around and mumble and curse his way back to prepare for his second shot, occasionally kicking the ball return in disgust. He never seemed happy with his performance, even when he threw a strike. And he eventually had to stop kicking the ball return because he actually broke his foot one time trying to dropkick the machine.
Reader comprehension question: what did Uncle Louie do to the machine? The clue is contained THREE TIMES in the last paragraph.
Uncle Poncho was third in the lineup. Perpetually happy and animated, he employed a bowling strategy that I had never seen up to that point: If he threw a shot that wobbled a pin, he’d try to pick the corresponding board on the alley over which the pin wobbled, and he’d stomp on it.
I'm pretty sure Moses did that when he bowled.
Like there was some possibility that the board was loose enough at the far end of the alley that his stomping at the point of the ball’s release would somehow cause the pin to fall 60 feet away.
Woah, great observation! And the longer the observation goes, the funnier it becomes! Like Morsch thinks that there's a possibility that by continuing to describe how ridiculous that suggestion is it will become even more amusing since he's being so specific about how ridiculous it is that his uncle thinks that this strategy will actually knock over a pin that is so far away!
It was only an illusion, of course, but Poncho was an experienced kegler and had a sense of knowing when a teetering pin was likely to fall and was able to make it look like he had stomped it down.
Question - if it was all an "illusion," why make a big joke of the strategy?
And Poncho wouldn’t just stomp, but stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp in rapid fire succession, so much so that one time he broke his foot stomping so hard.
WE GET IT. Try reading that sentence in a "dumb guy" voice - it's amusing.
His antics absolutely cracked me up to the point that once I began bowling in leagues as an adult, I would employ The Poncho Stomp, mostly to entertain myself and as a tribute to him.
And thus his long, plagiarism-based comedy career began.
If you’re keeping track, that’s two different ways the Morsch brothers found to break a foot in a non-contact sport.
Uncle Nick bowled fourth in the lineup. Seemingly always chomping a cigar, he had a sidearm kind of delivery on the ball, which caused it to have a big, sweeping hook. He may have been the least loud of the bunch, but that’s really not saying much. There were only degrees of loud with these guys.
If it's not saying much, don't say it at all. There's also no need for "on the ball" - we know he's bowling, unless anyone bowls with, like, a cube or a tetragon.
My dad was the anchor and had about a 180 average. He was a little less demonstrative than Poncho and Louie, a little more animated than Nick and Bill.
That reads like an SAT question.
When Dad threw a ball he thought was going to be a strike, he’d raise his right arm straight into the air and stand on one leg, much like a sleeping swan.
Again, totally unique in the bowling world.
They’re all gone now. Uncle Bill died last week, and the Morsch brothers bowling team now belongs to the ages. I miss them, but one thing I learned when my dad died more than four years ago is that although our loved ones are no longer here, they’re still always with us. They live on through us, through the memories and stories we tell.
You gotta be kidding me. The whole point of this was a generic "they will live on in songs and legends" thing?
I think I’m going to go out and bowl a few games as a tribute to my father and uncles. And I’ll try very hard not to break a foot.
Oh... Kay? So to summarize, the side splitting antics were:
Drinking
Smoking
Cursing
Gambling
Yelling
Having a unique laugh
Kicking the ball return/breaking foot
Stomping on the floor/breaking foot
Bowling sidearm
Posing after bowling
Dying (?)
Another One-Joke Entry
Monday, October 25, 2010
Fun with the 'ICS Fun' staff
I admit, I jumped ahead and cheated on this one. There was a video posted that caught my attention, and before I could avert my eyes and scroll past, I saw that it involved some elementary schoolchildren. So I'll guess this is a "kids say the darndest things" post.
I always enjoy talking to students and such was the case Oct. 21 when I was invited to speak at Immaculate Conception School in Jenkintown.
Classic! This is literally a waste of words. "I like doing X, so when I did X, I liked it."
After several years without a school newspaper, school officials and the kids have decided to “re-launch” a publication, this one called “ICS Fun,” the name of which was suggested by fifth-grader Kylie Purcaro.
Prediction: the quality of the ICS Fun publication will soon far out-distance that of Outta Leftfield. Little Ms. Purcaro already has a leg up on Morsch in the creativity department.
Robert Loughney, president of the Immaculate Conception School Home and School Association, contacted me and asked if I would speak to the students as a representative of their “hometown newspaper,” the Times Chronicle, an offer that I never turn down no matter what school or age group of students, from elementary to college.
Good thing they didn't ask you to tell the kids about run-on sentences. And Mr. Loughney - next time, ask an actual professional to show up.
My mom was a teacher and my dad was a school superintendent, so maybe the attraction to the education field is in my blood. All I know is that I do like the opportunity to give back to the communities with which I am involved.
Is this satire? Because if it isn't, I haven't seen anything remotely resembling humor so far.
Thanks to IMS Principal Dr. Diane Greco (who we learned in class used to be a ballerina, a “scoop” that the student journalists were urged to pursue for a future edition of the school newspaper), I was welcomed to the school.
The school's collective IQ immediately dipped by 20 points.
I was relieved, however, that Dr. Greco did not ask me to dance because I have not practiced by ballet steps in quite a while.
I believe he means "practiced MY ballet steps." Unless he has a cold.
Ah, halfway in and we have our first clumsy stab at a joke. To me - and this is just me - it seems a tad trite to make an "I can't dance" joke so soon after he devoted an entire column to the subject.
Newspaper class moderator is Elena Cipolla, who when I arrived was imploring the kids to “make the deadline” or they wouldn’t be in a position to produce their first issue of the ICS Fun next week.
I wish I had a nickel for every time that I’ve been asked — or that I’ve asked a reporter — to “make the deadline” in the past 30 years.
This would imply that people were actually willing to pay him for his work, which, in a sane world, nobody would.
I spent about an hour with the kids, which ranged in age from fifth grade through eighth grade.
Case in point - "which" doesn't go with "kids." You don't say, "I spent an hour with my niece and nephew, which are four and two." Idiot.
We talked about reading (good writers are good readers) and writing and making deadlines.
"Good writers are good readers." Very true. Name the last time the author has referred to any book he has read.
I rest my case.
We even went over the video aspect of what a reporter does these days, which you can see a little bit of in the accompanying video. I was glad to offer pointers and encourage the students in their venture.
The sad part about this is that the kids probably thought he was cool. What a disservice to our youth.
Hopefully ICS Fun will be a learning experience and successful endeavor for the students and the school. And maybe one or two of the kids will become professional reporters or editors some day.
And maybe, just maybe, they will become reporters who report on meaningful things, or editors who know the basics of grammar. Unlike some.
Labels: Immaculate Conception School, Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Fun with the 'ICS Fun' staff
I admit, I jumped ahead and cheated on this one. There was a video posted that caught my attention, and before I could avert my eyes and scroll past, I saw that it involved some elementary schoolchildren. So I'll guess this is a "kids say the darndest things" post.
I always enjoy talking to students and such was the case Oct. 21 when I was invited to speak at Immaculate Conception School in Jenkintown.
Classic! This is literally a waste of words. "I like doing X, so when I did X, I liked it."
After several years without a school newspaper, school officials and the kids have decided to “re-launch” a publication, this one called “ICS Fun,” the name of which was suggested by fifth-grader Kylie Purcaro.
Prediction: the quality of the ICS Fun publication will soon far out-distance that of Outta Leftfield. Little Ms. Purcaro already has a leg up on Morsch in the creativity department.
Robert Loughney, president of the Immaculate Conception School Home and School Association, contacted me and asked if I would speak to the students as a representative of their “hometown newspaper,” the Times Chronicle, an offer that I never turn down no matter what school or age group of students, from elementary to college.
Good thing they didn't ask you to tell the kids about run-on sentences. And Mr. Loughney - next time, ask an actual professional to show up.
My mom was a teacher and my dad was a school superintendent, so maybe the attraction to the education field is in my blood. All I know is that I do like the opportunity to give back to the communities with which I am involved.
Is this satire? Because if it isn't, I haven't seen anything remotely resembling humor so far.
Thanks to IMS Principal Dr. Diane Greco (who we learned in class used to be a ballerina, a “scoop” that the student journalists were urged to pursue for a future edition of the school newspaper), I was welcomed to the school.
The school's collective IQ immediately dipped by 20 points.
I was relieved, however, that Dr. Greco did not ask me to dance because I have not practiced by ballet steps in quite a while.
I believe he means "practiced MY ballet steps." Unless he has a cold.
Ah, halfway in and we have our first clumsy stab at a joke. To me - and this is just me - it seems a tad trite to make an "I can't dance" joke so soon after he devoted an entire column to the subject.
Newspaper class moderator is Elena Cipolla, who when I arrived was imploring the kids to “make the deadline” or they wouldn’t be in a position to produce their first issue of the ICS Fun next week.
I wish I had a nickel for every time that I’ve been asked — or that I’ve asked a reporter — to “make the deadline” in the past 30 years.
This would imply that people were actually willing to pay him for his work, which, in a sane world, nobody would.
I spent about an hour with the kids, which ranged in age from fifth grade through eighth grade.
Case in point - "which" doesn't go with "kids." You don't say, "I spent an hour with my niece and nephew, which are four and two." Idiot.
We talked about reading (good writers are good readers) and writing and making deadlines.
"Good writers are good readers." Very true. Name the last time the author has referred to any book he has read.
I rest my case.
We even went over the video aspect of what a reporter does these days, which you can see a little bit of in the accompanying video. I was glad to offer pointers and encourage the students in their venture.
The sad part about this is that the kids probably thought he was cool. What a disservice to our youth.
Hopefully ICS Fun will be a learning experience and successful endeavor for the students and the school. And maybe one or two of the kids will become professional reporters or editors some day.
And maybe, just maybe, they will become reporters who report on meaningful things, or editors who know the basics of grammar. Unlike some.
Labels: Immaculate Conception School, Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Friday, October 22, 2010
Wacky Facial Hair
Outta Leftfield: Yosemite Sam and John Oates: Go-to guys for upper lip hair tomfoolery
Published: Thursday, October 21, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Can you imagine the inspiration for this column? "Note to self - write column about guy's wacky mustache." This is about the 10th column we've seen dealing with Hall and Oates, too.
Now here’s something you don’t hear every day: John Oates invoking the name of Yosemite Sam.
Here's another thing you don't hear every day: the name "John Oates."
That’s right. Oates is of course one half of Hall & Oates — arguably the most successful duo in rock and roll history.
That's quite a lofty claim, Mr. Morsch.
Sam is the grouchy gunslinger with the “hare-trigger” temper and archenemy of that “crazy idget galoot” Bugs Bunny.
And if you didn't know either of those things, you're even dumber than the author is.
The only thing that John Oates and Yosemite Sam have in common is that they both have (or have had in Oates’ case) a mustache.
You may remember that in the 1970s and 1980s, when Daryl Hall and John Oates were becoming big names in the music business, Oates sported a bushy mustache. As he and his music matured, Oates shaved off the mustache and moved on.
Is he actually suggesting that the development of Oates' musical talent is directly tied to the shaving of his mustache? I'd like to see this theory fleshed out a bit more.
But the mustache didn’t. In fact, John Oates’ mustache developed kind of a persona of its own and a cult following, even though it no longer had a lip on which to sit. Fans and the media perpetuated the notion.
What notion? The notion of... the mustache existing? I seem to be missing the jokes thus far.
Oates, who now lives in Colorado, is a local guy, raised in North Wales and a graduate of North Penn High School. His folks still live in the area, and for the past few years when he’s been back in town, he has scheduled solo gigs at the Lansdale Center for Performing Arts and the Sellersville Theater. In fact, you can read a preview of his Oct. 29 Sellersville show in this week’s Ticket entertainment insert inside this paper or online at www.montgomerynews.com.
Anyone want to bet what the topic of Morsch's November 2 blog will be? Another trip to the Sellersville Theater - I can hardly contain myself.
And Oates — always gracious and accommodating with his interview time on those occasions when he’s coming home — is so nice that I can’t imagine he would ever refer to anyone as a “crazy idget galoot.”
Hey, here's a new spin on an old formula - Morsch describes a celebrity as "gracious" and "nice"! Although, I must honestly tip my cap to Mr. Oates for tolerating the company of Morsch for any length of time.
Over the years, we’ve spoken four or five times about his work and personal appearances and he allowed me to sit in on a private songwriting workshop he once conducted at the Lansdale Center for Performing Arts.
Man, Oates is a SAINT.
I had never broached the subject with him in any previous interview, but this time I felt comfortable enough to ask him about “the stash,” hoping that he found the whole hubbub surrounding it as silly as I did.
It should be "the 'stach." "The stash" would imply that there is a cache of something sitting around.
“I just think it’s funny,” he said. “People are always asking me about it. Just the other day, a request came in for me to sing a song for Yosemite Sam’s mustache. Just because I had one, evidently I’m now the go-to guy for anything that has to do with lip hair.”
Now that’s a funny quote.
Oh! It is? I'm glad you told me, because if you hadn't, I would have assumed that it was not a very funny quote at all.
Even though Oates is a good sport about it, he stresses that he has distanced himself from the mustache days.
“It represents a part of my life and the person I was back then,” he said. “In a sense, the shedding of that mustache was a way for me to reinvent myself and move on with my life. I really wasn’t planning on being that particular guy for the rest of my life.
... On the other hand, maybe Mr. Oates is just as dunderheaded as our beloved executive editor.
“I think so many people get locked into a self-image, especially in the world of performers and show business. Their self-image becomes one and the same with them. I certainly don’t feel like that particular image was me in any way and I didn’t want it to be me. I always look forward to growth and not going back.”
Yeah, yeah he definitely is. What the heck is he even talking about? When I shave my nutsack, am I embarking on some kind of spiritual journey to find my true self?
Of course, Oates is referring to personal growth and not upper lip growth. Fair enough. Still, his was one of the great stashes of all time, right up there with the likes of Salvador Dali, Albert Einstein, Hulk Hogan, Bob Goulet, Tom Selleck, Rollie Fingers, Bernie Scally and the aforementioned Yosemite Sam. (By the way, the voice of Yosemite Sam was the great Mel Blanc, who also wore a mustache, although it was more of the pencil-thin version.)
Again, it's "'stach." "Stash" means something completely different. His list of great mustache-wearers extends just a liiiiiiiiiitle bit too long, doesn't it? And duuuuuh Mel Blanc did the voices for Looney Tunes? Duuuuh I had no idea!
Unfortunately, I did not inherit the mustache gene from my father. Dad resembled actor Hal Linden, and with the moustache, Pop was a dead ringer for Linden’s television character Barney Miller, so much so that I would occasionally call him “Barn” in conversation.
At least he inherited the "great sense of humor" gene, right? Imagine the yuks that this family must have produced.
I wore a mustache and goatee for seven or eight years, but the upper lip part of that equation was one of the weakest mustaches in the history of mustaches. John Oates’ mustache would scoff at my mustache. Yosemite Sam’s mustache would actually berate my mustache right off my face.
Mark it down, folks. October 21st: the day Morsch writes something that I actually think is amusing. Not laugh-out-loud amusing, surely, but I smiled. This is actually good, somewhat witty writing.
In fact, I believe Sam would have no trepidation at all about calling me a crazy idget galoot, that’s how weak my stash was.
... And he blew it.
In hindsight, it would have been better if I had just ignored some of the more unruly nose hair and allowed it to incorporate itself into the mustache, just to add character and density to the overall effort.
That's disgusting, but for Morsch, entirely possible.
I believe that not doing so may have cost me my only chance for inclusion into the American Mustache Institute membership, a definite missed opportunity.
But that would be just splitting hairs.
He started these last paragraphs with a desperate need to do a "hair" pun. But how could he logically work it in? Deciding that this would be too much effort, he makes up a fictional organization (not funny), and uses that to hook in the pun (also not funny).
Published: Thursday, October 21, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Can you imagine the inspiration for this column? "Note to self - write column about guy's wacky mustache." This is about the 10th column we've seen dealing with Hall and Oates, too.
Now here’s something you don’t hear every day: John Oates invoking the name of Yosemite Sam.
Here's another thing you don't hear every day: the name "John Oates."
That’s right. Oates is of course one half of Hall & Oates — arguably the most successful duo in rock and roll history.
That's quite a lofty claim, Mr. Morsch.
Sam is the grouchy gunslinger with the “hare-trigger” temper and archenemy of that “crazy idget galoot” Bugs Bunny.
And if you didn't know either of those things, you're even dumber than the author is.
The only thing that John Oates and Yosemite Sam have in common is that they both have (or have had in Oates’ case) a mustache.
You may remember that in the 1970s and 1980s, when Daryl Hall and John Oates were becoming big names in the music business, Oates sported a bushy mustache. As he and his music matured, Oates shaved off the mustache and moved on.
Is he actually suggesting that the development of Oates' musical talent is directly tied to the shaving of his mustache? I'd like to see this theory fleshed out a bit more.
But the mustache didn’t. In fact, John Oates’ mustache developed kind of a persona of its own and a cult following, even though it no longer had a lip on which to sit. Fans and the media perpetuated the notion.
What notion? The notion of... the mustache existing? I seem to be missing the jokes thus far.
Oates, who now lives in Colorado, is a local guy, raised in North Wales and a graduate of North Penn High School. His folks still live in the area, and for the past few years when he’s been back in town, he has scheduled solo gigs at the Lansdale Center for Performing Arts and the Sellersville Theater. In fact, you can read a preview of his Oct. 29 Sellersville show in this week’s Ticket entertainment insert inside this paper or online at www.montgomerynews.com.
Anyone want to bet what the topic of Morsch's November 2 blog will be? Another trip to the Sellersville Theater - I can hardly contain myself.
And Oates — always gracious and accommodating with his interview time on those occasions when he’s coming home — is so nice that I can’t imagine he would ever refer to anyone as a “crazy idget galoot.”
Hey, here's a new spin on an old formula - Morsch describes a celebrity as "gracious" and "nice"! Although, I must honestly tip my cap to Mr. Oates for tolerating the company of Morsch for any length of time.
Over the years, we’ve spoken four or five times about his work and personal appearances and he allowed me to sit in on a private songwriting workshop he once conducted at the Lansdale Center for Performing Arts.
Man, Oates is a SAINT.
I had never broached the subject with him in any previous interview, but this time I felt comfortable enough to ask him about “the stash,” hoping that he found the whole hubbub surrounding it as silly as I did.
It should be "the 'stach." "The stash" would imply that there is a cache of something sitting around.
“I just think it’s funny,” he said. “People are always asking me about it. Just the other day, a request came in for me to sing a song for Yosemite Sam’s mustache. Just because I had one, evidently I’m now the go-to guy for anything that has to do with lip hair.”
Now that’s a funny quote.
Oh! It is? I'm glad you told me, because if you hadn't, I would have assumed that it was not a very funny quote at all.
Even though Oates is a good sport about it, he stresses that he has distanced himself from the mustache days.
“It represents a part of my life and the person I was back then,” he said. “In a sense, the shedding of that mustache was a way for me to reinvent myself and move on with my life. I really wasn’t planning on being that particular guy for the rest of my life.
... On the other hand, maybe Mr. Oates is just as dunderheaded as our beloved executive editor.
“I think so many people get locked into a self-image, especially in the world of performers and show business. Their self-image becomes one and the same with them. I certainly don’t feel like that particular image was me in any way and I didn’t want it to be me. I always look forward to growth and not going back.”
Yeah, yeah he definitely is. What the heck is he even talking about? When I shave my nutsack, am I embarking on some kind of spiritual journey to find my true self?
Of course, Oates is referring to personal growth and not upper lip growth. Fair enough. Still, his was one of the great stashes of all time, right up there with the likes of Salvador Dali, Albert Einstein, Hulk Hogan, Bob Goulet, Tom Selleck, Rollie Fingers, Bernie Scally and the aforementioned Yosemite Sam. (By the way, the voice of Yosemite Sam was the great Mel Blanc, who also wore a mustache, although it was more of the pencil-thin version.)
Again, it's "'stach." "Stash" means something completely different. His list of great mustache-wearers extends just a liiiiiiiiiitle bit too long, doesn't it? And duuuuuh Mel Blanc did the voices for Looney Tunes? Duuuuh I had no idea!
Unfortunately, I did not inherit the mustache gene from my father. Dad resembled actor Hal Linden, and with the moustache, Pop was a dead ringer for Linden’s television character Barney Miller, so much so that I would occasionally call him “Barn” in conversation.
At least he inherited the "great sense of humor" gene, right? Imagine the yuks that this family must have produced.
I wore a mustache and goatee for seven or eight years, but the upper lip part of that equation was one of the weakest mustaches in the history of mustaches. John Oates’ mustache would scoff at my mustache. Yosemite Sam’s mustache would actually berate my mustache right off my face.
Mark it down, folks. October 21st: the day Morsch writes something that I actually think is amusing. Not laugh-out-loud amusing, surely, but I smiled. This is actually good, somewhat witty writing.
In fact, I believe Sam would have no trepidation at all about calling me a crazy idget galoot, that’s how weak my stash was.
... And he blew it.
In hindsight, it would have been better if I had just ignored some of the more unruly nose hair and allowed it to incorporate itself into the mustache, just to add character and density to the overall effort.
That's disgusting, but for Morsch, entirely possible.
I believe that not doing so may have cost me my only chance for inclusion into the American Mustache Institute membership, a definite missed opportunity.
But that would be just splitting hairs.
He started these last paragraphs with a desperate need to do a "hair" pun. But how could he logically work it in? Deciding that this would be too much effort, he makes up a fictional organization (not funny), and uses that to hook in the pun (also not funny).
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Minimal Original Material
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Snooze and snore siesta silliness
I can't guess what this one might be about, but anything that Morsch considers "silly" is bound to be great fodder for me.
Now here’s an event I’m sorry I missed: Last week Spain started it’s first-ever siesta competition, which will end on Oct. 23, where the winner will be chosen on how long he or she can sleep and snore.
My guess is that the topic of this article will be how qualified Morsch thinks he is for this competition. See also: his columns on National Cheese-ball Day, etc etc.
Napping and snoring. I would not be opposed to the International Olympic Committee (IOC) considering both as new events for the 2012 games in London.
Is his use of "(IOC)" supposed to be funny? I can't really think of a reason why he put that in there, unless he's trying to sound smart.
In the areas of both sleeping and snoring, I’ve essentially been in training my whole life for that and would have to be considered among the favorites for the gold medal.
Bingo. The "for that" is unnecessary.
According to a wire service story, the goal of the competition was to promote Spain’s post-lunch nap time. Contestants will be put into groups of five over the course of nine days and “timed by a doctor with a pulse-measuring device to determine how long they spent snoozing.”
Ah, the ever-popular "wire service story." Has anyone else noticed that Morsch's articles are surprisingly short on humorous commentary and surprisingly high on boring summaries of other articles?
Contestants could score extra points for snoring as well as wearing goofy nightwear or sleeping in an odd position.
The competition was organized by the newly formed National Association of Friends of the Siesta, which had what was described in the wire service story as “a machine to measure the decibels (of snoring) emitted.”
Should I laugh at this? Does this count as "humor"?
Two observations:
Get ready, folks, here it comes!
First off, there is a machine designed specifically to measure snoring decibels? Cool.
Okay, not funny, but at least he's not repeating someone else's comments.
And secondly, the National Association of Friends of the Siesta is a cool name for a group. Or a band. Nobody was sleeping on the job when it came to creatively naming the organization.
It's a terrible name for both a group and a band. If they were really thinking, they would call it something that spelled "NAPS." They're only one letter away. The "sleeping on the job" joke is almost painfully pathetic.
The top prize for the winner will be about $1,400, but no gold medal at this point.
If they have the competition again next year, I may consider actually going over to Spain to compete.
But I’ll have to sleep on that idea.
I like how he breaks up those last few phrases, like he's building up, step-by-step, to the glorious final pun. Forget humor - only about a third of this post were original observations by the author. A job well done.
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Snooze and snore siesta silliness
I can't guess what this one might be about, but anything that Morsch considers "silly" is bound to be great fodder for me.
Now here’s an event I’m sorry I missed: Last week Spain started it’s first-ever siesta competition, which will end on Oct. 23, where the winner will be chosen on how long he or she can sleep and snore.
My guess is that the topic of this article will be how qualified Morsch thinks he is for this competition. See also: his columns on National Cheese-ball Day, etc etc.
Napping and snoring. I would not be opposed to the International Olympic Committee (IOC) considering both as new events for the 2012 games in London.
Is his use of "(IOC)" supposed to be funny? I can't really think of a reason why he put that in there, unless he's trying to sound smart.
In the areas of both sleeping and snoring, I’ve essentially been in training my whole life for that and would have to be considered among the favorites for the gold medal.
Bingo. The "for that" is unnecessary.
According to a wire service story, the goal of the competition was to promote Spain’s post-lunch nap time. Contestants will be put into groups of five over the course of nine days and “timed by a doctor with a pulse-measuring device to determine how long they spent snoozing.”
Ah, the ever-popular "wire service story." Has anyone else noticed that Morsch's articles are surprisingly short on humorous commentary and surprisingly high on boring summaries of other articles?
Contestants could score extra points for snoring as well as wearing goofy nightwear or sleeping in an odd position.
The competition was organized by the newly formed National Association of Friends of the Siesta, which had what was described in the wire service story as “a machine to measure the decibels (of snoring) emitted.”
Should I laugh at this? Does this count as "humor"?
Two observations:
Get ready, folks, here it comes!
First off, there is a machine designed specifically to measure snoring decibels? Cool.
Okay, not funny, but at least he's not repeating someone else's comments.
And secondly, the National Association of Friends of the Siesta is a cool name for a group. Or a band. Nobody was sleeping on the job when it came to creatively naming the organization.
It's a terrible name for both a group and a band. If they were really thinking, they would call it something that spelled "NAPS." They're only one letter away. The "sleeping on the job" joke is almost painfully pathetic.
The top prize for the winner will be about $1,400, but no gold medal at this point.
If they have the competition again next year, I may consider actually going over to Spain to compete.
But I’ll have to sleep on that idea.
I like how he breaks up those last few phrases, like he's building up, step-by-step, to the glorious final pun. Forget humor - only about a third of this post were original observations by the author. A job well done.
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Man vs. Wo-man
Outta Leftfield: An unsystematic approach to closet organization
Published: Tuesday, October 12, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I have an odd feeling that this will be an entry akin to his "I can't do laundry" column, dwelling on the fact that men and women are different, men being dumb and women being smart and mysterious.
I was awakened recently one morning with the sounds of a good bit of harrumphing coming from The Blonde Accountant’s closet.
You aren't awakened "with," you're awakened "by."
Early morning harrumphing is usually not a good sign.
“What’s wrong in there?” I asked, only half awake at that point.
Ah, a classic fictional conversation between this mis-matched pair. The conversation will flow thusly: wife will resond, Morsch won't understand, wife will explain, Morsch still won't understand, wife will become exasperated.
“I can’t find my navy blue shoes. I need a new system,” she said.
“A new system? For what?”
“To keep track of what’s in this closet,” she said.
Oh. Well that certainly is a reason to break out the early morning harrumphs.
I don't mean to toot my own horn here, but I was pretty spot-on.
As I pondered whether I wanted to get up and get ready for work or try to sneak in an extra 10 minutes of sack time, it occurred to me that I do not have a system. For anything. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever spent any time thinking about the need for having a system.
Oh, boy, us dopey men. Actually he does have a system for writing his columns: write, then publish, a crappy column.
I have no system for my shoes, I have no system for my clothes, I have no system for any of my stuff. (Although in this instance, I can see the benefit of developing some sort of system for staying in bed in the morning for an extra 10 minutes rather than using that time thinking about the need for developing a system.)
We're belaboring the point a little, but okay.
Oh, I can manage to hang up my shirts and pants in the closet — shirts on the left, pants on the right — but I do that to limit the harrumphing in our house to just one closet.
In more capable hands, I could see this topic being funny. But we've been over this before. How many times can he sit down and write a column about things his wife understands but he does not?
As for shoes, The Blonde Accountant has 6,497 pairs of shoes in the warehouse she calls a closet. (And she of course has nearly that many handbags to match all of those shoes.) I understand the need for her to have a system to keep track of all that footwear and accessories.
Wow, a number that high just HAS to be hilarious!
But I’m a guy, I have substantially fewer pairs of shoes, which is why there is no urgency to develop a system to keep track of them. In fact, I have only five pairs of shoes. Normally I can count to five, so there’s my system right there.
Men are SO stupid it's doubtful that they can even count! America, what a country!
I wondered how others handled this issue, so I threw open the question to my Facebook friends, a motley crew of rascals, rogues and roguettes, but usually good sources of varied perspectives.
Strange how this "crew" always seems to be comprised of the same three or four people. Morsch thinks it's amusing to stick "ettes" onto words (knuckleheadettes, rouguettes, etc). Is it? YOU be the judge.
Ann chimed in and suggested that maybe The Blonde Accountant ought to take pictures of each pair of shoes and attach them to the outside of the boxes.
Take pictures of the shoes and put them on the outside of the box? That would be impossible for me to do because I don’t keep my shoes in the boxes.
Shoes out of the boxes! Not being able to count! Spilling mustard!
Nevertheless, it’s a good suggestion in theory, but by conservative estimates, it could take four years to photograph 6,497 pairs of shoes. I think I will take Ann’s other bit of advice — and I’m paraphrasing here — never get between a women and her efforts to photograph her shoes.
Returning to the "high numbers are funny" thing, I see.
Frank, on the other hand, presents a perspective of both his wife’s closet and his own that makes more sense to me. He describes his wife’s closet as having, “Everything in its place, and there seems to be equal space between every hanger, apparently to allow every fiber to breath.”
This is just a guess on my part, but I suspect all the clothing items in my closet are holding their breath because they have to share space with my shoes.
His feet smell! He gets things stuck between his teeth! He slips on banana peels!
Frank goes on to admit something that sounds more familiar — that he has to step over two piles of laundry on the floor to reach the shelves that hold his extensive T-shirt collection, neatly shoved, but barely folded, into the space it occupies.
I think we get it. Men are slobs compared to women. This is barely even an idea. Remind me again how this man is qualified for his position?
And really, if you’re a guy and your closet doesn’t resemble the aforementioned description, then you’ve got a wife who has been harrumphing around in your closet.
All marriages are comprised of a stern, neat woman and a bumbling, sloppy man. Just ask any TV show.
Truth be told, those of us who actually get our articles of clothing into a closet already have a system that works, it’s just that it’s not likely to be the system employed by those who have lots of shoes and handbags.
Naturally, The Blonde Accountant will read this and I’ll spend all of next weekend cleaning out my closet and taking pictures of my shoes to put on the outside of the shoeboxes that I’ve already tossed.
Women buy shoes! Husbands are hen-pecked! The ideas here are about as fresh as last month's produce.
It’s what I believe is called system maintenance.
This makes no sense.
Published: Tuesday, October 12, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I have an odd feeling that this will be an entry akin to his "I can't do laundry" column, dwelling on the fact that men and women are different, men being dumb and women being smart and mysterious.
I was awakened recently one morning with the sounds of a good bit of harrumphing coming from The Blonde Accountant’s closet.
You aren't awakened "with," you're awakened "by."
Early morning harrumphing is usually not a good sign.
“What’s wrong in there?” I asked, only half awake at that point.
Ah, a classic fictional conversation between this mis-matched pair. The conversation will flow thusly: wife will resond, Morsch won't understand, wife will explain, Morsch still won't understand, wife will become exasperated.
“I can’t find my navy blue shoes. I need a new system,” she said.
“A new system? For what?”
“To keep track of what’s in this closet,” she said.
Oh. Well that certainly is a reason to break out the early morning harrumphs.
I don't mean to toot my own horn here, but I was pretty spot-on.
As I pondered whether I wanted to get up and get ready for work or try to sneak in an extra 10 minutes of sack time, it occurred to me that I do not have a system. For anything. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever spent any time thinking about the need for having a system.
Oh, boy, us dopey men. Actually he does have a system for writing his columns: write, then publish, a crappy column.
I have no system for my shoes, I have no system for my clothes, I have no system for any of my stuff. (Although in this instance, I can see the benefit of developing some sort of system for staying in bed in the morning for an extra 10 minutes rather than using that time thinking about the need for developing a system.)
We're belaboring the point a little, but okay.
Oh, I can manage to hang up my shirts and pants in the closet — shirts on the left, pants on the right — but I do that to limit the harrumphing in our house to just one closet.
In more capable hands, I could see this topic being funny. But we've been over this before. How many times can he sit down and write a column about things his wife understands but he does not?
As for shoes, The Blonde Accountant has 6,497 pairs of shoes in the warehouse she calls a closet. (And she of course has nearly that many handbags to match all of those shoes.) I understand the need for her to have a system to keep track of all that footwear and accessories.
Wow, a number that high just HAS to be hilarious!
But I’m a guy, I have substantially fewer pairs of shoes, which is why there is no urgency to develop a system to keep track of them. In fact, I have only five pairs of shoes. Normally I can count to five, so there’s my system right there.
Men are SO stupid it's doubtful that they can even count! America, what a country!
I wondered how others handled this issue, so I threw open the question to my Facebook friends, a motley crew of rascals, rogues and roguettes, but usually good sources of varied perspectives.
Strange how this "crew" always seems to be comprised of the same three or four people. Morsch thinks it's amusing to stick "ettes" onto words (knuckleheadettes, rouguettes, etc). Is it? YOU be the judge.
Ann chimed in and suggested that maybe The Blonde Accountant ought to take pictures of each pair of shoes and attach them to the outside of the boxes.
Take pictures of the shoes and put them on the outside of the box? That would be impossible for me to do because I don’t keep my shoes in the boxes.
Shoes out of the boxes! Not being able to count! Spilling mustard!
Nevertheless, it’s a good suggestion in theory, but by conservative estimates, it could take four years to photograph 6,497 pairs of shoes. I think I will take Ann’s other bit of advice — and I’m paraphrasing here — never get between a women and her efforts to photograph her shoes.
Returning to the "high numbers are funny" thing, I see.
Frank, on the other hand, presents a perspective of both his wife’s closet and his own that makes more sense to me. He describes his wife’s closet as having, “Everything in its place, and there seems to be equal space between every hanger, apparently to allow every fiber to breath.”
This is just a guess on my part, but I suspect all the clothing items in my closet are holding their breath because they have to share space with my shoes.
His feet smell! He gets things stuck between his teeth! He slips on banana peels!
Frank goes on to admit something that sounds more familiar — that he has to step over two piles of laundry on the floor to reach the shelves that hold his extensive T-shirt collection, neatly shoved, but barely folded, into the space it occupies.
I think we get it. Men are slobs compared to women. This is barely even an idea. Remind me again how this man is qualified for his position?
And really, if you’re a guy and your closet doesn’t resemble the aforementioned description, then you’ve got a wife who has been harrumphing around in your closet.
All marriages are comprised of a stern, neat woman and a bumbling, sloppy man. Just ask any TV show.
Truth be told, those of us who actually get our articles of clothing into a closet already have a system that works, it’s just that it’s not likely to be the system employed by those who have lots of shoes and handbags.
Naturally, The Blonde Accountant will read this and I’ll spend all of next weekend cleaning out my closet and taking pictures of my shoes to put on the outside of the shoeboxes that I’ve already tossed.
Women buy shoes! Husbands are hen-pecked! The ideas here are about as fresh as last month's produce.
It’s what I believe is called system maintenance.
This makes no sense.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The "Hey Kids Get Off My Lawn" Joke Post
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Hurtling toward the 'Age of Grumpiness'
Back in May, Morsch posted a column about the "grump bone," a rather vague term that had something to do with his recent knee surgery. Dare we expect shades of that classic here?
If a new study is any indication, it appears that I don’t have too much longer until I start down the path to “The Age of Grumpiness.”
Ah, talented is the writer who repeats his column title in the first paragraph.
It’s not that I don’t do my share of grumping. I’m already at an age where I do a pretty decent job of being cranky at times, especially when there are no ballgames to watch, which is not the case right now as the Phillies continue to play October baseball.
What else would the Philles play? October badminton?
But according to a wire service story,
Formula for a Morsch column: make joke in first paragraph, than summarize boring news article. Print.
a cable television survey out of London shows that in a study of 2,000 Britons, those over the age of 50 yukked it up far less than younger people. Not only that, the over 50 crowd complained a lot more.
This doesn't seem like a study with a whole lot of scientific merit. If Morsch owns a thesaurus, I hope he opens it one day to find a synonym for "laughter" other than "yukked."
This would be the place to insert the standard Old Guy’s Lament: “Hey you British kids get off my lawn!”
Yeah, because I ALWAYS hear people yell that in real life!
The survey showed that infants laughed up to 300 times a day (little kids will laugh at anything, like putting lipstick on the dog); teenagers laughed only six times a day (you wouldn’t have much time to laugh either if you spent most your time whining about all the homework you had to do);
The Big Morsch Cliche Express rolls on, folks.
and folks over age 60 laughed only 2.5 times a day (because it’s not funny when one pulls a hamstring getting out of a recliner).
This actually happened to him. Guaranteed.
By the way, men were found to be grumpier than women. This should come as no surprise whatsoever because it is the men in general who are in charge of lawn enforcement rules.
I really need to go back and find how often he's used the "get off my lawn" thing. It's a frighteningly high number.
So, when I get to age 52, I’ll be grumpy. And I thought I was just going to be sleepy.
Why did he think that? Why does he reference age 52 instead of age 50 (the one mentioned in the survey)? What was the point of any of this?
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Hurtling toward the 'Age of Grumpiness'
Back in May, Morsch posted a column about the "grump bone," a rather vague term that had something to do with his recent knee surgery. Dare we expect shades of that classic here?
If a new study is any indication, it appears that I don’t have too much longer until I start down the path to “The Age of Grumpiness.”
Ah, talented is the writer who repeats his column title in the first paragraph.
It’s not that I don’t do my share of grumping. I’m already at an age where I do a pretty decent job of being cranky at times, especially when there are no ballgames to watch, which is not the case right now as the Phillies continue to play October baseball.
What else would the Philles play? October badminton?
But according to a wire service story,
Formula for a Morsch column: make joke in first paragraph, than summarize boring news article. Print.
a cable television survey out of London shows that in a study of 2,000 Britons, those over the age of 50 yukked it up far less than younger people. Not only that, the over 50 crowd complained a lot more.
This doesn't seem like a study with a whole lot of scientific merit. If Morsch owns a thesaurus, I hope he opens it one day to find a synonym for "laughter" other than "yukked."
This would be the place to insert the standard Old Guy’s Lament: “Hey you British kids get off my lawn!”
Yeah, because I ALWAYS hear people yell that in real life!
The survey showed that infants laughed up to 300 times a day (little kids will laugh at anything, like putting lipstick on the dog); teenagers laughed only six times a day (you wouldn’t have much time to laugh either if you spent most your time whining about all the homework you had to do);
The Big Morsch Cliche Express rolls on, folks.
and folks over age 60 laughed only 2.5 times a day (because it’s not funny when one pulls a hamstring getting out of a recliner).
This actually happened to him. Guaranteed.
By the way, men were found to be grumpier than women. This should come as no surprise whatsoever because it is the men in general who are in charge of lawn enforcement rules.
I really need to go back and find how often he's used the "get off my lawn" thing. It's a frighteningly high number.
So, when I get to age 52, I’ll be grumpy. And I thought I was just going to be sleepy.
Why did he think that? Why does he reference age 52 instead of age 50 (the one mentioned in the survey)? What was the point of any of this?
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Terrible at Everything
That just wasn't a playoff effort by Roy Oswalt. And despite his W-L record, Bronson Aroyo isn't this good. about 6 hours ago via web
Um... it's Bronson ARROYO. You only had a perfect view of that on his uniform for 5+ innings. And yes, Mr. ARROYO is that good. Over the past three seasons, he has 47 wins for the sinkin' Reds (Cole Hamels, by the way, has 36). He's pitched 200+ innings six years in a row, and he has a 1.15 WHIP this season. Some of Morsch's patented Internet research would really help him in certain situations. Ass.
Even with all that offspeed horsebleep that Aroyo is tossing up there, he shouldn't be able to throw a fastball by Ryan Howard. about 5 hours ago via web
Again, it's ARROYO. Add "horsebleep" to the list of words Morsch absolutely adores using. And in case you haven't watched a single Phillies game in the past 4 years or so, just about every pitcher in baseball can strike out Ryan Howard.
Baseball is the passion of Morsch's life, and he's worse at watching it than he is writing about it. Is there anything this man can't fail at?
Um... it's Bronson ARROYO. You only had a perfect view of that on his uniform for 5+ innings. And yes, Mr. ARROYO is that good. Over the past three seasons, he has 47 wins for the sinkin' Reds (Cole Hamels, by the way, has 36). He's pitched 200+ innings six years in a row, and he has a 1.15 WHIP this season. Some of Morsch's patented Internet research would really help him in certain situations. Ass.
Even with all that offspeed horsebleep that Aroyo is tossing up there, he shouldn't be able to throw a fastball by Ryan Howard. about 5 hours ago via web
Again, it's ARROYO. Add "horsebleep" to the list of words Morsch absolutely adores using. And in case you haven't watched a single Phillies game in the past 4 years or so, just about every pitcher in baseball can strike out Ryan Howard.
Baseball is the passion of Morsch's life, and he's worse at watching it than he is writing about it. Is there anything this man can't fail at?
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Case in Point
The Phils are getting ready to play so the Tood Palin email hoo-ha with the other jamoke is insignificant. Just like Todd's wife.
about 1 hour ago via web
Use of the Morsch standard "jamoke"? Check.
Orienting entire life around a baseball game? Check.
Hatred of Palin? Check.
For someone so "insignificant," I think Morsch has devoted more space in his Twitter account to Palin than any other human being.
about 1 hour ago via web
Use of the Morsch standard "jamoke"? Check.
Orienting entire life around a baseball game? Check.
Hatred of Palin? Check.
For someone so "insignificant," I think Morsch has devoted more space in his Twitter account to Palin than any other human being.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Morsch Uses Two Jokes
Women attracted to men who cut a rug more than those who wear one
Published: Tuesday, October 05, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I'm surprised that he references a toupee, since he himself doesn't wear one. This is going to be one of those self-deprecating columns about how Morsch is a clumsy boob and can't dance, spills things, etc. It's also a bit of a shock that he's doing a full-length column rather than a blog post on a Tuesday.
A new study reveals that women are more attracted to men who have a wide array of dance moves, which only reinforces the notion that I should consider myself lucky that I already have a wife.
Or so we're told. Any confirmation that this quote unquote wife is actually real?
Now if women were attracted to men who stomped on their open-toed shoes when dancing, then I would near the top of the list and women would be lined up around the block for the opportunity to cut a rug with me.
Ah, Morsch, ya big galloot! This "humor" doesn't even work in a printed column - imagining reading it out loud and trying to get a laugh. That's two uses of the phrase "cut a rug" so far.
By the way, according to the website wisegeek.com, there are several theories surrounding the origin of the slang phrase “cut a rug.”
That's three. Have history's great humor writers regularly relied on internet research for so much of their material?
The most reasonable suggests that skilled dancers who danced so well that they wore out the carpet were said to have “cut a rug” or “cut a mean rug.”
Four. And DUH.
I could find no slang phrase for stomping on the toes of one’s dance partner, so I can only rely on personal experience here to coin a phrase based on what I’ve heard in the past, something along the lines of, “Hey jerkweed, we’re not making wine here. We’re trying to dance!”
Wow, apparently the people Morsch steps on are even less funny than he is. And that's the second "I step on feet while dancing" joke.
Somehow, I don’t think that’s gonna catch on like “cut a rug.”
Five.
But alas, the older I get, the less I can dance. This would concern me if I was actually able to dance when I was younger.
Not that I didn’t try. There is a color slide of me at about age 3, dancing in my undershorts next to the record player. It appears I may have been doing a version of The Twist, given the contortions of my body, captured forever in that image.
Can I take this opportunity to say how much I hate the word "undershorts"? I've never heard anyone else say that, and it strikes me as obnoxiously archaic.
(Remember color slides? My dad, like all the other dads from that era, used to take color slides of everything. It seemed highly entertaining at the time for adults to get out the projector and screen, turn out the lights, and view slides from the vacation to Pike’s Peak or kids dancing in their undershorts. It could not have been more boring to me as a youngster.)
Wow, that was one long and pointless aside. Gotta fill up that blank space somehow, I guess.
I believe I danced a little bit in high school in an attempt to attract the girls. Given that I was a jock, I at least had a sense of coordination, and I recall one high school dance my junior year where I thought I actually knew what I was doing on the dance floor.
He was a "jock"? Maybe he means he was a "Jacques," like he belonged to a Jacques Cousteau appreciation society or something.
But subsequent dances proved that I was indeed no John Travolta, as evidenced by the bandaged feet of my then-girlfriend.
There's number three.
By the time I got to college, alcohol had been introduced into the dancing equation, at about the same time that Travolta introduced us to flamboyant moves and white suits. That proved to be a winning combination for me in the dancing department as I became adept on the disco dance floor. Fortunately, there were no cell phone video cameras back then and there is no evidence to the contrary, so I’m sticking with that story.
But wait - he's saying that in college, booze and Travolta appeared at the same time and he became "adept" at dancing. Yet when he was a Junior in high school, he had already proved that he was "indeed no John Travolta." So what's the true story?
As an adult, I did once win an American Legion dance hall contest with my first wife. But it was a fluke.
What was, the dance contest or your marriage?
We were living in a remote rural area of southern Iowa at the time and I believe our only competition in the contest were a cow and a couple of chickens. As I recall, our winning dance moves including stepping lightly around that dance floor.
... Okay.
I never really knew how much I couldn’t dance until actual proof was presented to me sometime in the mid-1990s.
Except that dance in your Junior year, when you yourself realized that you couldn't.
We had taken a trip to DisneyWorld and for those of you who have been there, you know that there is always happy music playing in the theme parks while the Disney characters roam the grounds, posing for pictures.
In every photo — me with Tigger, me with Donald, me with Goofy — there I am pointing my index finger skyward, just like Travolta in “Saturday Night Fever.” Well, at least I didn’t have my finger in my nose when the camera was around. Guess I should have stuck to dancing The Twist in my underwear.
Absolutely disgusting. A nose-picking joke, and another reference to Morsch as a child in his underwear.
Nowadays, my dancing experience is limited to twirling around in a circle with The Blonde Accountant during slow songs and to watching “Dancing With The Stars.” (I am, however, boycotting DWTS because the professional dancers are bigger stars than some of the wannabe jamokes on this year’s show.)
He's referring to Bristol Palin, obviously. One of the many things that bothers me about Morsch's writing style: his reliance on catch phrases like "jamoke" and "knucklehead" and "undershorts." Like he thinks he's famous enough that their use will delight his legions of fans.
According to the study, men who are bad dancers can improve their chances of attracting women if they work on their core body moves around the head, neck and trunk areas. Just to be clear: Women prefer men who can indeed cut a rug rather than men who wear one.
But the study didn't mention anything about men who wear hairpieces. What if a man who wears one also is a good dancer? Where did Morsch make this connection? Use of "cut a rug" number six, by the way.
But it appears at this age I am past the point of worrying about attracting anything more than enough time to work in a nap.
You can't attract time. This doesn't make any sense.
These days, I should stick with what I know when it comes to dancing, which is, of course, wine-making.
"Stepping on toes" joke number four, folks.
From Twitter:
Christine O'Donnell is not a witch. Really, she isn't.
about 14 hours ago via web
Richard Nixon: "I am not a crook." Christine O'Donnell: "I am not a witch."
10 minutes ago via web
Morsch saves his harshest and most obsessive attacks for female politicians. Interesting, isn't it?
Published: Tuesday, October 05, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I'm surprised that he references a toupee, since he himself doesn't wear one. This is going to be one of those self-deprecating columns about how Morsch is a clumsy boob and can't dance, spills things, etc. It's also a bit of a shock that he's doing a full-length column rather than a blog post on a Tuesday.
A new study reveals that women are more attracted to men who have a wide array of dance moves, which only reinforces the notion that I should consider myself lucky that I already have a wife.
Or so we're told. Any confirmation that this quote unquote wife is actually real?
Now if women were attracted to men who stomped on their open-toed shoes when dancing, then I would near the top of the list and women would be lined up around the block for the opportunity to cut a rug with me.
Ah, Morsch, ya big galloot! This "humor" doesn't even work in a printed column - imagining reading it out loud and trying to get a laugh. That's two uses of the phrase "cut a rug" so far.
By the way, according to the website wisegeek.com, there are several theories surrounding the origin of the slang phrase “cut a rug.”
That's three. Have history's great humor writers regularly relied on internet research for so much of their material?
The most reasonable suggests that skilled dancers who danced so well that they wore out the carpet were said to have “cut a rug” or “cut a mean rug.”
Four. And DUH.
I could find no slang phrase for stomping on the toes of one’s dance partner, so I can only rely on personal experience here to coin a phrase based on what I’ve heard in the past, something along the lines of, “Hey jerkweed, we’re not making wine here. We’re trying to dance!”
Wow, apparently the people Morsch steps on are even less funny than he is. And that's the second "I step on feet while dancing" joke.
Somehow, I don’t think that’s gonna catch on like “cut a rug.”
Five.
But alas, the older I get, the less I can dance. This would concern me if I was actually able to dance when I was younger.
Not that I didn’t try. There is a color slide of me at about age 3, dancing in my undershorts next to the record player. It appears I may have been doing a version of The Twist, given the contortions of my body, captured forever in that image.
Can I take this opportunity to say how much I hate the word "undershorts"? I've never heard anyone else say that, and it strikes me as obnoxiously archaic.
(Remember color slides? My dad, like all the other dads from that era, used to take color slides of everything. It seemed highly entertaining at the time for adults to get out the projector and screen, turn out the lights, and view slides from the vacation to Pike’s Peak or kids dancing in their undershorts. It could not have been more boring to me as a youngster.)
Wow, that was one long and pointless aside. Gotta fill up that blank space somehow, I guess.
I believe I danced a little bit in high school in an attempt to attract the girls. Given that I was a jock, I at least had a sense of coordination, and I recall one high school dance my junior year where I thought I actually knew what I was doing on the dance floor.
He was a "jock"? Maybe he means he was a "Jacques," like he belonged to a Jacques Cousteau appreciation society or something.
But subsequent dances proved that I was indeed no John Travolta, as evidenced by the bandaged feet of my then-girlfriend.
There's number three.
By the time I got to college, alcohol had been introduced into the dancing equation, at about the same time that Travolta introduced us to flamboyant moves and white suits. That proved to be a winning combination for me in the dancing department as I became adept on the disco dance floor. Fortunately, there were no cell phone video cameras back then and there is no evidence to the contrary, so I’m sticking with that story.
But wait - he's saying that in college, booze and Travolta appeared at the same time and he became "adept" at dancing. Yet when he was a Junior in high school, he had already proved that he was "indeed no John Travolta." So what's the true story?
As an adult, I did once win an American Legion dance hall contest with my first wife. But it was a fluke.
What was, the dance contest or your marriage?
We were living in a remote rural area of southern Iowa at the time and I believe our only competition in the contest were a cow and a couple of chickens. As I recall, our winning dance moves including stepping lightly around that dance floor.
... Okay.
I never really knew how much I couldn’t dance until actual proof was presented to me sometime in the mid-1990s.
Except that dance in your Junior year, when you yourself realized that you couldn't.
We had taken a trip to DisneyWorld and for those of you who have been there, you know that there is always happy music playing in the theme parks while the Disney characters roam the grounds, posing for pictures.
In every photo — me with Tigger, me with Donald, me with Goofy — there I am pointing my index finger skyward, just like Travolta in “Saturday Night Fever.” Well, at least I didn’t have my finger in my nose when the camera was around. Guess I should have stuck to dancing The Twist in my underwear.
Absolutely disgusting. A nose-picking joke, and another reference to Morsch as a child in his underwear.
Nowadays, my dancing experience is limited to twirling around in a circle with The Blonde Accountant during slow songs and to watching “Dancing With The Stars.” (I am, however, boycotting DWTS because the professional dancers are bigger stars than some of the wannabe jamokes on this year’s show.)
He's referring to Bristol Palin, obviously. One of the many things that bothers me about Morsch's writing style: his reliance on catch phrases like "jamoke" and "knucklehead" and "undershorts." Like he thinks he's famous enough that their use will delight his legions of fans.
According to the study, men who are bad dancers can improve their chances of attracting women if they work on their core body moves around the head, neck and trunk areas. Just to be clear: Women prefer men who can indeed cut a rug rather than men who wear one.
But the study didn't mention anything about men who wear hairpieces. What if a man who wears one also is a good dancer? Where did Morsch make this connection? Use of "cut a rug" number six, by the way.
But it appears at this age I am past the point of worrying about attracting anything more than enough time to work in a nap.
You can't attract time. This doesn't make any sense.
These days, I should stick with what I know when it comes to dancing, which is, of course, wine-making.
"Stepping on toes" joke number four, folks.
From Twitter:
Christine O'Donnell is not a witch. Really, she isn't.
about 14 hours ago via web
Richard Nixon: "I am not a crook." Christine O'Donnell: "I am not a witch."
10 minutes ago via web
Morsch saves his harshest and most obsessive attacks for female politicians. Interesting, isn't it?
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