He Drinks Beer and Eats (and is Dumb)

OUTTA LEFTFIELD: Testing the 'men who drink beer are smarter' theory
Published: Thursday, May 03, 2012
By Mike Morsch

Gee, how many "manly" references are we going to get THIS time?

I read recently that researchers at the University of Illinois in Chicago have found that men who have had a couple of beers actually become smarter.

When we delve into the actual "results" of this "study," I think we'll find that this doesn't accurately reflect their findings.

Despite the fact that virtually every woman on the planet would likely disagree with this finding,

Duuuuh, women smart! Men dumb! Funny.

I am originally from Illinois,

NO WAY. Get outta town! He's from Illinois? I'm dumbfounded by this new data.

and I trust any and all research that has been conducted by the institutions of higher learning in my home state when it comes to beer. Institutions of higher learning employ a lot of smart people, and there has always been a lot of beer consumed by college students, so it makes sense that college researchers would study this topic.

Will we get to hear how drunk he was in college, how poor his grades were, his idea for new types of togas, etc? Please say yes!

And despite the fact that I have scores of examples within my own personal history to suggest otherwise,

Thank you, Lord.

I decided to personally test the University of Illinois/Chicago’s theory that beer-drinking men are smarter. Recently, Lee’s Hoagie House in Horsham — right across from the Willow Grove Naval Air Base at 870 Easton Road — was offering the first of three Friday nights of free beer-tasting. (The other two have also been held, but I was unable to make those.)

Which venue screams "class" more: Lee's Hoagie House or Slack's Hoagie Shack? Discuss. I like how he feels the need to specify which beer night he attended, and also to let us know that the other two already happened (because otherwise his legions of readers would be flooding to the Horsham Lee's location, I guess).

The operative words here are “free” and “beer.” The fact that I took advantage of such an opportunity suggests that I am already smart.

Unfortunately, those who read your column would suggest you are anything but.

Still, I wanted to test the theory further. To be fair, the folks at the University of Illinois/Chicago — I’ve actually been there a few times but I was unable to locate the correct building in which to fill out an application to participate in any beer studies — have qualified the research.

Qualities of a Smart Person: (1) Obtains free beer. (2) Cannot find buildings.

Scientists devised a bar game in which 40 men were given three words and asked to find a fourth word that fits the pattern. As an example, the wire service story revealed that the 40 men would be given the words “blue,” “cottage” and “Swiss” and the corresponding fourth word might be something like “cheese.” Never let it be said that cheesy bar games can’t be utilized for legitimate scientific research.

Question: does he - CAN he - really think the "cheesy" pun is amusing? It's not even funny in a groan-inducing "really bad pun" way. It's just lazy and predictable.

Half of the participants in the focus group were given two pints of beer, the other half were given squadoosh, nada, zip, zilcho. Hey, if I’m those guys and I’m asked to participate in a scientific study that includes beer, I’d like to be in the focus group that actually gets the beer.

That's it - I'm going to count the number of times the word "beer" appears in this post. I'm guessing he's hit 15 thus far, minimum. [Editor's Note: It was only 11.]

The end result was that the beer drinkers solved 40 percent more of the problems than those who weren’t allowed in the elbow-bending party. Also, the guzzlers finished their problems in 12 seconds, while the nondrinkers took 15.5 second to solve the problems.

This is hardly scientific.

Since I live quite a ways from Chicago now, Lee’s Hoagie House offered me and others the opportunity to conduct our scientific research locally. Jon Waxman owns the Horsham Lee’s — as well as others in Abington and Blue Bell. He recently installed a big old freezer in the Horsham location — a great advantage to keeping the beer cold — which in my opinion is critical to any scientific research on the beverage.

At this point I believe most of the audience understands that the "joke" of this column is that, under the pretense of science, you just want to drink beer. How much longer must it be dragged out?

I don’t know if Jon is a beer drinker or not because my research only included drinking his beer, not asking any other questions. But if the big freezer and the beer-tasting events are an indication of Jon’s level of smartness, then he’s popped a top or two in his life.

Qualities of a Smart Person: (3) Owns a freezer.

For this research, I joined my pal and fellow columnist Ted Taylor, aka “The Glenside Kid,” and his wife, Cindy, along with a few other locals. The Blonde Accountant joined us, too, because it’s a well-established fact that she and only she is the final judge on my level of smartness under any circumstance, scientific or otherwise.

Ha... ha... ha. She is smart, you are dumb. Formula for comedy = complete.

And besides, I am smart enough to know that if I am drinking, then she is driving. Ted and I sampled, oh I don’t know, maybe 100 little cups of beer. (Actually, it was probably closer to four little cups that amounted to about half a bottle of beer because Ted and I aren’t as young as we used to be.)

Huh? This is like my 5-year-old nephew's attempt at an off-the-cuff joke: "I drank 100 BEERS! I'm kidding, it was just four."

The test results yielded the following results: (1) The beer was cold = Jon is smart; (2) Ted and I drank the beer and then ordered hoagies = Jon is smart; (3) The event featured giveaways, like free Phillies tickets = Jon is smart (although the Phillies have spent the early part of this season trying to prove otherwise);

Alright, I think I get the "joke" here - everything means that Jon is smart. Three examples is enough.

(4) I bought more beer to go with my sandwich = Jon is smart; (5) The University of Illinois/Chicago folks did it all wrong, they should have included hoagies in the research = Jon is smart.

This is almost a textbook example of "running an already-unfunny joke into the ground." Seriously, FIVE repetitions of the same stupid thing?

I believe I am smarter as well. For example, if I was given two pints of brewski and three words like “free,” “cold” and “beer,” I believe I could easily come with a corresponding fourth word. And that, of course, would be “Lee’s.”

No "Blatant Promotion Alert" here? The whole column was a thinly-disguised advertisement for Jon and his restaurant. Pathetic. By the way, by my count, he used the word "beer" 22 times in this column.

Leather Materials are Amusing

OUTTA LEFTFIELD: Getting coached on the intricacies of genuine water buffalo
Published: Tuesday, June 07, 2011

Dare I guess that Borsch is about to write about a topic he doesn't fully understand and about the merits of which he is rather dubious?

Here’s a sentence I never thought I’d write: I’m now carrying a water buffalo in my pocket.

Uh ... I may need a bigger pocket.

Is this supposed to be a "we're gonna need a bigger boat" Jaws reference?

There just aren’t too many daily situations or conversations where the words “water buffalo” come into play. In fact, the first and only water buffalo reference I can remember in my life was when I was a kid watching “The Flintstones.”

This is great - we aren't even on-topic yet and we're already off-topic!

Fred and Barney were members of the Loyal Order of Water Buffaloes Lodge No. 26, whose members wore really cool hats with horns and whose president was called The Grand Poobah. For you cartoon trivia buffs, the lodge’s secret password was “Ack, Ack, A-Dak.”

... This isn't funny.

But the water buffalo entered my life once again on this past Memorial Day. With no better plans in the offing — and that alone exposes a major flaw in our family’s holiday planning procedures — we found ourselves out at Limerick Outlet Mall with about a bazillion other people who obviously thought that shopping was a better option than having a picnic or going to a ballgame on a holiday weekend.

Morsch tortures the English language with his keyboard like a Medieval turnkey tortured peasants with the rack. He gets a perverse pleasure out of stretching sentences far past their normal limits.

Of course, some of the reason for the big crowd had to do with the big sales going on, which I’m told by the shopping experts in the family is not an unusual occurrence on Memorial Day.

How many things can this man not know about??? I know it's part of the "joke" that he doesn't know things, but really, sales on Memorial Day? Will he claim ignorance re: Black Friday sales next?

That the sales attracted a crowd was immediately evident upon our arrival to the outlet mall. The number of cars in the parking lot suggested the nearest open parking spot might be in King of Prussia.

So after stating that "a bazillion people" were at the Outlets, we once again have to establish that a lot of people were there (a bazillion, by the way, is also the number of years ago Babe Ruth did something in baseball, according to a recent column).

Swell. Fortunately, my exercise routine includes walking several miles a week, so I was not intimidated.

Watch out men - this guy walks with the best of them!

I dropped the shoppers off near the point in the mall where they intended to spend my money and went in search of a parking spot, which I eventually did find in the back 40 of the lot.

So after stating how scarce parking was... we once again have to state how scarce parking was.

As I was making my way in from the parking lot, a text message arrived from The Blonde Accountant: “At the Coach store, and it’s a jailbreak.”

“Jailbreak” is a term in our family that we use to mean, “It’s crazy-go-nuts with people in here.”

Uh-oh - cue the "heart" of the story, which I'm guessing will be how guys don't understand the Coach phenomenon.

Gentlemen, if you’ve never experienced a jailbreak at a Coach store having a sale, it’s a real treat. Imagine hundreds of women overdosing on the smell of leather and the potential to snag an overpriced handbag or wallet at a somewhat reasonable price.

Does he actually think he's the first to comment on these cultural trends? People were making jokes about overpriced, trendy Coach bags four or five years ago.

In what may be a surprising detail to some of you, I occasionally shop at the Coach store, despite the fact that it does not serve beer with its handbags.

Beer joke! The hits keep on comin'!

The reason I do is that the founders of the company drew inspiration from a leather baseball glove to create handbags with the same concept where the more they are used, the softer and smoother they become. Given that connection, straight from the company bio, The Blonde Accountant has yet to be convinced that we can have a catch using a couple of her Coach handbags as ball gloves.

Good Lord. This man really cannot write a column in which he doesn't employ at least half a dozen of his personal cliches. Not only does he work baseball into a discussion about purses, he even inserts a "ballpark" and a "ballglove."

By the way, look at that first sentence. It's as bloated and clumsy as Borsch himself. I'd be embarassed to turn in a college paper with a sentence like that, let alone a published column. What a hack.

So I carry both a Coach wallet and money clip, which usually is just wishful thinking on my part because after I pay for the wallet, there isn’t anything left to put in the money clip.

This presents something of a "chicken and the egg" conundrum - if his money clip is always empty because he has just paid for a wallet, how can he always carry both a wallet and a money clip?

But I was in need of both, and the big Coach sale provided me the opportunity to purchase them, but only after being knocked down seven times by the scores of women flitting about the store in their leather-induced haze.

Seven must be a funny number to Borsch (see "seven kinds of heck"). So he has a wallet, a money clip empty because he had to pay for the wallet, and a need to purchase both a wallet in money clip. This should be impossible.

It was only when we got home at the end of the shopping excursion that The Blonde Accountant pointed out a detail that I had overlooked.

“Did you know that your new wallet is made of water buffalo?” she said.

COMEDY!

“What? Water buffalo? Since when did water buffalo move to the top of the leather wallet food chain? You’re making that up,” I said.

He never said that. Totally fictional exchange.

Apparently not. In the Coach shopping bag there was a card that was slipped in by the checker that detailed how to care for a water buffalo wallet. It read: “Do not use Coach Leather Cleaner or Moisturizer on water buffalo accessories. Ink marks or grease stains should be left untreated; most will eventually blend into the darker leathers. Scratches or scuffs can generally be removed simply by rubbing them with your fingertips until the natural oils in your hand cause the marks to disappear.”

Is all that supposed to be funny? Did we really need to read the whole text of the card?

To which I responded: “There is a whole line of water buffalo accessories?” Besides, I never cared enough about a wallet to care for it anyway.

Keep in mind, we're now two paragraphs away from the end of the story, and we're just now reaching the "point" - which is that his wallet is dumb, I guess.

So now I carry a water buffalo wallet in my pocket. My sense is that now qualifies me to use the Loyal Order of Water Buffaloes Lodge secret password of “Ack, Ack, A-Dak,” which I’ve come to believe in prehistoric English means, “Show us your Coach water buffalo wallet and empty money clip.”

This money clip/wallet thing makes no sense. Another thing making no sense is the "water buffalo in my pocket" joke from the beginning. Hey, I'm wearing a cow on my feet! And a sheep on my body! Har dee har har har.

And as a bonus, I’m looking forward to wearing the Water Buffalo hat, if for no other reason than as protective headgear. It should be the perfect accessory for the next big Coach sale.

Terrible. I understand this is just a small newspaper group and all, but this is the best they can do for a "humor" column? And how desperate were they for an editor that they hired this guy?

Material Copied from Website

OUTTA LEFTFIELD: The line between smart and stupid continues to be blurred
Published: Wednesday, May 18, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor

Exibit A: "Outta Leftfield."

The line between smart and stupid has become increasingly more blurred the past few years. And I’m not referring to just in the political arena.

Gee, to what could he be referring? Hint: he's certainly not calling Obama stupid.

For example, there is the website www.stupid.com, which has been mentioned in this space before.

It has? Is that Borsch's domain name or something?

It features categories like senior gags, office gags, drinking gags, kitchen gags, holiday gags, funny hats and something called the “Poop Shop,” which offers nearly 30 doo-related items. There’s a lot of gagging going on there, and rightfully so, I might add.

For a guy supposedly so grossed out by poop, he finds a way to focus on it in quite a few of his columns.

It’s both stoo and pid. And the folks who run the website realize that by not taking themselves or their products seriously at all.

Is "both stoo and pid" supposed to be funny?

But then I happened across an article titled “Wow, that’s smart!” which was touting some inventions that might make one exclaim, “I wish I’d thought of that!”

Hey, stupid or smart, I’ve had many of those “I wish I’d thought of that!” moments over the course of my life. The closest I’ve ever come to inventing anything, though, was in college in 1978 when I pioneered the “co-ed toga,” a simple bedsheet-turned-toga-for-two inspired by the combination of being 18 and the exposure to mass quantities of alcohol and 18-year-old women. My parents were so proud.

Yet another reference to "coming up with an idea because of beer," a common theme here. And I seriously doubt he "pioneered" that idea.

But hey, going to college in Iowa in the 1970s required us to be creative thinkers because there really wasn’t much else to do, despite the popularity of cow-tipping.

Growing up in the mid-west! WOW! This material is so fresh you can smell it.

Among the smart ideas touted in the aforementioned article were something called “Coffee Joulies,” stainless steal beans about the size of an egg that one puts into a cup of coffee to instantly cool it to a drinkable temperature. I always thought those were called ice cubes.

I don't know what's dumber, the Coffee Joulies or the ice cube remark. You'd think one would displace so much fluid it would spill, and why heat something up just to put ice cubes in it to cool it down?

Another is called a “Cool Wazoo,” a child-protector pad that has five different uses: in a restaurant high chair, on a swing, in a car seat, in a grocery cart or as a changing pad. It sells for $65. I think when my kids were little I used a towel, which means one is spending $65 for the admittedly cool name of the product.

He used a towel as a restaurant high chair and car seat? Impressive. I'm starting to see why none of Borsch's "great ideas" have panned out.

One of the “Wow, that’s smart!” product ideas isn’t really a product at all, which doesn’t necessarily disqualify it from being a smart idea.

This is known as "logic." All smart product ideas are smart ideas, but not all smart ideas are necessarily product ideas.

It’s called the “Poor Man’s Drycleaning” and is accompanied by a picture of a guy with his nose in his armpit. It might be the first recorded image in history of a guy with his nose in his armpit illustrating what’s being called a good idea.

I understand neither the idea itself, nor Borsch's little comment after.

The theory behind this is more along the lines of a home remedy. (Note: Women would never do this, but that is not an automatic disqualifier for guys.)

This is also "logic." Women are not men; therefore an activity that excludes women does not necessarily exclude men as well.

We’ve all seen a guy pick a shirt out of the laundry basket, stick it up to his nose, shrug his shoulders like it’s not too wrinkled and doesn’t smell that bad, and then pull it on over his head. (For the record, I am not one of those guys, which is one of my few redeeming qualities.)

I believe Jeff Foxworthy did this exact routine. The originality here is astounding.

It turns out that those who like to wear their shirts more than once before laundering can make the shirt smell fresh and clean by pouring a little vodka and water into a spray bottle and then spritzing the shirt with the mixture. Once it dries, the garment is good to go. Who said bartenders don’t come up with any good ideas?

I understand the idea now. Please note that we're waist-deep in a "someone else's amusing story I read on the Internet" column.

According to the information in the story, this is a common trick used by Broadway actors so that the costumes don’t have to be dry-cleaned after every performance. Also — and this is big-star product endorsement territory — “Joan Rivers swears by it. So does Madonna.”

I wonder how many paragraphs he has started with "according to" in his "writing" career. They probably number in the thousands.

I was wrong. Apparently women would do something like this to their clothes. Seriously, Joan, can we talk? And Madonna, is that anyway to express yourself?

In this context, it should be "any way," not "anyway." Idiot.

So here’s what we’ve got: The smart ideas include “Coffee Joulies,” the “Cool Wazoo” and the “Poor Man’s Drycleaning” theory. The stupid ideas include anything to do with poo.

Back to poop! I had no idea being a published columnist was so easy. You go to a website, copy the information on said website, and presto! Your column is done.

See how difficult it is to tell the smart from the stupid? Maybe I ought to think about bringing back the co-ed toga idea.

I like how he found these ideas on a website called "stupid.com," and his point is that they're stupid ideas. Hey, at least he TRIED to be funny this time and didn't just summarize random events from his weekend.

He Can't Grill, Either

Outta Leftfield
When it comes to cleaning the grill, options can be half-baked
Published: Wednesday, May 11, 2011
By Mike Morsch

Unfortunately, you don't bake on a grill.

Mother’s Day proved to be Opening Day of the grilling season at our house, and I must admit, it appears that my barbecuing skills have not improved any during the off season. I can still burn meat with the best of them.

*Sigh* Self-deprecating humor is one thing, but is it even possible that one man can be bad at so many things? Will we be seeing columns about how he can't brush his teeth or tie his shoes?

But this season opens up with a bit of vindication: Turns out it’s not a completely and utterly ridiculous idea to suggest that a self-cleaning oven be utilized when cleaning the grates of the grill.

Years ago, I was laughed right out of my neighborhood for suggesting that if a self-cleaning oven could clean the oven’s grates, then why couldn’t it clean the grill’s grates with the same effectiveness?

Don't these two paragraphs say exactly the same thing?

There appear to be two schools of thought on this: the husband’s creative thinking methods designed to save elbow grease and maximize leisure time … and the right way as determined by the wife.

Wahoooo, here's an original idea for humor: the smart wife knows more than the dumb husband! Move over, Tim Allen!

Traditional cleaning of a charcoal grill goes something like this:
(1) Remove the grates and soak them in warm, soapy water.
(2) Make sure the beer is cold.

Ah, and a beer joke. We're opening up new horizons in comedy here, folks.

(3) Use a stiff wire brush to gently scrub the surface of the grates.
(4) Drink a cold beer.

It got funnier the second time, didn't it?

(5) Sit in the lawn chair and try to think of easier ways to clean the grill. (Throwing the grill away after every use and buying a new one certainly isn’t practical, but that doesn’t mean the idea should not be considered.)
(6) Approach wife with the self-cleaning oven idea, which makes a whole lot of sense before and after several beers.

How much longer is this list going to be?

(7) Pick the ridicule and chastisement out of your backside for even thinking you were bringing those nasty grill grates into a perfectly clean kitchen and sticking them into a brand new and perfectly clean oven.

The more clauses you add, the more amusing a sentence becomes.

(8) Drink another beer, scoff at the fact that Scrubbing Bubbles is not recommended for cleaning grills.
(9) Ponder the various uses of a wire brush that don’t involve grill grates. (I couldn’t think of any others.)

Third beer reference in a single list. #9 is actually a decent question.

(10) Take a nap in the lawn chair, allowing the grill sufficient time to air dry.

By suggesting years ago that the self-cleaning oven could do the work of the warm, soapy water, Scrubbing Bubbles and wire brush, I had apparently violated some kind of No Stinky Grill Grates in My New Oven Rule.

"Stinky"? Are grill grates really stinky? Dirty, yes, but are they really known for their odor?

However, there are any number of websites these days where information can be found supporting the theory of putting the grill grates in the self-cleaning oven. Maybe I was just ahead of my time in this area of thinking 10 years ago.

Try reading both those sentences out loud. They sound TERRIBLE. At this point, it may be interesting to refer back to his June 10, 2010 article on virtually the same subject. Some quotes of interest:

"...the first round of meat was successfully charred over the holiday weekend."
"Personally, if mankind can invent a self-cleaning oven, then I think it should be able to invent a self-cleaning grill. Failing that, we should at least be able to remove the grill’s grates and place them in a self-cleaning oven..."

So we have this year's article in 100 words or less, basically. Burn food? Check. Clean grill? Check. The end.

Things have evolved now for me in the area of grilling. I no longer have the Weber kettle charcoal grill. I have some kind of Cadillac gas grill. It’s a big, old thing that takes up a good chunk of a relatively small back deck, and provides me the opportunity to efficiently burn the meat at a higher level of grilling incompetence.

It's old? He just purchased it a year ago. Unless he's trying to use "big old" as in "large," in which case that comma doesn't belong there. Glad we FINALLY established that he burns meat, too.

And I do not utilize the self-cleaning oven at our house to clean the grill, mostly because I’m not even sure we have a self-cleaning oven. It was not among the important questions I asked in advance of a second marriage, which is a shortcoming on my part. That question should have been higher on the list.

What is he even talking about now?

Admittedly though, switching from a charcoal grill to a gas grill has not come without its perplexing issues. For example, this weekend while I was I was goosing the chicken with barbecuing implements,

"I was I was" - somebody didn't proofread!

my father-in-law and I were chit-chatting, and he ended up schooling me in how to check the level of propane that’s left in the tank, a method that I had not yet learned.

From "for" to "learned," that's all one sentence. How on earth does this man presume to edit the writing of others?

But he is a camping enthusiast from way back, so he has a certain amount of credibility in this area. He said the way to determine the level of propane left in the tank was to take some boiling water and pour it on the tank. The areas of the tank on which the water didn’t boil determined the level of propane in the tank.

And here I thought the areas of the tank on which the water didn't boil determined the level of propane in the garage. Good thing he specified.

He told me this assuming that I knew how to boil water. However, my science skills are very limited in the principles of propane gas, and for a moment, I thought he was pulling my leg.

So now he doesn't know how to boil water. My "can't brush teeth" column idea probably isn't too far off.

It has always been my policy to try and stay out of hot water, and I judge a successful outdoor grilling experience as one that doesn’t involve me blowing up the house.

How would you blow up the house if you're grilling outdoors?

Somehow, boiling water on a propane gas tank just wasn’t registering with me. (Disclaimer: Not that I don’t believe my father-in-law, but I did not in fact try pouring boiling water on the tank, so don’t do it unless you know it to be safe.)

Science teachers are welcome to come by the office and boot me in the backside and demand an explanation for me not paying attention back in junior high science class.

What? A science teacher is going to attack him because he won't pour boiling water on his propane tank? I don't remember outdoor grilling being a part of my high school education.

But that’s the type of grilling I really don’t need.

This column in 100 words or less: "I'm bad at grilling, but I think you should clean the grill grates in a self-cleaning oven. I'm not sure we even have a self-cleaning oven. My father-in-law told me how you can tell if you have propane in the tank, but I don't want to try. Hopefully my high school science teacher won't find out. Bad pun."

A little late, but...

Outta Leftfield: It's not easy trying to get a grip on the reality of golf technology
Published: Tuesday, March 22, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor

Undoubtedly the latest in a long, long line of "things I don't understand" columns.

Golf is not my game. I have stated many times in this space over the years, when I hit a little white ball with a stick, I believe someone else should chase after it. I shouldn’t have to find it myself and then hit it again. Or in my case, again and again and again and again and again.

In over a year of reading his columns, I've never, ever seen him even reference golf before. Honestly, if Borsch tried to swing a golf club, he'd probably tear both his knees, throw out a hip and pull something in his back.

But a new golf product just might — and I stress “might” — make me rethink my position on golf.

It's amazing that a new golf product would impact his thoughts on golf. Paging the Department of Redundancy Department!

It’s called the SensoGlove, and it’s a golf glove that’s supposed to ensure that I have a consistently accurate, smooth and powerful golf swing that will produce greater distance on drives and lower overall scores.

Once again, we don't need to know that it's a golf glove that will improve your golf swing. That just goes without saying.

Right off the top of my head, I wish there was a glove that I could wear that when I grabbed a snow shovel. I would be assured of producing a more cleanly shoveled driveway with lower overall back and keister pain.

There should not be a period after "shovel." That's not even a sentence. Does shoving really punish the butt area? Not in my experience.

I’d also like to point out that for occasional recreational golfers, the very first thing we’d need to do to ensure a more accurate, smooth and powerful swing that will produce longer drives and lower scores would be to not place a cooler of beer on the back of a golf cart. That would certainly improve my game, if I were concerned about the more important aspects of golf. Usually I am concerned more about the refreshments until I get to No. 14, at which time I become more concerned about trying to avoid driving the golf cart through every dadgummed sprinkler on the golf course. As you can imagine, that has become a more challenging aspect of golf for me over the years than actually putting the ball in the hole.

Woah, who could have imagined that he'd introduce BEER into the column? And why would the "dadgummed" sprinklers become a concern only at No. 14?

In fact, I am so unconcerned with my golf score that on those rare occasions where I do hit the links, I usually keep score not by the number of strokes I take but by the number of golf balls that I lose. I usually finish a round of 18 holes with about a 22, which I believe is still the course record at Lincoln Greens in Springfield, Ill. And yes, I am very proud.

And here I thought we'd get through an entire column without a reference to his Illinois roots. What a fool I am.

But with something like the SensoGlove, it sounds like maybe I wouldn’t spend as much time in the weeds. It has built-in digital sensors that continuously read the user’s grip pressure. According to promotional material about the glove, its “small, sweat-proof 1.2-inch LED digital monitor analyzes the pressure of the swing through highly responsive sensors placed throughout the glove. Just swing the golf club to receive real-time audio and visual feedback at 80 times per second by the small sensors that warn you if you exceed your target level of grip pressure.”

I don't know about you, but I just LOVE it when he repeats the product's promotional information.

Sweat-proof? LED digital monitor? Real-time audio and video? Grip pressure? It’s golf for crimminy sakes! See, this is what happens when you let the scientists get a hold of a crate of golf gloves. They go all Einstein on a project like this and come up with something that Al Czervik would drag out to Bushwood Country Club for a round with Mr. Wang.

Yeah, because only an Einstein could comprehend real-time audio and video. Seriously. Slow down, egghead.

Here is where I start to become confused, which as you know is a common occurrence, and even more so when it comes to golf. So maybe you regular golfers can help me out on this. The SensoGlove folks are stressing that the key to a good golf score is the proper lightness of one’s grip on the club, thereby avoiding bad habits and injuries.

But doesn’t a golfer still have to put the club on the ball? In other words, wouldn’t a proper backswing, impact, follow-through, hand-eye coordination and the ability to chip and putt all be just as important to a low golf score as the proper grip of the club?

Why, suddenly he's a pro! He knows all the terminology! But please, stop prefacing everything with the word "golf." We know what sport you're playing.

I believe I already know the answer to that, which the rules clearly state earns me a dozen Cuban cigars for my next round. (I need a dozen not because I could smoke that many over the course of 18 holes but because many of them will get wet from the sprinklers and those that don’t will probably end up lost somewhere along the way.)

What? What rules? Why a dozen Cuban cigars? Why the constant sprinkler references?

Of course, for only $89, I can purchase the SensoGlove and find out for myself. Fortunately, the SensoGlove — made of fine cabretta leather, which I’m sure was traumatic for the cabrettas — is available for both hands and for both men and women. In fact, the digital monitor can be removed, and the SensoGlove can function as a regular golf glove, good news for those of us whose carts spend a lot of time near the sprinklers.

STOP SAYING GOLF. And I just can't get enough sprinkler references!

The SensoGlove people are calling this the perfect Father’s Day gift. Pfffftttt. The perfect Father’s Day gift would be a glove that helped chill bottles.

Unless you drink out of a can.

Surprise! Morsch writes about a Made-Up Holiday

OUTTA LEFTFIELD: Any way you slice it, Pi Day is a good excuse to celebrate Pie Day
Published: Tuesday, March 15, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor

A classic Borsch pun title. Can we hope for a few "spilling things on himself" jokes?

Son of Blonde Accountant came to me Sunday evening and said, “Do you want to see what treats I’m taking to school tomorrow for Pie Day?”

“Well, aren’t you taking pie?” I said.

“No, I’m taking brownies and cookies,” he countered.

First - how old is Son of Blonde Accountant? Five? Who says "treats"? Second - trademark over-written fictional conversation, full of unnecessary descriptions and adverbs.

“Why would you take brownies and cookies as treats on Pie Day?” I asked. “You should take pie.”

He then explained to me that we were talking about two different things. Oh.

This would be funny... if the title of the column didn't telegraph this comical misunderstanding beforehand.

I was talking about Pie Day. I wasn’t sure there was actually a holiday where we in this country celebrated pie, but we celebrate a lot of things these days, so why not pie? I like pie, so I’m all in for a day of shoving pie into my piehole. Isn’t that why it’s called a piehole? And besides, “piehole” is a fun word and should be associated with some kind of holiday based on its ability to spice up a sentence.

I think Borsch should start advertising his blog as "a man writing about obscure, comical holidays." And I should have guessed that he'd work the term "piehole" into this one... I mean, the man uses words like "dadgummed" and "goozlepipe."

Well, no, that was wrong. What the young lad was talking about was Pi Day — celebrated every year on March 14 — a day commemorating the mathematical constant (pi). It must be important because it falls in the same week as St. Patrick’s Day.

Um... why?

I wouldn’t have thought that holidays involving pie and beer would fall in the same week, because they don’t seem to go together. I like pie and I like beer, but usually not at the same time, although if there was ever an opportunity to get pie-eyed, it would appear to be this particular week in March.

I know it's hard, but can we stop using the word "pie" so much? What other phrases involving "pie" can we use - pie in the sky, easy as pie, bigger slice of the pie... maybe a reference to Simple Simon?

Somewhere along the line I recall being at least familiar with the existence of Pi Day, and I may have even written about it in the past.

False. And the term "written" should be used loosely.

But as a guy who failed high school algebra, I usually run away from anything involving numbers. And I have absolutely no idea what a mathematical constant is. The only constant in my life when it comes to math is that I have been constantly befuddled and therefore uninterested in it for many years, which may explain why the annual Pi Day slips by me most of the time.

Stop kidding yourself - you never heard of this "day" until your son-in-law mentioned it. Then you read about it on the Internet. "...slips by me most of the time" - like he's so erudite that even the most obscure holidays can only "slip," ninja-like, past his powerful cultural antennae.

Apparently the definition of pi — which I pilfered off the Internet so it must be true

BINGO. At least he's admitting it this time.

— is: “A mathematical constant whose value is the ratio of any Euclidean plane circle’s circumference to its diameter; this is the same value as the ratio of a circle’s area to the square of its radius. It is approximately equal to 3.14159265 in the usual decimal notation. Many formulae from mathematics, science and engineering involve pi, which makes it one of the most important mathematical constants.”

Definitions: nothing funnier.

In addition to “mathematical constant,” let me list the other things in that single paragraph that I don’t understand: (1) ratio; (2) Euclidean plane circle; (3) circumference; (4) diameter; (5) radius; (6) decimal notation; (7) 3.14159265.

Really? "Diameter" and "radius" he doesn't understand? Repeating words from a definition: even funnier.

In fact — and I’d have to double-check this — I don’t think there are any Euclideans flying planes in circles for any branch of our military or any of the major airlines at this time. So I’m not sure why they’re even mentioned in all this math hoo-ha.

And that's it. That's the "end" of the "column." It's like he died while writing it. Can this be considered a "conclusion" by any stretch of the imagination?

Refusing to Inform

Outta Leftfield: Don’t stick your tongue out at these whacky health practices
Published: Tuesday, March 01, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor

Ah, the long-anticipated Borsch skewering of angioplasty and MRI.

If I were asked to name some practices that are good for one’s health, I’d say the usual things like daily exercise, eating right and staying away from smoking.

I would not, even after consuming mass quantities of cold adult beverages, have come up with … tongue scraping. Mostly because I have absolutely no idea what tongue scraping is or why on earth is would be good for one’s health.

Ho ho, goofy beer reference! What do you want to bet this column includes at least one appearance of this sentence: "According to the (insert organization website)..."

It certainly doesn’t sound like it would be good for one’s tongue.

But according to a story headlined “Five Whacky Things That Are Good for Your Health” on the LifeScience.com website,

Damn I'm good.

tongue scraping is on the list. I have a tendency to believe everything I read on LifeScience.com because it has the word “science” in it. And I also believe that scientists are smarter than me, so whatever they say I usually endorse.

Yep, you must never question SCIENCE... even if science itself is the process of endless questioning.

Take a moment to consider what tongue scraping might entail and why it would be good for one’s health, and then try to come up with four wackier things than tongue scraping that could be good for one’s health.

I couldn’t do it either.

Scraping your tongue with a toothbrush to prevent bad breath?

Acupuncture, firecupping, ear candling, enemas. That took me like three seconds.

Fortunately, the scientists have our collective backs on this topic. According to the story, the other four are vibrating exercise platforms, barefoot running, curing with parasites and fecal transplants.

Hmmm. Now I understand. If someone were to ask me to practice only one of these things to improve my health, tongue scraping might just be at the top of the list given the other choices.

Why oh why couldn't we get a fecal transplant article?

According to the article, tongue scraping is part of an ancient health code called “ayurveda.” Apparently, the practice entails placing something that resembles a small toilet brush as far back in one’s mouth as the gagging reflex will allow and then scraping one’s tongue clean for several minutes.

My initial reaction is that I am immediately suspicious of any health practice that involves jamming a toilet brush down the back of my throat.

Well, it's not actually a toilet brush... it only "resembles" one.

Apparently the ancient Ayurvedaians liked cold adult beverages as much as subsequent civilizations because any group of people that can get the weaker links in the herd to jam toilet brushes down their throats in the name of good health sounds like a partying bunch to me.

I always thought that it was getting high, not drunk, that caused the wacky ideas. When does the repeated use of "cold adult beverages" stop being more amusing than just saying "beer"?

As for the other four, there are shreds of evidence that these things have actually been studied by scientists and might actually have some merit. For example, although studies are somewhat inconclusive at this point, there is at least some segment of researchers out there who make a good case that running barefoot is better for one than running in shoes. I’ve actually seen people at my walking track who are out there barefooted, both walking and running, so some people must believe in it.

So wait... what is the "evidence" that tongue scraping is good for us? Also, by "walking track," does he mean, like, a sidewalk?

The theory behind vibrating exercise platforms is that if one stands on these things for a few minutes and then jumps off and continues to exercise, the vibration is supposed to help one go faster, higher, etc. Scientists say it helps, but it seems to me it may make one’s hind end kind of tingly. I’ve found nothing in the medical books or scientific journals that a tingly hind end is good for one’s health, but I’m sure someone somewhere is studying that.

Sigh. This one is painfully uneventful.

As for curing with parasites, well that apparently involves infecting oneself with hookworm, an intestinal parasite, which protects against allergies and maybe even Crohn’s Disease and multiple sclerosis.

If there’s anything that would make me rush right out to the store and grab a toilet brush to shove down my goozlepipe, it would be the suggestion that I purposely allow myself to be infected with an intestinal parasite.

"Goozlepipe"? Here's an idea that will add instant comedy to your dull, boring column - add plenty of wacky, folksy words!

Which brings us to the most obnoxious and most disgusting of the five wacky things that are supposed to be good for one’s health: fecal transplants, otherwise known as fecal bacteriotherapy, which I suppose could be considered a slightly less gross naming convention.

I can’t even describe this procedure to you because of its offensive nature, so just go ahead and look it up on your own. Make sure to do it before lunch.

Magnificent - the one potentially humorous and interesting part of the article, and he leaves it out. Bravo, sir. Didn't he publish an entire column about dog poop (and another one about dinosaur poop)? Suddenly the subject is offensive?

The real question with this one is: How in tarnation did the scientists and medical people stumble upon something like this? And how do you suppose the first guy who ever had this procedure reacted when he was told what was going to be done to him?

WARNING: Unamusing dialogue ahead. It's even less amusing because Borsch hasn't told us what the procedure is.

“You’re going to do what? You guys run out of cold adult beverages and toilet brushes or something?”

Remove funnybone... ha... ha... ha.

So there you have it. You want to be healthier, just get whacky with your health practices.

And you didn’t think tongue scraping was going to be appealing at all, did you?

Once again, we know precious little more about tongue scraping after reading this article than we did before. I know he claims that his wife reads these before he publishes them, but does anyone else? Shouldn't he have at least one person who can veto the most glaringly horrible ones?

Men are Manly

OUTTA LEFTFIELD: Store with lotions, potions and soaps makes no scents to some men
Published: Wednesday, January 19, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor

"Scents"! Get it? It sounds like "sense." And gee, here's a great subject to muse on - the differences between men (dumb and smelly!) and women (smart and well-groomed!). Morsch is always breaking new ground in comedy.

In moments of reflection — which translated into guyspeak means boredom —

Men don't "reflect"! Men fart and burp and drink!

I oftentimes ask myself, “Why?” This is not all that unusual for a reporter because “why” is one of the questions we ask everybody.

As has been well-documented in this space, I follow The Blonde Accountant around on her various shopping excursions. So accompanying my daughters isn’t much different, the only exception being that I have twice as many bags to schlep and twice as many purses to hold while standing outside the fitting rooms trying not to fall asleep.

"Schlep"... where have I heard that word before? Did somebody write an entire column about it, perhaps?

My latest “why” moment came on a recent shopping excursion with my daughters to a store called Bath & Body Works. The store sells things like anti-bacterial soap, body cream, body lotion, body splash (and no, I don’t know the difference between body cream, body lotion and body splash),

I'd say the difference between the three is self-explanatory, wouldn't you? This is like saying you don't know the difference between a living room, a bathroom and a bedroom.

creamy body wash, shower gel and body wash, candles, wallflowers and gift sets.

I’ve taken baths and I have a body, so the possibility existed that the “Hey, Smell This” store would have something that interested me. Apparently, though, big galoots are not among the target audience for this business.

We've been down this road so many times... doesn't HE ever get tired of it?

“There is absolutely nothing in here for me,” I said to Older Daughter as she and her sister flitted about the store smelling lotions, potions and candles with names like Japanese Cherry Blossom, Twilight Woods, Moonlight Path, Secret Wonderland and Bergamot Coriander.

This guy really is, as a recent commenter put it, a "sexist douche." See, things that smell nice and have fancy names are womanly things.

For the record, I don’t believe I’ve ever bought a candle in my life, so circling the store smelling candles — all of which smelled like soap to me — wasn’t exactly the most productive use of time. But it did illustrate to what lengths I would go to as the doting dad to stay occupied while the girls were doing something they liked.

"...to what lengths I would go to"? Really, sir? Really? This is like a double English sin - trying to avoid ending a sentence in a preposition, and then doing it anyway.

“Sure they do Dad, right over there is the men’s section,” said Older Daughter, pointing to one shelf barely noticeable in a corner of the store.

This is surely fictional, since Bath and Body Works isn't exclusively for women. Their website doesn't mention gender at all - there isn't even a "For Men" or "For Women" gifts section. My conclusion: Morsch just assumes it's a store for women since it sells soaps and candles.

One shelf? That’s it? And only five fragrances: Oak, Ocean, Twilight Woods (At least we got one that the women got), Noir and Cintron. According to both daughters who have taken Spanish classes, the scent “Cintron” is very close to the Spanish word “cinturon,” which means “belt.”

This will undoubtedly devolve into an entirely pointless aside.

Imagine if I had brought some Cintron body spray home.

“Ohhh, what’s that scent you’re wearing?” The Blonde Accountant would whisper to me.

Hey, at least he's admitting that he's making up his humorless dialogue this time, right?

“It’s belt,” I would respond. And that would certainly set the mood for a wonderful romantic evening, wouldn’t it?

So standing in the store, my big “why” question became, “If you’re going to dabble in a non-primary market demographic like big galoots, why not at least come up with some fragrances that would appeal to the schnooks?”

My big "what" question is, "what the hell is he talking about"?

So I spent a few minutes looking at bottles of Midnight Pomegranate, Juniper Breeze, Pearberry and Sheer Freesia and wondering, “What the heck are Juniper Breeze, Pearberry and Sheer Freesia?” Then I conjured up what I thought would be some manly man fragrances for the store’s marketing department.

We've waited a long time for this, my friends: original material, purportedly created by Morsch, that is supposed to be the hilarious centerpiece of the article. Before we jump into that, though - what exactly is unmanly about "Midnight Pomegranate"? Seriously. Is it too "fruity"-sounding for Mike? The shades of homophobia here are too deep to ignore.

To wit:

(1) Garage and Motor Oil Blossom — Guaranteed to give one that old-tire appeal.

(2) Night Blooming Scotch and Cigar — This one would be an acquired taste. Maybe blue collar comic Ron White could be asked to endorse it.

Ah, cars! Drinking! Smoking! All the manly virtues, eh?

(3) Bergamot Pizza and Sheer Beer — This one smells, of course, like pizza and beer because men have never heard of Bergamot Coriander and Sheer Freesia, have no idea what on earth they could be or smell like, and think somebody is just messing with us.

Because MEN ARE STUPID! BWAH HA HA HA HA HAAAA! And nothing is more manly than the stink of beer and pizza.

(4) Cool Citrus Basil Rathbone — A foggy London fragrance that suggests a hint of pipe smoke wafting from the wet overcoat of Sherlock Holmes.

(5) Fresh Springtime Cardboard — Smells like bubblegum from a new pack of baseball cards.

The Basil Rathbone reference is more cultured than I would have expected - I mean, do big, dumb, chain-smokin' men have time for Sherlock Holmes between drivin' their cars and drinkin' their booze? And I do believe we have our first baseball reference of the New Year.

Daydreaming about helping Bath & Body Works expand its line and improve its marketing approach killed enough time for the girls to finish their shopping.

No way he came up with these ideas in the store. These would take him hours upon hours of concentrated thought.

Younger Daughter came away with a bagful of stuff and nothing left on a gift card. Older Daughter came away with a couple of things that she wanted.

The first "came away with" is actually informative. The second is hilariously vague and unnecessary.

And I came away with spending some quality time with my girls and the satisfaction of knowing that if I wanted to, I could smell like a belt.

He does know that just because that word sounds like the Spanish word for "belt," that isn't necessarily what it smells like, right? I enjoy how he portrays himself as hunkering moodily in a corner the whole trip, but then says that he enjoyed the quality time with his daughters.

This one was disturbing on many levels, not the least of which was the insight into his thoughts regarding the sexes. For all his liberal tendencies, it looks like our beloved author is practically a Neanderthal when it comes to gender roles in modern society.

This Can't Be True

Outta Leftfield: Successful desk project employs the tools of ignorance, apathy
Published: Tuesday, January 11, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor

Originality ahoy! Looks as though we're in for another "things I/men can't do" column, folks.

It is not unusual for me to shy away from projects that require a hammer and a screwdriver.

In fact, the only thing I know — or care to know — about hammers and screwdrivers is that one can easily lose track of a Saturday night by getting hammered on screwdrivers.

There seems to be a pattern to these "I'm dumb" entries... "I can't do [insert common task or skill X]. In fact, the only thing I know about X is [comparison to food, poop, or baseball].

Occasionally though, things need to be assembled in the home (the week after the holidays should be designated Assembly Required Week; surely Hallmark can come up with a card for that), and oftentimes the project requires tools, a minimal amount of knowledge on how to use those tools, and some enthusiasm for taking on a project — none of which I have.

Hallmark bit - not exactly funny, but not bad, either. Rest of paragraph - we get it.

The closest I’ve ever come to putting something together that could have been utilized in the home — a magazine rack — happened several years ago and I had to take three stabs at it to get it almost right. Instead of holding magazines, it held mostly beer bottles, so in that regard, I considered the project almost a success.

This is impossible. Nobody can be this bad at so many things. At the end of his undeservedly long career, I hope Morsch publishes an "I can't write" column. Nice beer reference, too.

But when it comes to these projects, “almost” is good enough for me. Not having to do it at all would be better.

Wait, is he saying he's BAD at projects?

So it was with great ambivalence that I approached last weekend’s project — assembling a new multi-functional computer table (we used to call them desks) that Son of Blonde Accountant had gotten for Christmas. The instruction booklet is 14 pages long. Here are some of the highlights:

Ah, the hallmark of Outta Leftfield: Unoriginal material!

(1) There are 31 separate parts to the multi-functional computer table
(2) There are 13 different types of screws and bolts.
(3) Some of the instructions appeared to be in Spanish, even the parts in English.
(4) There is no mention of a lunch break in the directions.

I liked the Spanish/English part. It actually encorporates something we call "humor" - in this case, a somewhat amusing reversal of our expectations. How did that find its way in here? Is a staffer writing this piece?

For example, here is a sample of the instructions: “Use screws (G) to assemble the fix parts of the sliders (7B) to the right vertical panel (10) and the inside vertical panel (13) considering that the small wheel has to be facing the front of the desk.”

See, I told you it was in Spanish.

I don't see why people find these things so hard. I assembled a desk like this myself, using skills I call "looking" and "reading."

For those of you who are familiar with these types of things, it will be evident that the aforementioned instructions had something to do with a desk drawer.

But just to show you how weak I am in this area, I thought we were assembling a picnic basket — with wheels, of course — and it took me 20 minutes of looking at the instructions and trying to figure out what Spanish words translated into “picnic basket.”

I seriously doubt that this is true. "It's a joke!" you protest. But it's not funny. What next? Will he think a CD is a dinner plate with a hole in the middle?

Fortunately, this was a family project. The Blonde Accountant is the brains of the outfit — the straw that stirs the drink — and Son of Blonde Accountant and I were fortunate to have her serving as project manager. Since it was his desk, Son of Blonde Accountant served as the entire labor force while I attempted to assume the duties of Executive Project Foreman in Charge of Drinks that Need to be Stirred.

Woo-hoo-hooo! We've got a reference to the woman as the "smart" one (how original), and a guffaw-inducing long title.

The Blonde Accountant will tell you, however, that she thinks I know more about these manual projects than I let on, which by golly is the absolute truth if she says so. But I have a long and storied reputation as a card-carrying member of the Federated Office Of Lollygaggers, Evaders and Dawdlers (FOOLED) union and I try to do everything possible to avoid having my pension revoked by breaking a sweat at doing anything.

Wow, ANOTHER long made-up title! Where does he come up with this stuff? This story is making less and less sense - so he's just faking being clueless? Or is he just saying his wife is right even if she's not? What's the point of this?

Surprisingly enough — at least to me — the project went relatively smoothly, despite the fact that the three of us collectively have a limited knowledge of Spanish.

I take back the nice thing I said about the "Spanish/English" joke earlier.

But working together, we managed to assemble the desk in just less than four hours, which is a huge victory when I am involved in a project of this nature. I have no problem whatsoever turning a four-hour project into a four-month project.

So... he IS bad at projects?

The only glitch we encountered was with one of the pre-drilled holes in one of the 31 parts. I leaned on one bolt just a little too much and nearly shot it through the hole and across the room. The resulting collateral damage to that piece of the desk required a bit of Crazy Glue and some tape, and I was more than willing to give the Crazy Glue four months to dry and then resume the project. To no one’s surprise but mine, the project boss said that was an unacceptable amount of time for me to be on a lunch break. Had lunch breaks been covered in the instruction manual, I believe I would have been in the clear on that one, and I will speak to the desk company about a revision of the instructions.

Morsch subscribes to the "more words = more funny" writing philosophy here. I could almost see these events played out in an old-timey silent film. Rag-time music, Morsch looking confused (title card: "I say, is this in Spanish?"), "wha-wha-wha" trombone riff at the end.

Fortunately, I had a much more appealing project to tackle after the desk, which was shoveling the weekend snow off the driveway, which certainly could have waited four months and taken care of itself as far as I was concerned.

I don't know about you, but I would really like another "four months off" joke before we wrap things up. This is probably the tenth shoveling reference in the past few columns, too.

But there is some satisfaction that we completed a family project on the same day it was started. I just hope that doesn’t mean I have to start taking Spanish classes.

And another Spanish reference. Given that the topic of this column was supposed to be "I can't put a desk together," you'd think that more of it would involve the story of trying to assemble the desk. You know, instead of those huge chunks of pointless blather.

We seem to be entering another dry period for Morsch. His blog has been neglected, and the only hints of future stories involve less-than-promising Sellersville concerts. I can only shudder at what the future might have in store...

The Season of Giving

Being a jolly old elf more complicated than just fitting into the suit
Published: Tuesday, December 14, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor

Oh my. Are we to be treated to how Morsch also can't play Santa Claus effectively?

Several years ago, a friend asked that if I could fit into the suit, would I mind playing Santa for an event he was organizing. Excuse me … if I could fit into the suit? I thought Santa suits started at XXXL and worked their way up from there.

I'm guessing there will be lots of these, so let's keep count: Fat Joke #1.

I politely declined because at the time, I was 40 pounds heavier and didn’t need to be reminded of that by the presence of a red suit that wouldn’t fit. How come it’s always fat guys who get asked to play Santa? We’re not all jolly and we don’t particularly like that “bowl full of jelly” comparison.

Because Santa is fat? How come it's always the black guys who are asked to play blacks? Fat Joke #2.

Besides, having never done the Santa gig before, I would have been woefully unprepared for the task. On the surface, it looks like an easy job. Once the red suit and beard are in place, one just needs to show up, say “Ho-ho-ho!” a lot and listen to what the kids want for Christmas.

Turns out it’s a little more involved than that, according to the Lansdale Borough Council’s Parks and Recreation Committee. The committee, which has been looking for prospective Santas during the holiday season for its Santa House, is offering some tips for wannabe Kris Kringles.

Ooh, maybe this isn't a "can't do XXX" article! We may be looking at yet another "talk about a story from the Internet" article!

Included in the list are things like not wearing jewelry, watches, aftershave, cologne or irregular shoes that might give away one’s identity. I assume by “irregular shoes,” the committee means that since Chuck Taylors are not generally recognized as Santa’s preferred winter footwear, something other than black boots might spoil the fun for the kids.

I would think that black boots would be included with the basic Santa costume, but Morsch is missing the point. They're advising the person not to wear something that would give away their identity.

Other tips include addressing groups with generic terms like “folks,” using a straw to take a drink so nothing spills on the beard or suit and making sure to not only remember the names of the children but also the names of Santa’s nine helpers.

These things all make sense. By "helpers," do they mean the reindeer?

That’s a lot to remember, especially if Santa starts sipping cold adult beverages through a straw. If that happens, be prepared for the list of Santa’s helpers to include “folks” like Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Vixen . . . and Grumpy, Sleepy, Bashful, Sneezy, Groucho, Chico, Harpo, Zeppo, Gummo and Chuck Taylor.

Shockingly he doesn't invoke a "Moe, Larry and Curly" reference. I think I heard this bit on ALF once... but nice, classy reference to getting drunk in front of children. And it's NOT a lot to remember.

It occurred to me that other tips not included by the parks and recreation committee should be in the areas of bad breath and sanity.

"Tips.. in the areas of"? That doesn't sound right. After long absences, both alcohol and bad breath make their return to "Outta Leftfield"! This really is the season of giving.

First of all, Santa probably shouldn’t have coffee breath. Some kids are frightened by the mere presence of Santa, and blowing bad coffee breath right up a kid’s beezer can do nothing to alleviate those fears.

"Beezer"? That's just stupid.

Plus, it’s probably not good for little kids to get a caffeine high from secondary coffee breath.

And Santa probably should not be batspit crazy, although it’s a short journey to crazy-go-nutshood if one has to sit in a mall or store and listen to Christmas songs like “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” 847 times during the Santa shift.

"Batspit"... does this man ever exhaust his vast reservoir of substitute swear words? I would also like to note that numbers beginning with "8" seem to be designated as "funny" ones.

My brother-in-law had it right. The only non-fat guy I’ve ever known to don the Santa apparel, he had a pretty sweet deal in our central Illinois hometown for years being the parks and recreation department’s Grand Poobah of Santas back in the early 1990s.

Another hilarious made-up title!

He got paid, for one thing, but he also had the correct temperament for the job and didn’t drink coffee while on duty.

Plus it was great to have a Santa in the family. When Older Daughter was little, Uncle Mark would sneak out the garage door at my folks’ house without her knowing it, get in full Santa regalia, and then come in the front door, working the jingle bells overtime. (Editor’s note: I think she’s still unsure that it was Uncle Mark, so don’t tell her.)

But you just told everyone in the world (and possibly Older Daughter), via your Interenet column. So way to ruin a treasured childhood memory, sir.

Although the look on her face was always one of pure joy when Santa came through the front door, she always seemed a bit puzzled as to how Santa knew she was at Pawkaw and Granny’s house and not at her own. That, and the fact, that he walked right in the front door and didn’t come down the chimney, never mind that Pawkaw and Granny didn’t have a chimney in their house.

You don't need a comma after "the fact." Although these pointed questions are presented as being totally unique and amusing, I'm sure that every kid in the world has wondered the same thing.

Still, despite meeting the minimum girth requirements, I’ve never had the inclination to belly up to the volunteer Santa trough. I don’t drink coffee, so that wouldn’t be a problem, although come to think of it, garlic breath probably isn’t any easier on little kids.

Fat Joke #3.

So to recap both the parks and recreation department tips and my own additional suggestions, prospective Santas should remember every kid’s name, drink through a straw, lay off the coffee before going on duty and not be crazy.

Ha... ha... ha. Totally worth it.

Because for this gig, everybody knows that yes, Virginia, there really is a sanity clause. And it will be tested.

What?

From the Archives

Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Is it the right time for a dinosaur poo watch?

Morsch's production lately has slowed to a painful lumber (the same way Morsch himself moves). Maybe he's on a summer break or something, but in the absence of new material, here's an old analysis from the days before this blog...

This one promises to be a classic. [Editor's note: not so much, as it turns out]

One wonders how an idea like this came about: A Swiss watchmaker has decided to make a timepiece in fossilized dinosaur poo.
Certainly beer was involved in the decision-making process.

Bingo! As previously stated - any strange idea, Morsch attributes it to beer. Maybe he's trying to make this into a running gag of some kind?

According to a wire service story, watch designer Yvan Arpa (which I believe in Swedish translates into “Bob Knucklehead”) has decided to forego the standard watch-making elements of gold, diamond or titanium and make a watch out of dinosaur poo.

Ah, ethnocentrism - is there anything funnier? Also, has he ever heard of amber? Fossilized tree sap? Maybe he could do a column on that one, too.

And sell it for $11,290. Oh, and the watch strap on which the dinosaur poo timepiece is attached will be made from the skin of an American cane toad.

Laugh at it all you will, Mr. Morsch, but dinosaur droppings must be pretty darn rare. And as for the strap being made of toad skin… well, a lot of things are made from strange things. Wow, our clothes are made from some kind of worm by-product called "silk"!

Bob is quoted as saying that the doo-doo came from a plant-eating dinosaur that died about 100 million years ago in what is now the United States. No mention is made in the wire service story as to the legitimacy of those claims.

I was actually confused as to who "Bob" was, until I realized he was referring to his mockery of the name Yvan Arpa. Haw haw, it's funny because their names are different from ours.

Forget the “creativeness” of the idea, how does one go about locating fossilized dinosaur dung?
Ideas like this can elicit only one response from me: You gotta be bleepin’ me.

They find it through a long, expensive search, no doubt. If it was easy to find, the watch would be cheap and/or worthless. Maybe someone should explain the meaning of the name "fossil fuels" to Mr. Morsch, and he can write a column entitled "I have a bone to pick with where oil and coal come from" and suggest that Henry Ford drank a lot of beer while inventing the automobile.

And what's he bleeping out? You gotta be… kiddin' me? And note, below, his "labels," none of which actually relate to this story.

Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield

It's a Long, Long Season...

Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The sights and sounds of Opening Day

Unacceptable. Surely this man must think about and experience things other than baseball. Then again, maybe he doesn't - we go from a story about a charity drive that somehow morphs into a baseball story to this little gem, which makes no bones about its theme. At least he's being honest this time.

The Phillies home opener this year was what one would expect from the defending National League Champions. Lots of fun and lots of sun.

And lots of cliched rhymes! He's like Andre the Giant from The Princess Bride.

Mandy Patinkin: "Those Philles, they'll be lots of FUN..."
Morsch: "Fun... fun... and I hope that we'll have lots of... sun!"
Mandy Patinkin:"Ah, Morsch, you have a great gift for rhyme."
Morsch: (Long pause, blank stare) "Uh... I like baseball."

Among the sights, sounds and firsts of the 2010 baseball season were:
— My Opening Day lunch consisted of, what else, a cheese steak (Whiz witout) and crab fries.

For the record, I hate specialized orders like that. "Wiz witout." Wow, he's so hip! The only surprise in this paragraph is that there's no refernce to him spilling things on himself. And honestly, when he says "what else," you would really expect a hot dog reference, wouldn't you?

- The first Opening Day beer was cold enough. But depending on one’s preferred brand, it cost between $7.25 and $7.75 a bottle. At this age, I just do not like beer that much at that price. My first beer of the season will likely be my last beer of the season at the ballpark.

Where has Morsch been for the past 25 years? Like expensive ballpark food is anything new. The degree of specificity here is amazing... does he really need to point out the $0.50 swing in price? Couldn't he have just said "it cost about $7.50"? Apparently a high price is the only thing that can separare MM from his precious, precious booze.

— Adult males who wear their ballcaps backwards ought to turn them around, unless of course they are indeed catchers in real life.

Yeah, and boys shouldn't wear jewelry! And pull up those pants, they're hanging too low! And why are you wearing sunglasses indoors? And break up those interracial couples!

— The Phillie Phanatic is just a big goof. He gets a pass, though, because “being a big goof” is actually in his job description. I am trying to think of a way to get it into my job description.

Yes... yes, the Phanatic partakes in screwball antics. Unlike those other mascots who maintain a more dignified, formal air.

— Thanks to Managing Editor Craig Ostroff, I found a free parking space for the first time in 10 years of going to Phillies games. But I’m not telling you where it is because I want it to be available for me.

Hint: The parking spot was Managing Editor Craig Ostroff's driveway.

— I never get tired of hearing “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.” I was unsuccessful at getting it played at my wedding, but I have left specific instructions that it be played at my funeral, where the charge for beer will be substantially less than what it is at the ballpark.

That request should have been The Blonde Accountant's final warning to get out while the getting's good. And I have to say that his beer reference here is rather clever.

All in all, it was a great home opener for the Phillies. The good guys won and are off to a good start.

Funny that his "sights and sounds of opening day" article has had virtually no Phillies reference until now. Did he even watch the game?

And this was the fourth Opening Day I’ve spent at the ballpark without my dad. He wasn’t from around here and he wasn’t a Phillies fan, but I certainly got my love of baseball from him.

He would have enjoyed the Phanatic. My dad was always fond of big goofs.

I can see what he's doing here. The Phanatic is a goof, which Morsch cleverly insterted into the column earlier; Morsch himself is a goof; therefore, Morsch's dad was fond of him. Please see Morsch's rambling, vague column about baseball cards for more about his dad.

Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield, Phillie Phanatic, Phillies

Nice job with the lables here. Surprisingly, the "Phillie Phanatic" label actually links to another story! In it, the Phanatic is indeed referenced in passing... and Morsch describes himself as "a big goof." Coincidence? YOU be the judge.

The "Philles" label brings up four (ONLY FOUR???) stories, one of which is a story about Penn State football that mentions the Phillies once.

Morsch Goes for the Record

Outta Leftfield: Left holding the bag … for a good cause

Published: Wednesday, April 07, 2010

Uh-oh... will this column be continuing the recent trend of "I went to a show, it was really fun"-type entries? [Editor's note: No... it's something far, far worse...]

Just once, I wish I was as lucky at the lottery as I am with purses.

Brandywine Assisted Living at Dresher Estates had its annual purse party last week, and my friend Marge Jacoby — the director of community relations for the facility —invited me to attend.

Now given the fact that I am more of a ballpark guy than I am a purse party guy, one would think that this would have been my first purse party invitation. That would be wrong.

I call a foul on this! Unless the event he is attending is a baseball game or a concert, he will inevitably compare said event (i.e. a flower show, a spelling bee, etc) to a baseball game. At this point, I don't think regular readers (i.e. me) need to be reminded that MM likes baseball.

I was invited to the soiree two years ago — a great sense of humor, that Marge — and ended up going by myself and actually winning a Coach purse, which was confiscated immediately by The Blonde Accountant upon my arrival home. That was OK by me because that particular purse didn’t go with any of my shoes, so I really had no use for it anyway.

Credit where credit is due - I actually thought the "didn't match my shoes" part was kinda funny.

In addition, that first purse party featured a three-legged dog named Lucky — a pet of one of the facility’s residents — who hung around the party being, well … three-legged. A three-legged dog doesn’t have to do much more than just hang around to get attention.

Thank goodness! We're back to familiar territory - mocking disabled animals.

So the mere fact that I attended a purse party with a three-legged dog and actually ended up winning a purse is nothing short of comedy gold. I couldn’t make that up, even with substantial help from beer. In hindsight, maybe I should have let the dog pick my lottery numbers.

Actually it's more like comedy pyrite. And hey, we've got another beer reference! Beer: the drink of classy gentlemen everywhere.

It is under that backdrop that I attended the most recent purse party, designed as a fundraiser this year for the Community Ambulance Association, Ambler.

Unlike the first time, though, I was bringing along some heavy hitters in the area of handbags — The Blonde Accountant and Daughter of Blonde Accountant. Neither of them would have the foggiest notion of how to properly spill mustard on themselves at the ballpark. But purses they know. (And shoes, but that goes without saying, I think.)

Hey-oh! Morsch is really kicking it up a notch here. The mustard comment (complete with yet another "ballpark" reference) is a call-back to last week's column about the Phillies hot dogs, and the shoes thing is, I suspect, a reference to the column that was sort of about shoes from a few weeks ago.

Attending a purse party with those who have expertise in that area relegated me back to a familiar role, that of somewhat disconnected and slightly befuddled onlooker. After all, I have been on many shopping excursions and I am a charter member of the Society of Clueless Husbands Looking at Expensive Purses (SCHLEP), so at the very least, I know my role in these types of situations — and that is to be quiet, find a place to sit down and take a nap. Wake me when a ballgame breaks out, will ya?

First off, the word "schlep" should be relegated to the pages of Mad Magazine, along with all the other vaguely Yiddish words like "schmuck" that haven't been used outside of Queens since the summer of '69. And my goodness - a THIRD baseball reference, and a possible call-back to his spelling bee column!

Actually, the purse party was indeed right in the wheelhouse of The Blonde Accountant and Daughter of Blonde Accountant, as I suspected it would be. They both enjoyed perusing the various handbags being raffled and dropping their tickets into the drawings for their favorites. Add a bit of tea and crumpets-type snacks to the festivities and it really was more of purse party than it was a ballgame — to the surprise of nobody but me, apparently.

Can't... go on... fourth baseball reference... too... much...

In the absence of the three-legged dog — his owner had moved to another facility — the Dresher Estates staff did not disappoint when it came to providing me with an adequate distraction.

What, no crippled old people to ridicule?

Tracey Murphy, director of arts and entertainment at Dresher Estates, worked the room greeting people while carrying a couple of guinea pigs in her pocket, to the surprise and enjoyment of many attending. Although I was unable to get a close enough look at the guinea pigs to see if any of them was three-legged, I do believe that cute little critters generally have a high ceiling when it comes to entertainment value. That is, of course, unless they happened to have an accident in their handler’s pocket. Naturally, that would have been highly entertaining to me but I’m not so sure Tracey would have found it that funny.

I guess it would be pretty hard to relate guinea pigs to a baseball game, so I'll give him a pass on this paragraph.

The event raised approximately $600 for Ambler Ambulance, which Dresher Estates will present to the group at a later date. Drew Lavenberg, chief of operations for Ambler Ambulance, was on hand — looking quite a bit more strapping and dashing in his uniform than I did in my rumpled editor’s getup — for the festivities and expressed his appreciation for the fundraising efforts.

$600, huh? That ought to buy that half a tire they've been hoping for. MM frequently describes himself as "rumpled," perhaps attempting to gain a Columbo-esque charm. He fails.

And wouldn’t you know it, Daughter of Blonde Accountant had one of her tickets pulled and won a Marc Ecko handbag. For the record, I do not know this Marc Ecko as he does not appear to be on the Phillies Opening Day roster.

Alright, that's enough. Seriously. This has gone from "running gag" to "annoying crutch." And this is not the first time that Morsch has made the connection between an unusual name and the Philles roster.

To say that Daughter of Blonde Accountant is quite pleased with the handbag would be like saying that I would be quite pleased to catch a Ryan Howard home run ball. Happy dance, happy dance, happy dance!

Is this even possible???

Alas, I never win anything that I want, like tickets to the ballgame. But we got purses coming out our ears at our house and apparently we can win more of those. As far as winning the lottery … pfffftttt!

Yes... yes, it is possible. Is that seven? Seven baseball references?

Looks like I’m destined to be left holding the handbag on that one.

And the usual incomprehensible last sentence that "ties it all together." But really, he was so close to eight - couldn't he have did a little Shane Victorino "stolen bag" reference or something?

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!