OUTTA LEFTFIELD: Lowering the 'boomstick' on hotdogs, Texas-style
Published: Wednesday, March 28, 2012
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Hot dogs. I find it admirable that he STILL finds ways to break new ground.
Opening Day is just around the corner and that smell you smell is what the French Canadians — who once had a baseball team in Montreal — used to call Odeur de Hotdog.
Good lord, could he have found a more round-about way to introduce his topic?
I couldn’t find the French word for “hotdog,” but I didn’t search the Internet far and wide because, well, it’s a hotdog and I don’t really care what it’s called in other languages as long as there is mustard within arm’s reach.
Mustard! Be careful there, Borsch - don't HILARIOUSLY spill any of that on your shirt!
Besides, Montreal lost its baseball franchise to Washington, D.C., some years ago, and Nationals officials are trying a new marketing approach this season by prohibiting us Phillies fans from buying tickets to their ballpark and eating all their hotdogs. But that’s an issue for another time.
May I ask a question - how do these two facts relate to each other? (1) Montreal's baseball team went to Washington, and (2) Washington doesn't want as many Phillies fans in their stadium. The way he presents it, both are part of one central "issue."
With the start of a new baseball season, however, hotdogs will again be in the conversation.
This isn't how the word "however" works. Usually it sets up a contrast: "I usually hate sports; however, I enjoyed that hockey game." You can't write, "People speak French in Montreal. However, we can now talk about hotdogs." By the way, isn't "hot dogs" actually two words?
Dollar Dog Night has been a regular promotion at Citizens Bank Park for a while now and as has been reported in this space over the years, Phillies team officials usually want to know in advance when I’m coming to the ballpark so they can order an extra truckload of wieners for the game.
Because he's FAT! Get it? This is why he's got his own published humor column, folks.
Not to be outdone, though, are the good folks in Texas. We all know that — blah, blah, blah — everything is bigger in Texas — blah, blah, blah — for the Y’all and Ma’am Crowd and — blah, blah, blah.
I would like to know what the "blah blah blah" parts represent. Really, isn't the saying just that "everything is bigger in Texas"? Am I missing some other part of the phrase?
All we here in Philly know was that the Texas Rangers didn’t have enough gallons full of $100 bills in their 10-gallon hats to keep Cliff Lee in a Rangers uniform and he ended up back in Phillies pinstripes.
I laughed out loud when I read this sentence. It is maybe the worst collection of English words I have ever seen. Gallons full of $100 bills? I didn't know you could "fill" a gallon with something. Isn't a gallon what fills something else? The best part is, Borsch probably thought this was soooooo clever.
Still, Texas’ need to be bigger and better at everything has reached the ballpark concession stand. According to a wire service story,
Lamentably I was unable to find the exact story that Borsch copied the remaining 70% of his column from. However, every single article I spotted featured the "everything's bigger in Texas" cliche that Borsch passed off above.
the Rangers this season are offering their own culinary heart attack — a two-foot-long, one-pound, gourmet hot dog that feeds three to four people and costs $26. It’s as big as one of the mini-baseball bats one can buy at the ballpark, for less than the price of the hotdog, I might add.
Can "culinary heart attack" be a Borsch original? I doubt it.
Of course, I admire that kind of effort in the name of hotdog competition, although some of the accoutrements that accompany this story are a little iffy. For example, ballpark chef Cristobal Vasquez has created the monstrosity that includes a Coney Island-style wiener, topped with shredded cheese, chili and sautéed onions. It’s served on a bun that according to team officials is made of “exotic bread flown in from France.”
Can "accoutrements" really accompany a story?
The fact that ballparks actually have something called a “ballpark chef” on the payroll is slightly disconcerting, although that fact wouldn’t prevent me from trying to scrape together $26 (parking at Citizens Bank Park is only $15, by the way) and tackle this bad boy hotdog.
What is "disconcerting" about that? He's disturbed or upset by the fact that a chef works there? I'd be reassured, knowing that the food would be of high quality. But I'm not a "professional" writer.
No less than a hotdog authority like Rangers team president Nolan Ryan — yes, that Nolan Ryan, baseball hall-of-fame pitcher and owner of seven no-hitters during his playing days — calls it a “wild dog.”
Oh, THAT Nolan Ryan? Come on - if people know who Cliff Lee is, it's a pretty safe bet they'll know who Nolan Ryan is without the condescending dashed-off aside.
“It has to be a tremendous wiener,” Ryan said in the wire service story. “And then we’re getting some kind of exotic bread flown in from France. I don’t know what kind of condiments you put on that. But I do want to look at it.”
I'm sorry, but didn't Borsch just say that the bread "is made of 'exotic bread flown in from France'"? Is Ryan the "team official" cited above? Did he forget that he had already used that quote in his column?
I’d love to see the team’s beat writers ask Phillies General Manager Ruben Amaro Jr. to comment on the state of the hotdogs for this coming season. Given his penchant for wheeling and dealing, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn that Amaro has already had preliminary discussions with the Rangers to trade for the monster hot dog.
So in the same paragraph we go from "hotdog" to "hot dog." Consistency! Also, Amaro would never be interested in this hot dog - it's too young to be on the roster here in Philly.
The only snafu for the Rangers is what to call the hotdog.
Now it's "hotdog" again. Consistency!
At this point, it’s going to depend on where the Texas fans purchase the hotdog. If they eat at the Captain Morgan Club at the ballpark — sigh, do we really need to sell naming rights to each piece of the ballpark? If so, I’d like to put in a bid to have my name on the latrines —
Poop joke! Classy.
the big weenie is called a “Champion Dog.” If fans purchase it at the concession stands throughout the ballpark, it will be known as “The Boomstick.” (That’s apparently a nod to Nelson Cruz, the Rangers’ big thumper, who when he hits a home run, fans call it “lowering the boomstick.”)
That sounds retarded: "Nelzon Cruz... who when he hits a home run, fans call it..." Terrible writing. TERRIBLE. Borsch is also uncharacteristically passing up many, many chances to make a penis joke.
When a team can’t get the name of its hotdogs straight, well, we all know that only decreases its chances of making it to the World Series.
Get out the mustard, let’s play ball already.
The Rangers went to the World Series the past two years in a row. The Phillies haven't sniffed the WS during that span. What, again, is the connection between hot dogs and the post-season?
I suspect this won't be the last baseball/hot dog/mustard story we'll get this season. Prepare yourselves, folks!
Showing posts with label Hot Dogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hot Dogs. Show all posts
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Field of Lames
So I was sitting around the other day thinking, "Boy, it's been at least a few days since Borsch has written an article about baseball!"
OUTTA LEFTFIELD: It took 19 innings to score a treasured father-daughter memory
Published: Wednesday, June 01, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
"Score." Because you score runs in baseball.
There’s always been a rule in our family: Never leave a ballgame early. It’s not only because something fun or unusual might happen, but because we go to the ballpark to enjoy the game, its sounds, smells and ambiance, not because we want to leave early and beat the traffic home.
First paragraph and we already have a "ballgame" and a "ballpark." I wonder if he brought his ballglove to catch a foul baseballball!
Well, the Phillies certainly tested that rule last week with their 19-inning tilt against the Cincinnati Reds.
And yep, I was there. For … the … whole … thing. All six hours and 14 minutes’ worth.
He makes it sound like this is a big chore, after a whole paragraph spent extolling the virtues of staying the whole game.
Joining me for the bonus baseball was Older Daughter, who has grown up with the family’s rules and is well aware of them.
That's a little redundant, isn't it? She grew up with them. AND is well aware of them! Also, she knows them!
I had reminded her in passing as the game entered the 10th inning that we never leave a game early. At that point, neither of us suspected we’d be there for another nine innings.
“I know the family rule,” she said matter-of-factly.
Isn't THIS a little redundant? The story so far: he established that the Morsch family stays for extra innings, and Older Daughter knows that. Then Morsch reminds Older Daughter that they stay for extra innings, and she confirms that she knows that.
As if to further demonstrate her understanding of the family rules, she turned to me after the 18th inning and said: “It would be kind of a half-assed effort on our part if we were to leave after the 18th inning, wouldn’t it?”
Woah woah woah, not even a warning that this column contains PG-13 material? He warns viewers to look away when he discusses poop, but tosses a casual "ass" out there?
Atta girl. When one’s daughter describes a six-hour, 18-inning effort at 1 a.m. as “half-assed” if we don’t see it through to the end, then that demonstrates a pretty good grasp of the We Never Leave a Ballgame Early Rule.
Nice elaborate made-up title. Also, this is the third time we've established that Older Daughter knows this rule.
Given my affinity for hotdogs mentioned in this space over the years, you might think a 19-inning ballgame would provide more than an ample opportunity to see if I could eat every hotdog in the ballpark.
Ballgame! Ballpark! Hot dogs! Is Borsch trying to do an Adam West Batman-style self-parody?
Oddly enough, I didn’t have a single dog that evening, which in hindsight is admittedly an error in judgment. I’m going to have to make a new family rule to address that: Never Go to a Ballgame Without Eating at Least a Half Dozen Hotdogs.
He might also create a The More Words I Use the Funnier I Become rule. How many little asides does he need to make a sentence amusing? "Oddly enough," "in hindsight," "admittedly"... These are the things that probably look hilarious to him while he's piling them on, but try actually reading them.
Among the unique aspects of the game was that the Phils’ winning pitcher ended up being position player Wilson Valdez, who became the first player to start a game in the field and end up getting the win on the hill since Babe Ruth did it a bazillion years ago. Raise your hand if you thought the names Babe Ruth and Wilson Valdez would ever be mentioned in the same sentence for any reason.
Was this one of the great memories he shared with Older Daughter? She seems to have vanished... Borsch is punishing us with all these extra details. Given all the clauses he jams into that first sentence is "getting the win on the hill" really necessary? Where else would you get the win?
I enjoyed having both a Seventh Inning Stretch and a 14th Inning Stretch, where we got to sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” twice in the same game. I have no doubt that if we had made it to the 21st inning, we would have sung again. (At one point on the scoreboard, it was revealed that the Phillies longest game in team history was a 21-inning contest against the Chicago Cubs in 1918.)
Too... many... unnecessary... baseball facts! Shouldn't there be an apostrophe after "Phillies"?
However, the most unusual and challenging aspect for Older Daughter and me ended up being the keeping of the scorecard.
Pathetic.
I’ve kept a scorecard at every game I’ve been to since I was a kid. And now as an adult, she has expressed an interest in that part of going to the ballgame, and I have been teaching her the intricacies of scorecard keeping the past few games we have attended together this season.
Wait - WHO as an adult? Borsch or Older Daughter? Chalk up another "ballgame."
The problem with the Phillies pre-printed scorecards is that they provide space for only 10 innings. There are additional columns for game totals that, if necessary, can be used to get one through 14 innings of scorekeeping.
Oh, horrors! Since only a tiny fraction of games ever go past the 14th inning, this is obviously a HUGE oversight on the part of the Phils!
But neither the Phillies nor the Reds cooperated by scoring any runs from the 11th through the 18th innings. So we were forced to get creative with the scorecard and write in the margins and then eventually, turn the scorecard vertically and utilize any vacant spaces that could be found.
This is just too exciting for words. Scorekeeping! Margin writing!
And we each got the whole game scored on our separate scorecards. Had it gone past 19 innings, I’m not sure what we would have done because we truly were out of space at that point. Older Daughter suggested afterward that she would have written on a napkin and stapled it to the scorecard if the game had continued. “You don’t come that far to have an incomplete scorecard,” she said.
This - THIS - is a memory worth treasuring? "Hey, remember that time we almost ran out of room on that piece of paper?" Who could possibly think this is material interesting enough for publication?
The game ended around 1:15 a.m., and the Phillies rewarded us by winning the game. Both of us did the “Yea, We Won Dance” after the winning run scored. At that time of the morning, I was not embarrassed to have anyone see me dance.
Ah, and a reference to a fictional dance just to cap things off.
I dropped Older Daughter off at her house and made it home by 2:30 a.m. We both had to go to work the next morning, and the late night made for a long day the next day.
"...the next day" is completely unnecessary. He obviously dashes these off the night before they're due and never re-reads them.
About midday, I sent her a text message: “I know it was a long night, which is making for a tough day today, but I’m happy you were with me last night.”
His texts are as poorly-written as his columns.
She responded: “Ya, I had a really good time. Thanks for a good memory.”
And that’s what it indeed became, a great memory.
Why, you can still remember it days later! And in all fairness, she said "good memory," not "great memory."
It was a unique baseball game for sure, but it turned into a unique father-daughter experience that just the two of us share, a story that maybe someday she’ll tell her children.
This is absurd! What a claim! And for being such a unique and memorable experience, we heard precious little about what he and his daughter did together (we know they attended the game and kept scorecards).
It was a special evening, but not because the Phillies and Reds played 19 innings. It was special because I got to share it with a special person in my life. And that’s why we never leave a ballgame early. Because sometimes, if one is lucky, it ends up being about something other than just baseball.
Bull. This column was 922 words long. On a purely by-paragraph basis, if you remove the sections unrelated to his activites with Older Daughter, you're left with 490 words. So really, this once-in-a-lifetime memory merited 53% of his column; the remaining 47% involved hot dogs, baseball trivia, etc.
OUTTA LEFTFIELD: It took 19 innings to score a treasured father-daughter memory
Published: Wednesday, June 01, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
"Score." Because you score runs in baseball.
There’s always been a rule in our family: Never leave a ballgame early. It’s not only because something fun or unusual might happen, but because we go to the ballpark to enjoy the game, its sounds, smells and ambiance, not because we want to leave early and beat the traffic home.
First paragraph and we already have a "ballgame" and a "ballpark." I wonder if he brought his ballglove to catch a foul baseballball!
Well, the Phillies certainly tested that rule last week with their 19-inning tilt against the Cincinnati Reds.
And yep, I was there. For … the … whole … thing. All six hours and 14 minutes’ worth.
He makes it sound like this is a big chore, after a whole paragraph spent extolling the virtues of staying the whole game.
Joining me for the bonus baseball was Older Daughter, who has grown up with the family’s rules and is well aware of them.
That's a little redundant, isn't it? She grew up with them. AND is well aware of them! Also, she knows them!
I had reminded her in passing as the game entered the 10th inning that we never leave a game early. At that point, neither of us suspected we’d be there for another nine innings.
“I know the family rule,” she said matter-of-factly.
Isn't THIS a little redundant? The story so far: he established that the Morsch family stays for extra innings, and Older Daughter knows that. Then Morsch reminds Older Daughter that they stay for extra innings, and she confirms that she knows that.
As if to further demonstrate her understanding of the family rules, she turned to me after the 18th inning and said: “It would be kind of a half-assed effort on our part if we were to leave after the 18th inning, wouldn’t it?”
Woah woah woah, not even a warning that this column contains PG-13 material? He warns viewers to look away when he discusses poop, but tosses a casual "ass" out there?
Atta girl. When one’s daughter describes a six-hour, 18-inning effort at 1 a.m. as “half-assed” if we don’t see it through to the end, then that demonstrates a pretty good grasp of the We Never Leave a Ballgame Early Rule.
Nice elaborate made-up title. Also, this is the third time we've established that Older Daughter knows this rule.
Given my affinity for hotdogs mentioned in this space over the years, you might think a 19-inning ballgame would provide more than an ample opportunity to see if I could eat every hotdog in the ballpark.
Ballgame! Ballpark! Hot dogs! Is Borsch trying to do an Adam West Batman-style self-parody?
Oddly enough, I didn’t have a single dog that evening, which in hindsight is admittedly an error in judgment. I’m going to have to make a new family rule to address that: Never Go to a Ballgame Without Eating at Least a Half Dozen Hotdogs.
He might also create a The More Words I Use the Funnier I Become rule. How many little asides does he need to make a sentence amusing? "Oddly enough," "in hindsight," "admittedly"... These are the things that probably look hilarious to him while he's piling them on, but try actually reading them.
Among the unique aspects of the game was that the Phils’ winning pitcher ended up being position player Wilson Valdez, who became the first player to start a game in the field and end up getting the win on the hill since Babe Ruth did it a bazillion years ago. Raise your hand if you thought the names Babe Ruth and Wilson Valdez would ever be mentioned in the same sentence for any reason.
Was this one of the great memories he shared with Older Daughter? She seems to have vanished... Borsch is punishing us with all these extra details. Given all the clauses he jams into that first sentence is "getting the win on the hill" really necessary? Where else would you get the win?
I enjoyed having both a Seventh Inning Stretch and a 14th Inning Stretch, where we got to sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” twice in the same game. I have no doubt that if we had made it to the 21st inning, we would have sung again. (At one point on the scoreboard, it was revealed that the Phillies longest game in team history was a 21-inning contest against the Chicago Cubs in 1918.)
Too... many... unnecessary... baseball facts! Shouldn't there be an apostrophe after "Phillies"?
However, the most unusual and challenging aspect for Older Daughter and me ended up being the keeping of the scorecard.
Pathetic.
I’ve kept a scorecard at every game I’ve been to since I was a kid. And now as an adult, she has expressed an interest in that part of going to the ballgame, and I have been teaching her the intricacies of scorecard keeping the past few games we have attended together this season.
Wait - WHO as an adult? Borsch or Older Daughter? Chalk up another "ballgame."
The problem with the Phillies pre-printed scorecards is that they provide space for only 10 innings. There are additional columns for game totals that, if necessary, can be used to get one through 14 innings of scorekeeping.
Oh, horrors! Since only a tiny fraction of games ever go past the 14th inning, this is obviously a HUGE oversight on the part of the Phils!
But neither the Phillies nor the Reds cooperated by scoring any runs from the 11th through the 18th innings. So we were forced to get creative with the scorecard and write in the margins and then eventually, turn the scorecard vertically and utilize any vacant spaces that could be found.
This is just too exciting for words. Scorekeeping! Margin writing!
And we each got the whole game scored on our separate scorecards. Had it gone past 19 innings, I’m not sure what we would have done because we truly were out of space at that point. Older Daughter suggested afterward that she would have written on a napkin and stapled it to the scorecard if the game had continued. “You don’t come that far to have an incomplete scorecard,” she said.
This - THIS - is a memory worth treasuring? "Hey, remember that time we almost ran out of room on that piece of paper?" Who could possibly think this is material interesting enough for publication?
The game ended around 1:15 a.m., and the Phillies rewarded us by winning the game. Both of us did the “Yea, We Won Dance” after the winning run scored. At that time of the morning, I was not embarrassed to have anyone see me dance.
Ah, and a reference to a fictional dance just to cap things off.
I dropped Older Daughter off at her house and made it home by 2:30 a.m. We both had to go to work the next morning, and the late night made for a long day the next day.
"...the next day" is completely unnecessary. He obviously dashes these off the night before they're due and never re-reads them.
About midday, I sent her a text message: “I know it was a long night, which is making for a tough day today, but I’m happy you were with me last night.”
His texts are as poorly-written as his columns.
She responded: “Ya, I had a really good time. Thanks for a good memory.”
And that’s what it indeed became, a great memory.
Why, you can still remember it days later! And in all fairness, she said "good memory," not "great memory."
It was a unique baseball game for sure, but it turned into a unique father-daughter experience that just the two of us share, a story that maybe someday she’ll tell her children.
This is absurd! What a claim! And for being such a unique and memorable experience, we heard precious little about what he and his daughter did together (we know they attended the game and kept scorecards).
It was a special evening, but not because the Phillies and Reds played 19 innings. It was special because I got to share it with a special person in my life. And that’s why we never leave a ballgame early. Because sometimes, if one is lucky, it ends up being about something other than just baseball.
Bull. This column was 922 words long. On a purely by-paragraph basis, if you remove the sections unrelated to his activites with Older Daughter, you're left with 490 words. So really, this once-in-a-lifetime memory merited 53% of his column; the remaining 47% involved hot dogs, baseball trivia, etc.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Can't Do Enough Fawning
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
'No Ma'am, You're Not Old'
Boy, I'm a bit stumped as to the possible topic here. Could it be about how clueless guys are about the subject of a woman's age? Maybe he called someone "ma'am" and his wife scolds him because it's an "old lady" term?
I judge the level of a party by the host’s willingness to offer cocktail weenies at the hors d’oeuvres table. Using that as a measuring stick, Dan May really knows how to throw a shindig.
We dive right into fresh territory - "cocktail weeines" (which he has covered in-depth before), a.k.a. little hot dogs. Toss in a sprinkling of oft-chronicled musician Dan May and we've got a truly revolutionary topic!
May, the Philadelphia singer-songwriter extraordinaire, had a CD release party last weekend at Plays and Players Theater in the city to promote his fourth CD, “Dying Breed.” It’s yet another brilliant piece of work by Dan and his band mates, who performed several cuts from the album at a show prior to everybody bellying up to the buffet table at the after party.
I'm disgusted for three reasons: (1) Borsch is almost homosexual in his lust for Mr. May, who just produced a liberal-themed music CD - but he had nothing good to say about Dennis Miller, who does some conservative-themed comedy. And Borsch had the gall to say his dislike of Miller was because he doesn't enjoy political material. (2) This is the SECOND article he's squeezed out of this Dan May gala. (3) I hate the phrase "bellying up to."
There are a lot of things to like about Dan — the songwriting, the singing, the sense of humor.
Restrain yourself, sir!
Lead guitarist and vocalist Tom Hampton seems to be cut from the same cloth, and it shows in the music.
What cloth? The cloth of having a lot of things to like about him?
As we were about to take our leave from the party Saturday night, Tom was engaged in a conversation with two other people, and the three of them happened to be blocking the path to our exit. The Blonde Accountant said, “Excuse me” as she made her way past the trio, and Tom countered with, “Sure, ma’am.”
You don't "counter" someone saying "excuse me." Seriously. Especially when the guy just said, "Sure, ma'am." He replied; he rejoined; he answered. Learn the language.
A seemingly innocent enough exchange. But as soon as we were out of earshot, she turned to me and said, “I’m not old enough to be called ma’am. How old does Tom think I am? He’s probably the same age as me.”
Get over yourself. "Ma'am" is a term of respect. I would use "ma'am" on women at the grocery store, and they'd always say something like, "That's what people call my mother." Well guess what - you're all grown up now. I call you "ma'am," you call me "sir."
The reality of it is that I am old and The Blonde Accountant is eight years my junior, which I believe makes it alright for Tom to call me “ma’am” the next time he sees me.
TBA must be a real prize, eh? Marrying an older man is one thing, but marrying an older man who happens to be Mike Morsch? *Shudder*
I would (29) never think of (29) revealing my wife’s age (29) in print and (29) if I did, I would (29) make sure (29) to emphasize that it (29) doesn’t change (29) from year to year.
Ha... ha?
The next day, I went to Dan’s Facebook page and posted the following comment about the party: “I, for one, certainly appreciated that cocktail weenies were included in the after party buffet table. But thanks to Tom Hampton calling my wife ‘ma’am’ I had to hear all . . . the . . . way . . . home that she wasn’t old.”
I'm not one to brag, but please note that I totally called this exact topic by just reading the title.
Dan’s response: “Tom is a southern gentleman, he calls women ‘ma’am.’ Tell The Blonde Accountant she’s still got it going on. In fact, people at the party that saw the two of you together were commenting on how Mike Morsch was robbing the cradle.”
This is really gross. And for the record, I really, really wanted to make a "James Troutman" reference here. But I felt restraint.
Dan is a playful purveyor of hooey, so that’s pretty funny, considering that nobody at that party besides Dan knew who I was.
Well, at least it's as funny as your standard Outta Leftfield
Once again, Tom wasn’t too far behind with his comment: “Mike, if it makes you feel better, I also call Dan ‘ma’am’ more often than not.”
So you remember that joke a few sentences, ago, when Borsch said it was "alright for Tom to call me “ma’am” the next time he sees me"? Yeah. He stole that joke. From Tom.
The Blonde Accountant was having none of what they were peddling. I suggested to Dan and Tom that they only way they could get back into her good graces would be to write her a song. We shall see where that leads, although Dan has already admitted to having trouble rhyming “accountant.”
Both "fountain" and "mountain" are near-rhymes of "accountant." [Editor's Note: On further review, I missed a Borsch typo - "they only way they." Well done, Mr. Executive Editor.]
I would suggest a working title of “No Ma’am, You’re Not Old.”
Labels: Dan May, Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
I find it interesting that he tags Dan May but not Tom Hampton. We get some pretty good Borsch standards here: fawning over a local celeb, writing about an event he attended, hot dog references, social faux pas made by a man and pointed out by his wife.
'No Ma'am, You're Not Old'
Boy, I'm a bit stumped as to the possible topic here. Could it be about how clueless guys are about the subject of a woman's age? Maybe he called someone "ma'am" and his wife scolds him because it's an "old lady" term?
I judge the level of a party by the host’s willingness to offer cocktail weenies at the hors d’oeuvres table. Using that as a measuring stick, Dan May really knows how to throw a shindig.
We dive right into fresh territory - "cocktail weeines" (which he has covered in-depth before), a.k.a. little hot dogs. Toss in a sprinkling of oft-chronicled musician Dan May and we've got a truly revolutionary topic!
May, the Philadelphia singer-songwriter extraordinaire, had a CD release party last weekend at Plays and Players Theater in the city to promote his fourth CD, “Dying Breed.” It’s yet another brilliant piece of work by Dan and his band mates, who performed several cuts from the album at a show prior to everybody bellying up to the buffet table at the after party.
I'm disgusted for three reasons: (1) Borsch is almost homosexual in his lust for Mr. May, who just produced a liberal-themed music CD - but he had nothing good to say about Dennis Miller, who does some conservative-themed comedy. And Borsch had the gall to say his dislike of Miller was because he doesn't enjoy political material. (2) This is the SECOND article he's squeezed out of this Dan May gala. (3) I hate the phrase "bellying up to."
There are a lot of things to like about Dan — the songwriting, the singing, the sense of humor.
Restrain yourself, sir!
Lead guitarist and vocalist Tom Hampton seems to be cut from the same cloth, and it shows in the music.
What cloth? The cloth of having a lot of things to like about him?
As we were about to take our leave from the party Saturday night, Tom was engaged in a conversation with two other people, and the three of them happened to be blocking the path to our exit. The Blonde Accountant said, “Excuse me” as she made her way past the trio, and Tom countered with, “Sure, ma’am.”
You don't "counter" someone saying "excuse me." Seriously. Especially when the guy just said, "Sure, ma'am." He replied; he rejoined; he answered. Learn the language.
A seemingly innocent enough exchange. But as soon as we were out of earshot, she turned to me and said, “I’m not old enough to be called ma’am. How old does Tom think I am? He’s probably the same age as me.”
Get over yourself. "Ma'am" is a term of respect. I would use "ma'am" on women at the grocery store, and they'd always say something like, "That's what people call my mother." Well guess what - you're all grown up now. I call you "ma'am," you call me "sir."
The reality of it is that I am old and The Blonde Accountant is eight years my junior, which I believe makes it alright for Tom to call me “ma’am” the next time he sees me.
TBA must be a real prize, eh? Marrying an older man is one thing, but marrying an older man who happens to be Mike Morsch? *Shudder*
I would (29) never think of (29) revealing my wife’s age (29) in print and (29) if I did, I would (29) make sure (29) to emphasize that it (29) doesn’t change (29) from year to year.
Ha... ha?
The next day, I went to Dan’s Facebook page and posted the following comment about the party: “I, for one, certainly appreciated that cocktail weenies were included in the after party buffet table. But thanks to Tom Hampton calling my wife ‘ma’am’ I had to hear all . . . the . . . way . . . home that she wasn’t old.”
I'm not one to brag, but please note that I totally called this exact topic by just reading the title.
Dan’s response: “Tom is a southern gentleman, he calls women ‘ma’am.’ Tell The Blonde Accountant she’s still got it going on. In fact, people at the party that saw the two of you together were commenting on how Mike Morsch was robbing the cradle.”
This is really gross. And for the record, I really, really wanted to make a "James Troutman" reference here. But I felt restraint.
Dan is a playful purveyor of hooey, so that’s pretty funny, considering that nobody at that party besides Dan knew who I was.
Well, at least it's as funny as your standard Outta Leftfield
Once again, Tom wasn’t too far behind with his comment: “Mike, if it makes you feel better, I also call Dan ‘ma’am’ more often than not.”
So you remember that joke a few sentences, ago, when Borsch said it was "alright for Tom to call me “ma’am” the next time he sees me"? Yeah. He stole that joke. From Tom.
The Blonde Accountant was having none of what they were peddling. I suggested to Dan and Tom that they only way they could get back into her good graces would be to write her a song. We shall see where that leads, although Dan has already admitted to having trouble rhyming “accountant.”
Both "fountain" and "mountain" are near-rhymes of "accountant." [Editor's Note: On further review, I missed a Borsch typo - "they only way they." Well done, Mr. Executive Editor.]
I would suggest a working title of “No Ma’am, You’re Not Old.”
Labels: Dan May, Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
I find it interesting that he tags Dan May but not Tom Hampton. We get some pretty good Borsch standards here: fawning over a local celeb, writing about an event he attended, hot dog references, social faux pas made by a man and pointed out by his wife.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
A Plea for Help
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Bobblehead immortality
Having read nothing but the title, I'm guessing that this hilarious entry in the Borsch canon will be an add for a contest that gets your face on a bobblehead.
Whenever I get a hankering for some home cooking, I can usually count on my boyhood friend Greg Batton to help me out.
Ah, a little walk down the "growing up in Illinois" pathway, eh? Greg is notorious for being slightly more amusing that his boyhood friend Mike.
Greg and his partner Dan Diorio are morning radio personalities at 1470 WMBD radio in Peoria. I’ve had the pleasure of being on their show a few times over the years when I’m back in Illinois visiting family.
Wow! Why, that practically makes you a celebrity!
And every once in a while — usually when it snows two feet at a time here in Philly — they’ll call me at some ridiculously early hour of the morning and put me on the air to tell the people of Peoria that, yes, it does indeed snow a whole bunch in Philly sometimes. I’m not sure how useful that information is to folks in central Illinois, but we yuk it up and have a good time with it.
Woo-hoo! Only a truly zany morning radio host would think to discuss the weather - always a topic that provides plentiful "yuks."
One time a few years ago, Greg offered his listeners a “What Can I Do For You” campaign on his Facebook page. Essentially, he wanted to do something nice for someone. It was no surprise, he’s been a nice guy his entire life.
That comma should be a semicolon.
It so happened that the day after that Facebook posting, I was headed to Yankee Stadium for a ballgame, so I posted on his Facebook that evening, “You can buy me a hotdog tomorrow at Yankee Stadium.”
Heading to Yankee Stadium for a ballgame... that's a new one on me. And Greg can't be a very nice guy if the thing he does for someone is buy a hotdog for Borsch to ram down his gullet.
I knew that would get him. Greg loves a goofy challenge like that. Radio guys are that way when it comes to goofy stuff.
Well, the guy tried and tried, utilizing every connection he had between Peoria and New York, to get that hotdog to me, but to no avail. Not to be deterred, a few days later, a dozen hotdogs were delivered to my office from a restaurant in Fort Washington.
Because if there's anything he needs, it's more hot dogs. Is this really "funny" material? Is this an "amusing" story?
They weren’t Yankee Stadium hotdogs, but they were even better because Greg had gone to such trouble from halfway across the country to fulfill my request.
Recently, I wanted something else that can only be found in Peoria — it’s called a gondola, which is sort of the central Illinois version of a hoagie, only better. It’s made at a Peoria eatery called Avanti’s and I’ve been going there since I was a kid for that sandwich.
This would be a terribly boring story even if you were just telling it to a friend at the office. Does he really think that the rest of the world cares what kind of sandwiches he got as a kid?
And once again, Greg is on top of this request. But this time, I can do something for him in return.
The Peoria Chiefs, the Chicago Cubs’ Class A minor league baseball team, is running an online “media bobblehead contest.” Personalities from several different media in the Peoria area are involved. The one who gets the most online votes will eventually have his/her likeness on a bobblehead produced by the team.
How cool is that?
The title of the post is "Bobblehead Immortality." We are 2/3 of the way through the post before the first bobblehead reference is made. Thank goodness we got that hilarious hot dog story though!
Greg says that if he and Dan win the promotion and end up being immortalized with their own bobblehead, (since they are a team, they have to “share” one head of the bobble, and I’m not sure how that’s going to work) then he’ll make good on my Avanti’s gondolas request.
I don’t know how he’ll get them out here to Philly in edible condition, but believe me when I say these sammiches are good enough for this kind of effort, and I’m confident that he’ll find a way.
"Sammich." I hate this man.
So I’m calling for Philly for be the difference maker here by voting for Greg and Dan to win this promotion and for me to get my gondolas. Go to www.peoriachiefs.com/mediabobblehead and vote often.
If anything - anything - counts as a "Blatant Promotion Alert," this is it. He has two points to this column:
1.) Help personal friend win contest
2.) Obtain sandwiches
He's not even bothering to be funny about it. Someone, please, take away this man's keyboard.
If the gondolas do actually make their way to Philly, I’ll invite a handful of you over to share a taste of the Midwest.
They really are that good.
We all know he'd never share food with anyone.
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Does he understand what a "label" is? And fine, if he wants to label his own blog with his own name and the blog title, fine... but how are ANY of these related to Montgomery Newspapers?
Bobblehead immortality
Having read nothing but the title, I'm guessing that this hilarious entry in the Borsch canon will be an add for a contest that gets your face on a bobblehead.
Whenever I get a hankering for some home cooking, I can usually count on my boyhood friend Greg Batton to help me out.
Ah, a little walk down the "growing up in Illinois" pathway, eh? Greg is notorious for being slightly more amusing that his boyhood friend Mike.
Greg and his partner Dan Diorio are morning radio personalities at 1470 WMBD radio in Peoria. I’ve had the pleasure of being on their show a few times over the years when I’m back in Illinois visiting family.
Wow! Why, that practically makes you a celebrity!
And every once in a while — usually when it snows two feet at a time here in Philly — they’ll call me at some ridiculously early hour of the morning and put me on the air to tell the people of Peoria that, yes, it does indeed snow a whole bunch in Philly sometimes. I’m not sure how useful that information is to folks in central Illinois, but we yuk it up and have a good time with it.
Woo-hoo! Only a truly zany morning radio host would think to discuss the weather - always a topic that provides plentiful "yuks."
One time a few years ago, Greg offered his listeners a “What Can I Do For You” campaign on his Facebook page. Essentially, he wanted to do something nice for someone. It was no surprise, he’s been a nice guy his entire life.
That comma should be a semicolon.
It so happened that the day after that Facebook posting, I was headed to Yankee Stadium for a ballgame, so I posted on his Facebook that evening, “You can buy me a hotdog tomorrow at Yankee Stadium.”
Heading to Yankee Stadium for a ballgame... that's a new one on me. And Greg can't be a very nice guy if the thing he does for someone is buy a hotdog for Borsch to ram down his gullet.
I knew that would get him. Greg loves a goofy challenge like that. Radio guys are that way when it comes to goofy stuff.
Well, the guy tried and tried, utilizing every connection he had between Peoria and New York, to get that hotdog to me, but to no avail. Not to be deterred, a few days later, a dozen hotdogs were delivered to my office from a restaurant in Fort Washington.
Because if there's anything he needs, it's more hot dogs. Is this really "funny" material? Is this an "amusing" story?
They weren’t Yankee Stadium hotdogs, but they were even better because Greg had gone to such trouble from halfway across the country to fulfill my request.
Recently, I wanted something else that can only be found in Peoria — it’s called a gondola, which is sort of the central Illinois version of a hoagie, only better. It’s made at a Peoria eatery called Avanti’s and I’ve been going there since I was a kid for that sandwich.
This would be a terribly boring story even if you were just telling it to a friend at the office. Does he really think that the rest of the world cares what kind of sandwiches he got as a kid?
And once again, Greg is on top of this request. But this time, I can do something for him in return.
The Peoria Chiefs, the Chicago Cubs’ Class A minor league baseball team, is running an online “media bobblehead contest.” Personalities from several different media in the Peoria area are involved. The one who gets the most online votes will eventually have his/her likeness on a bobblehead produced by the team.
How cool is that?
The title of the post is "Bobblehead Immortality." We are 2/3 of the way through the post before the first bobblehead reference is made. Thank goodness we got that hilarious hot dog story though!
Greg says that if he and Dan win the promotion and end up being immortalized with their own bobblehead, (since they are a team, they have to “share” one head of the bobble, and I’m not sure how that’s going to work) then he’ll make good on my Avanti’s gondolas request.
I don’t know how he’ll get them out here to Philly in edible condition, but believe me when I say these sammiches are good enough for this kind of effort, and I’m confident that he’ll find a way.
"Sammich." I hate this man.
So I’m calling for Philly for be the difference maker here by voting for Greg and Dan to win this promotion and for me to get my gondolas. Go to www.peoriachiefs.com/mediabobblehead and vote often.
If anything - anything - counts as a "Blatant Promotion Alert," this is it. He has two points to this column:
1.) Help personal friend win contest
2.) Obtain sandwiches
He's not even bothering to be funny about it. Someone, please, take away this man's keyboard.
If the gondolas do actually make their way to Philly, I’ll invite a handful of you over to share a taste of the Midwest.
They really are that good.
We all know he'd never share food with anyone.
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Does he understand what a "label" is? And fine, if he wants to label his own blog with his own name and the blog title, fine... but how are ANY of these related to Montgomery Newspapers?
Monday, February 7, 2011
Borsch Tweets the SuperBowl
Cocktail weenies, pizza rolls, mozzarella sticks and chip and dip. I am ready for the commericals. Baseball starts soon.
As I should have suspected, Borsch is almost fanatical about not being interested in football. It's all the more tragic because as a big, fat, dumb guy, he's practically already the perfect football fan.
Super Bowl prediction: Cliff Lee will throw for two TDs and run for another.
Guuuuuuuuwhaaaaaat??? But Cliff Lee is a baseball player! What a zany prediction! Seriously though... this guy can't enjoy one football game - the biggest of the year - without pining for baseball at every turn?
I like Joe Buck. A baseball guy.
No, he can't.
Joe Buck is the human equivalent of an early sports-talk video game that only has two phrases for any one activity. A player walks onto the field? "Here comes X." A player does something? "Here's X" or just "X." A pass is made over the middle? "Over the MIDDLE!" He's a boring, stiff, humorless dope.
Borsch loves him.
My stepson was cheering for the result of the coin toss. I don't know what else to say about that.
Because it's a fun part of the game? It's as much a part of football as, say, a pinch hitter is a part of baseball.
A-Rod at the Super Bowl. Well, I guess that could be considered some baseball news.
The heck? I don't spend the World Series eagerly awaiting a one-minute shot of Peyton Manning.
Now that we've had a look at A-Rod, can a shot of somebody feeding Boog Powell hotdogs be far behind?
I had to google Boog Powell to get this reference. He's a baseball player, of course. And he's fat. Therein lies the comedy.
Anytime a commercial can get by with saying the word "rack," well . . . .
Oooh, the word "rack" is so racy! How do they get away with this stuff, right?
I think Cliff Lee probably would have put on a better halftime show.
This is not only the sixth baseball reference, but the second Lee reference. If baseball references were the "joke" of these SuperBowl tweets, I'd say they've worn rather thin by now.
Al Swearingen playing Blackbeard in the next Pirates movie.
Apparently a reference to a character from the HBO show Deadwood whose name is actually Al Swearengen. I've never seen the show, but this is proof that an Internet search engine can spell better than Borsch.
As I should have suspected, Borsch is almost fanatical about not being interested in football. It's all the more tragic because as a big, fat, dumb guy, he's practically already the perfect football fan.
Super Bowl prediction: Cliff Lee will throw for two TDs and run for another.
Guuuuuuuuwhaaaaaat??? But Cliff Lee is a baseball player! What a zany prediction! Seriously though... this guy can't enjoy one football game - the biggest of the year - without pining for baseball at every turn?
I like Joe Buck. A baseball guy.
No, he can't.
Joe Buck is the human equivalent of an early sports-talk video game that only has two phrases for any one activity. A player walks onto the field? "Here comes X." A player does something? "Here's X" or just "X." A pass is made over the middle? "Over the MIDDLE!" He's a boring, stiff, humorless dope.
Borsch loves him.
My stepson was cheering for the result of the coin toss. I don't know what else to say about that.
Because it's a fun part of the game? It's as much a part of football as, say, a pinch hitter is a part of baseball.
A-Rod at the Super Bowl. Well, I guess that could be considered some baseball news.
The heck? I don't spend the World Series eagerly awaiting a one-minute shot of Peyton Manning.
Now that we've had a look at A-Rod, can a shot of somebody feeding Boog Powell hotdogs be far behind?
I had to google Boog Powell to get this reference. He's a baseball player, of course. And he's fat. Therein lies the comedy.
Anytime a commercial can get by with saying the word "rack," well . . . .
Oooh, the word "rack" is so racy! How do they get away with this stuff, right?
I think Cliff Lee probably would have put on a better halftime show.
This is not only the sixth baseball reference, but the second Lee reference. If baseball references were the "joke" of these SuperBowl tweets, I'd say they've worn rather thin by now.
Al Swearingen playing Blackbeard in the next Pirates movie.
Apparently a reference to a character from the HBO show Deadwood whose name is actually Al Swearengen. I've never seen the show, but this is proof that an Internet search engine can spell better than Borsch.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
One Joke per Column
Outta Leftfield: Oh, I wish I was an Oscar Mayer Wienermobile driver
Published: Tuesday, September 28, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
This is the second known column that will seemingly focus on the subject of hot dogs. It will, I presume, include many weiner-related puns.
New this week on the “Outta Leftfield” blog, “E-mail scams? Must be an election year.” You can also now follow Mike on Facebook and Twitter @Mmorsch35.
Yes, yes, I know all about that. This is a clever new strategy for Morsch, using his print column to cross-advertise his blog.
After months of reflecting and soul-searching, I have finally decided what I want to be when I grow up: the driver of the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile.
Good choice, since you're obviously not qualified for your current position.
Where else could I get a job that includes the spilling of mustard on one’s shirt as part of the job description? Why, as proficient as I am at that, I’d be a shoo-in for the title of “Commodore of the Wienermobile” in no time. There must be a cool hat and blazer that comes with that title.
When making a list of things that never grow old, you'd have to include comedienne Betty White, anyone who carries the One Ring, and the highly amusing "I spill mustard on myself" gag!
When I mentioned to my Facebook friends that I’d like to take a one-year hiatus from my real job to drive the Wienermobile around, they were quite supportive:
Lisa: “It would be a perfect job for you!”
Agreed.
Ann: “Start the legal paperwork to change your name to Frank.”
Why not Oscar? Why not Frank N. Furter? Come on, Ann!
Dan: “Why only a year? This may be your calling.”
Lynne: “Perfect for the man with the cocktail weenie recipe.”
I hope Lynne's isn't a double entendre. I really hope it isn't.
Larry: “I’ll bring the kraut and cheese in an 18-wheeler and drive behind you.”
... Okay.
Turns out that driving the Wienermobile isn’t so far-fetched after all. The folks at Oscar Mayer — in addition to having one of the most recognizable jingles in the history of advertising — have for years recognized the attraction of the Wienermobile. It’s been around since 1936, designed initially to promote the company’s products at supermarkets in the Midwest.
Shockingly, this information was NOT taken word-for-word from Wikipedia.
According to its website, as the company grew, the Wienermobile traveled coast to coast until 1970. I don’t ever recall seeing it in person, but I must have at one time because I remember having one of those little wiener whistles as a kid. I think the only way back then to get the whistle was to have visited the Wienermobile when it came to your town.
Ah, there we go - it was taken word-for-word from the Wienermobile website. I think I speak for all of us when I demand, "Where are the penis jokes?" Come on!
On its 50th anniversary in 1986, the Wienermobile went on tour again and has been on the road ever since. I would think that in addition to the 18-wheeler filled with sauerkraut and Cheese Whiz as suggested by my friend Larry, the Wienermobile caravan must include a pace car as well, something like a Volkswagen Beetle called the “Cocktail Weeniemobile.” Just a thought, in case the Oscar Mayer people haven’t already considered the idea.
Morsch once devoted an entire column to the fact that he loves cocktail weenies (a.k.a. pigs in a blanket). It was as annoying as it sounds, and almost as dumb as this one.
(Editor’s note: Turns out there already is something called a “Mini Wienermobile,” 15 feet long and built on a mini Cooper S chassis that has a horn that plays the Oscar Mayer jingle. Drat. I really wanted to be the first one to come up with the “Cocktail Weeniemobile” idea.)
Well, you were. I mean, "Mini" isn't the same thing as "cocktail." You actually had a semi-original idea there - don't beat yourself up too much.
The Wienermobile itself — which the company says measures 55 hotdogs long, 25 hotdogs high and 18 hotdogs wide — has a custom-made fiberglass hotdog and bun resting on a Chevrolet W4 Series chassis.
You know what the ancient Greeks defined "comedy" as? "The endless repetition of purportedly zany facts and details." I'm paraphrasing, but I think that was it.
Inside it has a hotdog shaped instrument panel; seating for six in mustard and ketchup-colored seats; exterior rearview cameras; a gull-wing door; mustard-splattered walkway; removable bun roof; state-of-the-art audio center with wireless microphone system; and blue sky ceiling art.
Did I miss the joke? I think I missed the joke. Let me read that paragraph again... no, no I don't think I missed it.
And one can apply to be what the company calls a “hotdogger,” which is someone who travels the country in the Wienermobile serving as a goodwill ambassador for Oscar Mayer.
My fingers are tingling - he must be building up to a tremendous burst of humor here somewhere.
To be a hotdogger, the company is looking for people who: have a college degree in journalism, public relations, communications, advertising or marketing; can represent the company in newspaper and television interviews and at grocery stores and charity functions; have a big appetite for travel and adventure; and be a people person.
AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh my gosh... oh my gosh... That was great. Hoo boy. Let me calm down a second here.
I believe I qualify in all those areas and as an experienced mustard-spiller — evidenced by the signed and notarized affidavit from my dry cleaners that I carry around affirming such — I think that would give me a leg up on all the other wannabe hotdoggers.
Stop! Stop! I can't breathe! If I see another variation of that "spilling mustard" joke I'm going to rupture a lung!
Of course, getting clearance from the tower — i.e. The Blonde Accountant and my boss — to take a year off from real life to drive the Wienermobile across the country for a year could be problematic.
I'll say it will! Those "squares" will never understand your wacky sense of humor, Morsch - but don't let them change you! Keep on truckin'!
Check out the "take a year off... for a year." That's not just quality writing - that's Morsch Quality.
Certainly I would never venture out on this journey without my wife riding shotgun in the Wienermobile because I know it would be an experience that she would enjoy and treasure forever.
I suspect that there's a sly, subtle sense of sarcasm at work here.
Something tells me, though, that the mustard-spilling portion of my resume isn’t going to be enough to overcome those two obstacles.
And just when you think you're safe - BOOM, he hits us with ANOTHER mustard-spill joke! Surely, surely that must be it. I mean, to base an entire column on repeating a single joke four times... that would just be too much, wouldn't it?
Still, given the criteria for being a hotdogger and Wienermobile driver, my experience speaks for itself. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can pass muster on this.
Or in this case, pass mustard.
Hmmm, mustard... where have I heard that before?
Published: Tuesday, September 28, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
This is the second known column that will seemingly focus on the subject of hot dogs. It will, I presume, include many weiner-related puns.
New this week on the “Outta Leftfield” blog, “E-mail scams? Must be an election year.” You can also now follow Mike on Facebook and Twitter @Mmorsch35.
Yes, yes, I know all about that. This is a clever new strategy for Morsch, using his print column to cross-advertise his blog.
After months of reflecting and soul-searching, I have finally decided what I want to be when I grow up: the driver of the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile.
Good choice, since you're obviously not qualified for your current position.
Where else could I get a job that includes the spilling of mustard on one’s shirt as part of the job description? Why, as proficient as I am at that, I’d be a shoo-in for the title of “Commodore of the Wienermobile” in no time. There must be a cool hat and blazer that comes with that title.
When making a list of things that never grow old, you'd have to include comedienne Betty White, anyone who carries the One Ring, and the highly amusing "I spill mustard on myself" gag!
When I mentioned to my Facebook friends that I’d like to take a one-year hiatus from my real job to drive the Wienermobile around, they were quite supportive:
Lisa: “It would be a perfect job for you!”
Agreed.
Ann: “Start the legal paperwork to change your name to Frank.”
Why not Oscar? Why not Frank N. Furter? Come on, Ann!
Dan: “Why only a year? This may be your calling.”
Lynne: “Perfect for the man with the cocktail weenie recipe.”
I hope Lynne's isn't a double entendre. I really hope it isn't.
Larry: “I’ll bring the kraut and cheese in an 18-wheeler and drive behind you.”
... Okay.
Turns out that driving the Wienermobile isn’t so far-fetched after all. The folks at Oscar Mayer — in addition to having one of the most recognizable jingles in the history of advertising — have for years recognized the attraction of the Wienermobile. It’s been around since 1936, designed initially to promote the company’s products at supermarkets in the Midwest.
Shockingly, this information was NOT taken word-for-word from Wikipedia.
According to its website, as the company grew, the Wienermobile traveled coast to coast until 1970. I don’t ever recall seeing it in person, but I must have at one time because I remember having one of those little wiener whistles as a kid. I think the only way back then to get the whistle was to have visited the Wienermobile when it came to your town.
Ah, there we go - it was taken word-for-word from the Wienermobile website. I think I speak for all of us when I demand, "Where are the penis jokes?" Come on!
On its 50th anniversary in 1986, the Wienermobile went on tour again and has been on the road ever since. I would think that in addition to the 18-wheeler filled with sauerkraut and Cheese Whiz as suggested by my friend Larry, the Wienermobile caravan must include a pace car as well, something like a Volkswagen Beetle called the “Cocktail Weeniemobile.” Just a thought, in case the Oscar Mayer people haven’t already considered the idea.
Morsch once devoted an entire column to the fact that he loves cocktail weenies (a.k.a. pigs in a blanket). It was as annoying as it sounds, and almost as dumb as this one.
(Editor’s note: Turns out there already is something called a “Mini Wienermobile,” 15 feet long and built on a mini Cooper S chassis that has a horn that plays the Oscar Mayer jingle. Drat. I really wanted to be the first one to come up with the “Cocktail Weeniemobile” idea.)
Well, you were. I mean, "Mini" isn't the same thing as "cocktail." You actually had a semi-original idea there - don't beat yourself up too much.
The Wienermobile itself — which the company says measures 55 hotdogs long, 25 hotdogs high and 18 hotdogs wide — has a custom-made fiberglass hotdog and bun resting on a Chevrolet W4 Series chassis.
You know what the ancient Greeks defined "comedy" as? "The endless repetition of purportedly zany facts and details." I'm paraphrasing, but I think that was it.
Inside it has a hotdog shaped instrument panel; seating for six in mustard and ketchup-colored seats; exterior rearview cameras; a gull-wing door; mustard-splattered walkway; removable bun roof; state-of-the-art audio center with wireless microphone system; and blue sky ceiling art.
Did I miss the joke? I think I missed the joke. Let me read that paragraph again... no, no I don't think I missed it.
And one can apply to be what the company calls a “hotdogger,” which is someone who travels the country in the Wienermobile serving as a goodwill ambassador for Oscar Mayer.
My fingers are tingling - he must be building up to a tremendous burst of humor here somewhere.
To be a hotdogger, the company is looking for people who: have a college degree in journalism, public relations, communications, advertising or marketing; can represent the company in newspaper and television interviews and at grocery stores and charity functions; have a big appetite for travel and adventure; and be a people person.
AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh my gosh... oh my gosh... That was great. Hoo boy. Let me calm down a second here.
I believe I qualify in all those areas and as an experienced mustard-spiller — evidenced by the signed and notarized affidavit from my dry cleaners that I carry around affirming such — I think that would give me a leg up on all the other wannabe hotdoggers.
Stop! Stop! I can't breathe! If I see another variation of that "spilling mustard" joke I'm going to rupture a lung!
Of course, getting clearance from the tower — i.e. The Blonde Accountant and my boss — to take a year off from real life to drive the Wienermobile across the country for a year could be problematic.
I'll say it will! Those "squares" will never understand your wacky sense of humor, Morsch - but don't let them change you! Keep on truckin'!
Check out the "take a year off... for a year." That's not just quality writing - that's Morsch Quality.
Certainly I would never venture out on this journey without my wife riding shotgun in the Wienermobile because I know it would be an experience that she would enjoy and treasure forever.
I suspect that there's a sly, subtle sense of sarcasm at work here.
Something tells me, though, that the mustard-spilling portion of my resume isn’t going to be enough to overcome those two obstacles.
And just when you think you're safe - BOOM, he hits us with ANOTHER mustard-spill joke! Surely, surely that must be it. I mean, to base an entire column on repeating a single joke four times... that would just be too much, wouldn't it?
Still, given the criteria for being a hotdogger and Wienermobile driver, my experience speaks for itself. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can pass muster on this.
Or in this case, pass mustard.
Hmmm, mustard... where have I heard that before?
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Running Out of Material?
Outta Leftfield: Hot-diggity-dog! Phillies expand the feedbag for upcoming season
In this 3/31 print column, Morsch seems to be covering old ground. Can we really stomach two hotdog articles in the span of two days? Actually, that might be a better pun than the "hot-diggity-dog" that MM settled on.
There really isn't much to cover here. MM attended a media event at Citizen's Bank Park to help them select their new "signature" hotdog for Phillies games. A few highlights:
All the big club has to do is offer a free meal — in the name of good journalism of course — and there’s not a reporter in Southeastern Pennsylvania who wouldn’t show up for the feedbag.
Me included.
Wow, so after stating that there isn't a reporter in the whole region (of which he is one) who wouldn't go, Morsch feels the need to add: "Me included." As usual, that goes without saying.
Now as a big fan of ballpark fare — I am especially partial to much of what is served at Bull’s Barbecue; the Schmitter; the cheesesteaks at Tony Luke’s; and despite the sometimes long lines, I enjoy the Chickie’s and Pete’s crab fries — I am particularly fond of hotdogs in general.
He just named "much of" the food at every eatery in Citizen's Bank Park.
You may recall from past columns that back in our younger days in Illinois, Larry and I would go to the ballpark in St. Louis and buy three seats — one for him, one for me and one between the two of us to put all the hotdogs we were going to eat during the ballgame. So he knows good hotdog player evaluation practices when he sees them.
WHAT? "Good hotdog player evaluation practices"? At this point I'm completely lost. And I don't recall him every mentioning Larry from Illinois before.
MM then describes the hotdog choices in terrible, terrible detail, and notes:
Notice how the descriptions all included the words “all-beef Hatfield hotdogs” in them. The public relations professionals at food vendor Aramark did their job on that press release, huh?
If by "did their job" you mean accurately describing what the hotdogs are made of, then you are correct, Mr. Morsch. You might try "doing your job" sometime by including some actual humor in your column.
In addition, I had difficulty keeping the dog on the pretzel roll. I like my pretzels just the way they are, thank you, so I can tear off bits and dunk them in mustard or cheese, like a guy who’s looking for a real heart attack.
Clumsy, fat, dripping mustard and cheese all over himself… the Blonde Accountant has my sympathy.
And finally, I took the opportunity to spill something from each hotdog on my shirt — which from experience I know happens every time a get a hotdog at the ballpark — and I thought the Amish pepper hash spillage coordinated best with my ballpark attire.
I didn't even read this before I wrote "dripping mustard and cheese all over himself." The "every time a get a hotdog" is [sic], of course.
In this 3/31 print column, Morsch seems to be covering old ground. Can we really stomach two hotdog articles in the span of two days? Actually, that might be a better pun than the "hot-diggity-dog" that MM settled on.
There really isn't much to cover here. MM attended a media event at Citizen's Bank Park to help them select their new "signature" hotdog for Phillies games. A few highlights:
All the big club has to do is offer a free meal — in the name of good journalism of course — and there’s not a reporter in Southeastern Pennsylvania who wouldn’t show up for the feedbag.
Me included.
Wow, so after stating that there isn't a reporter in the whole region (of which he is one) who wouldn't go, Morsch feels the need to add: "Me included." As usual, that goes without saying.
Now as a big fan of ballpark fare — I am especially partial to much of what is served at Bull’s Barbecue; the Schmitter; the cheesesteaks at Tony Luke’s; and despite the sometimes long lines, I enjoy the Chickie’s and Pete’s crab fries — I am particularly fond of hotdogs in general.
He just named "much of" the food at every eatery in Citizen's Bank Park.
You may recall from past columns that back in our younger days in Illinois, Larry and I would go to the ballpark in St. Louis and buy three seats — one for him, one for me and one between the two of us to put all the hotdogs we were going to eat during the ballgame. So he knows good hotdog player evaluation practices when he sees them.
WHAT? "Good hotdog player evaluation practices"? At this point I'm completely lost. And I don't recall him every mentioning Larry from Illinois before.
MM then describes the hotdog choices in terrible, terrible detail, and notes:
Notice how the descriptions all included the words “all-beef Hatfield hotdogs” in them. The public relations professionals at food vendor Aramark did their job on that press release, huh?
If by "did their job" you mean accurately describing what the hotdogs are made of, then you are correct, Mr. Morsch. You might try "doing your job" sometime by including some actual humor in your column.
In addition, I had difficulty keeping the dog on the pretzel roll. I like my pretzels just the way they are, thank you, so I can tear off bits and dunk them in mustard or cheese, like a guy who’s looking for a real heart attack.
Clumsy, fat, dripping mustard and cheese all over himself… the Blonde Accountant has my sympathy.
And finally, I took the opportunity to spill something from each hotdog on my shirt — which from experience I know happens every time a get a hotdog at the ballpark — and I thought the Amish pepper hash spillage coordinated best with my ballpark attire.
I didn't even read this before I wrote "dripping mustard and cheese all over himself." The "every time a get a hotdog" is [sic], of course.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The Usual Suspect
If you check out his profile, you will note the following things about Mr. Michael "Mike" Morsch:
1.) He refers to himself in the third person.
2.) He is the executive editor of a newspaper group, leading one to assume that he possesses some degree of writing skill.
3.) He describes his brain child, Outta Leftfield, as a "humor column," leading one to assume that he possesses some sense of humor.
Let's put those facts to the test with his latest column, shall we?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
A ballgame breaks out at the spelling bee
MM loves two things - baseball (which he finds a way to shoehorn into every one of his columns), and bad puns. For instance, he might entitle an essay on having to take a dump during a poker game "These deuces don't add up to a timely flush."
The spelling bee is a useful educational tool that promotes learning and competition, but really, it’s not a spectator sport.
He's right, but in the wrong way. It's obviously not a sport, but people love watching a good bee when it's on TV. The fact that it isn't a "sport" akin to football or hockey is so obvious it shouldn't even need to be stated - but then, we wouldn't have this undoubtedly hilarious article!
For those of you who have been to a spelling bee, this is not news. But believe it or not, I hadn’t been to one in a very long time until last weekend when Son of Blonde Accountant represented his school at the Our Lady of I Before E Except After C spelling bee in Quakertown.
I understand that bloggers assigning "code names" to friends and loved ones is a way of preserving their privacy (I guess)… but really, he can't even name his son OR the school he goes to? I'm virtually the only person reading this blog - does MM think he has stalkers?
It was what you would expect from a spelling bee of about 30 or so sixth, seventh and eighth graders. It was sponsored by the local Kiwanis Club, always and forever a noble group of community-minded folks. Our guy went out in the third round after having some difficulty on the word “difficulty.” He had added and errant “l” to make it “difficultly.”
Come on, kid. "Difficulty"? You're in middle school.
But the reality is that watching a spelling bee is about like watching the proverbial paint dry . . . with one exception this time: At intermission, a ballgame broke out at this spelling bee with the serving of . . . hotdogs!
Um… how does the serving of hotdogs qualify as "a ballgame"? As loyal reader The Jammer points out: "Why didn't a picnic break out at the spelling bee? Or a vacation? A walk on the boardwalk? An eating contest? A carnival? Or the zillion other places that people eat hotdogs." Well said, Jammer. Also, I like how he's more excited about the possibility of eating fatty pig intestine than about his son (or son-in-law) competing.
Hotdogs. H-O-T-D-O-G-S. Hotdogs. That I can spell. With M-U-S-T-A-R-D, of course.
This isn't funny.
I can’t help but think that spelling bees in general would be more entertaining if hotdogs were served at every competition. I’m going to call the Kiwanis guys and see if they can get that done.
Labels: Kiwanis, Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
So basically he's bored until they serve hot dogs. He makes a flimsy connection between the spelling bee and hot dogs, and suggests that they serve them all the time. I'm sure it wouldn't be too hard to serve hot dogs at events… they're like one dollar per ton. Also, note that he labels the story with "Kiwanis" but not "hot dogs" or "spelling bee." He also labels every article with his own name, his employer, and the title of his own blog, pretty much negating the purpose of labels.
Later, MM changed every "Kiwanis" reference to "Knights of Columbus," but failed to update his label, further illustrating his absolute blogging cluelessness.
1.) He refers to himself in the third person.
2.) He is the executive editor of a newspaper group, leading one to assume that he possesses some degree of writing skill.
3.) He describes his brain child, Outta Leftfield, as a "humor column," leading one to assume that he possesses some sense of humor.
Let's put those facts to the test with his latest column, shall we?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
A ballgame breaks out at the spelling bee
MM loves two things - baseball (which he finds a way to shoehorn into every one of his columns), and bad puns. For instance, he might entitle an essay on having to take a dump during a poker game "These deuces don't add up to a timely flush."
The spelling bee is a useful educational tool that promotes learning and competition, but really, it’s not a spectator sport.
He's right, but in the wrong way. It's obviously not a sport, but people love watching a good bee when it's on TV. The fact that it isn't a "sport" akin to football or hockey is so obvious it shouldn't even need to be stated - but then, we wouldn't have this undoubtedly hilarious article!
For those of you who have been to a spelling bee, this is not news. But believe it or not, I hadn’t been to one in a very long time until last weekend when Son of Blonde Accountant represented his school at the Our Lady of I Before E Except After C spelling bee in Quakertown.
I understand that bloggers assigning "code names" to friends and loved ones is a way of preserving their privacy (I guess)… but really, he can't even name his son OR the school he goes to? I'm virtually the only person reading this blog - does MM think he has stalkers?
It was what you would expect from a spelling bee of about 30 or so sixth, seventh and eighth graders. It was sponsored by the local Kiwanis Club, always and forever a noble group of community-minded folks. Our guy went out in the third round after having some difficulty on the word “difficulty.” He had added and errant “l” to make it “difficultly.”
Come on, kid. "Difficulty"? You're in middle school.
But the reality is that watching a spelling bee is about like watching the proverbial paint dry . . . with one exception this time: At intermission, a ballgame broke out at this spelling bee with the serving of . . . hotdogs!
Um… how does the serving of hotdogs qualify as "a ballgame"? As loyal reader The Jammer points out: "Why didn't a picnic break out at the spelling bee? Or a vacation? A walk on the boardwalk? An eating contest? A carnival? Or the zillion other places that people eat hotdogs." Well said, Jammer. Also, I like how he's more excited about the possibility of eating fatty pig intestine than about his son (or son-in-law) competing.
Hotdogs. H-O-T-D-O-G-S. Hotdogs. That I can spell. With M-U-S-T-A-R-D, of course.
This isn't funny.
I can’t help but think that spelling bees in general would be more entertaining if hotdogs were served at every competition. I’m going to call the Kiwanis guys and see if they can get that done.
Labels: Kiwanis, Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
So basically he's bored until they serve hot dogs. He makes a flimsy connection between the spelling bee and hot dogs, and suggests that they serve them all the time. I'm sure it wouldn't be too hard to serve hot dogs at events… they're like one dollar per ton. Also, note that he labels the story with "Kiwanis" but not "hot dogs" or "spelling bee." He also labels every article with his own name, his employer, and the title of his own blog, pretty much negating the purpose of labels.
Later, MM changed every "Kiwanis" reference to "Knights of Columbus," but failed to update his label, further illustrating his absolute blogging cluelessness.
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