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.
Showing posts with label Men are Dumb. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Men are Dumb. Show all posts
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Shockingly Watching Baseball
Tuesday, May 1, 2012 A manly man bus trip
Borsch has stopped sharing his increasingly infrequent blog posts via his Twitter. I won't take credit for this trend, but... Actually no. I WILL take credit.
I have to hand it the Men of La Salle, the dads’ group at La Salle High School: Those guys certainly know how to organize a manly man bus trip.
Always breaking fresh ground, it appears as though Borsch is going to fill this post with references to beer, farts and meat - all the "man" staples.
Dave Lagner, the chief cook, bottle washer and grand poohbah,
How does he come UP with this stuff??? He's a comic genuis!
put together a great trip to Camden Yards in Baltimore on Sunday.
...because we can't post about anything that's not baseball, I guess.
The excursion included all the things needed for a manly man father-and-son day: luxury buses complete with DVD players and bathrooms (an important aspect for guys); great seats, 12 rows from the field down the third-base line, to watch the visiting Oakland A’s take on the Baltimore Orioles; 72 degrees, blue skies and a slight breeze (not sure who Dave knows to get that pulled off but I suspect he may have dated Mother Nature in his younger days); and a post-game excursion to a manly man joint in the Inner Harbor called “Dick’s Last Resort,” a place that can only be described as “highly entertaining for cavemen,” where the fathers and sons consumed massive quantities of nachos, hot wings and ribs while being mercilessly insulted by the waiters.
Now take a deep, deeeeeeeep breath... and realize that was ALL ONE SENTENCE. In that one sentence, we had two uses of both "manly man" and "father(s) and son(s)." Should I ask why they were "mercilessly insulted by the waiters"? I don't really understand that part.
As a bonus, Game 1 of the second round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs was on the big screen during the chow down, and the Philadelphia Flyers scored in overtime to take a 4-3 win over the New Jersey Devils sending the LaSalle contingent into a frenzy of high-fives and flying spittle, otherwise known as more manly man stuff.
Things We Know Guys Do (so far): Watch baseball. Go to the bathroom. Eat a lot. Spit. This is, obviously, extremely hilarious.
By the way, that’s a picture of me with Dick — taken by my cohort for the day, Son of Blonde Accountant — outside the establishment after the meal. It appears by the looks on our faces that we both had loaded up on too many nachos.
First of all, that's not even a passable impersonation of the statue. Second... damn. He looks bad. Like, real bad. Like "he's been in the sun too long and is melting" bad.
I’ve always enjoyed Camden Yards. It’s a beautiful ballpark and it features “Boog’s BBQ” out on the right field concourse in front of the distinctive warehouse.
ATTENTION READERS: Stop here if you are not sure whether you can handle the excitement of hearing all about Boog Powell, former baseball player! You've been warned.
This is, of course, Boog Powell’s place — a former Orioles first baseman in the 1960s and 1970s who played on some pretty good Orioles teams — and as usual, Boog was perched on a stool near the barbecue pit greeting fans and signing autographs. I’ve seen Boog several times over the years, and there have been times when I thought, “Hey Boog, mix in a salad.” Boog has always been a large fellow, and in past years, it looked like he was eating more of the barbecue beef than he was selling. But this year, Boog has slimmed down considerably and he looks great. And he’s always friendly and accommodating to the fans.
Wow, what a gracious celeb! Friendly to fans, who would have thought?
I had the “Big Boog Beef” sandwich, which is double the meat and indigestion. I was so full that three guys had to carry me from the right field concourse to my seat on the other side of the stadium near third base. The Phillies should offer that amenity to the overeaters in their stadium.
So after the enormous meal described in painful, run-on-sentence detail above, he ate more???
Although many in our group were Phillies fans, most were root, root, rooting for the home team, and the Orioles delivered a walk-off win in the bottom of the ninth by scoring five runs, three of which came on a game-ending home run. It was my first Men of LaSalle father-son bus trip and Son of Blonde Accountant and I enjoyed it quite a bit.
Wow, "quite a bit." High praise indeed.
I can’t wait for next year’s trip and another day of manly man activities.
Me neither, sir. Me neither.
Borsch has stopped sharing his increasingly infrequent blog posts via his Twitter. I won't take credit for this trend, but... Actually no. I WILL take credit.
I have to hand it the Men of La Salle, the dads’ group at La Salle High School: Those guys certainly know how to organize a manly man bus trip.
Always breaking fresh ground, it appears as though Borsch is going to fill this post with references to beer, farts and meat - all the "man" staples.
Dave Lagner, the chief cook, bottle washer and grand poohbah,
How does he come UP with this stuff??? He's a comic genuis!
put together a great trip to Camden Yards in Baltimore on Sunday.
...because we can't post about anything that's not baseball, I guess.
The excursion included all the things needed for a manly man father-and-son day: luxury buses complete with DVD players and bathrooms (an important aspect for guys); great seats, 12 rows from the field down the third-base line, to watch the visiting Oakland A’s take on the Baltimore Orioles; 72 degrees, blue skies and a slight breeze (not sure who Dave knows to get that pulled off but I suspect he may have dated Mother Nature in his younger days); and a post-game excursion to a manly man joint in the Inner Harbor called “Dick’s Last Resort,” a place that can only be described as “highly entertaining for cavemen,” where the fathers and sons consumed massive quantities of nachos, hot wings and ribs while being mercilessly insulted by the waiters.
Now take a deep, deeeeeeeep breath... and realize that was ALL ONE SENTENCE. In that one sentence, we had two uses of both "manly man" and "father(s) and son(s)." Should I ask why they were "mercilessly insulted by the waiters"? I don't really understand that part.
As a bonus, Game 1 of the second round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs was on the big screen during the chow down, and the Philadelphia Flyers scored in overtime to take a 4-3 win over the New Jersey Devils sending the LaSalle contingent into a frenzy of high-fives and flying spittle, otherwise known as more manly man stuff.
Things We Know Guys Do (so far): Watch baseball. Go to the bathroom. Eat a lot. Spit. This is, obviously, extremely hilarious.
By the way, that’s a picture of me with Dick — taken by my cohort for the day, Son of Blonde Accountant — outside the establishment after the meal. It appears by the looks on our faces that we both had loaded up on too many nachos.
First of all, that's not even a passable impersonation of the statue. Second... damn. He looks bad. Like, real bad. Like "he's been in the sun too long and is melting" bad.
I’ve always enjoyed Camden Yards. It’s a beautiful ballpark and it features “Boog’s BBQ” out on the right field concourse in front of the distinctive warehouse.
ATTENTION READERS: Stop here if you are not sure whether you can handle the excitement of hearing all about Boog Powell, former baseball player! You've been warned.
This is, of course, Boog Powell’s place — a former Orioles first baseman in the 1960s and 1970s who played on some pretty good Orioles teams — and as usual, Boog was perched on a stool near the barbecue pit greeting fans and signing autographs. I’ve seen Boog several times over the years, and there have been times when I thought, “Hey Boog, mix in a salad.” Boog has always been a large fellow, and in past years, it looked like he was eating more of the barbecue beef than he was selling. But this year, Boog has slimmed down considerably and he looks great. And he’s always friendly and accommodating to the fans.
Wow, what a gracious celeb! Friendly to fans, who would have thought?
I had the “Big Boog Beef” sandwich, which is double the meat and indigestion. I was so full that three guys had to carry me from the right field concourse to my seat on the other side of the stadium near third base. The Phillies should offer that amenity to the overeaters in their stadium.
So after the enormous meal described in painful, run-on-sentence detail above, he ate more???
Although many in our group were Phillies fans, most were root, root, rooting for the home team, and the Orioles delivered a walk-off win in the bottom of the ninth by scoring five runs, three of which came on a game-ending home run. It was my first Men of LaSalle father-son bus trip and Son of Blonde Accountant and I enjoyed it quite a bit.
Wow, "quite a bit." High praise indeed.
I can’t wait for next year’s trip and another day of manly man activities.
Me neither, sir. Me neither.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Hawaii(an) x 27
OUTTA LEFTFIELD: Flower show short on Hawaiian shirts, ‘Five-0’ music (VIDEO)
Published: Tuesday, March 13, 2012
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Remember the days when I thought Borsch had lost it and I could retire in peace? They seem like so long ago...
My tickets have arrived for the Beach Boys, whose 50th anniversary tour is stopping in Camden in June. And it goes without saying that I need a new Hawaiian shirt to wear to the concert.
For the love of God, STOP TALKING ABOUT THE BEACH BOYS. Hall and Oates will get jealous!
As has been detailed in this space over the years, I used to be quite a fashion plate with my collection of Hawaiian shirts. Unfortunately, The Blonde Accountant is not too keen on Hawaiian shirts. But she married me anyway, and then began a systematic Mike Makeover that resulted in all the Hawaiian shirts being purged from my closet, never to return. Or so she thinks.
Know what else has been "detailed in this space" time and time again? How he has terrible fashion sense and his wife disapproves of it. Can we hope for a Chuck Taylors reference just to sweeten the pot?
But with the Beach Boys getting back together, the time is perfect to start rebuilding my Hawaiian shirt collection. However, we should probably keep this between us, because I wouldn’t want The Blonde Accountant to find out and scuttle my plans before I even get a chance to do some advanced scouting on the Hawaiian shirts.
Just for the record, his past four sentences have started with the following words: "But," "or," "but," and "however." You think this would indicate some alteration in the "wife hates his Hawaiian shirts" scenario - and you'd be wrong. He likes said shirts - but she got rid of them. Or not! But he's buying more. However, don't tell her. Borsch continues to use the (baseball) term "advanced scouting" when I'm pretty sure it's "advance scouting."
The first opportunity for some of that advanced scouting happened last week at the 2012 Philadelphia International Flower Show. This year’s theme was “Hawaii: Islands of Aloha.”
Too bad the Phillies’ Shane Victorino — a native Hawaiian — wasn’t able to attend the flower show because of his spring training commitment in Clearwater, Fla. He surely would have been named Flower Show Grand Poohbah.
Did you know that Shane Victorino is Hawaiian? Borsch does! Did you know that the show "Hawaii Five-O" was filmed on location in Hawaii? Read on to find out how often he can mention that!
Now I’ve sleepwalked through the flower show for several years, so I know the drill. It’s always pleasant enough, and I like to look at the displays for about an hour. But then the cement floor of the Pennsylvania Convention Center starts to raise seven kinds of heck with my back and knees and I get eight kinds of cranky.
From a March 2, 2010 article: "The only problem I ever have at the flower show is that the cement floor of the convention center plays seven kinds of hooey with my knees." If he can somehow mention hot dogs and spilling things, we'll have just about every Borsch cliche in the book!
The Hawaii theme this year, though, offered me some hope. I know from dragging my sorry hind end to past shows that there is a whole section of vendors at the flower show. I figured since everything was Hawaii-themed this year, there had to be at least one Hawaiian-shirt vendor in the house.
Not only that, but I figured the theme was sure to encourage other like-minded mopes to break out the Hawaiian shirts and dust them off for the first time this spring.
"Like-minded mopes"? Does wanting to wear a Hawaiian shirt qualify you as a "mope"?
And I anticipated that the “Hawaii Five-0” theme song would be playing on a continuous loop, at least in the convention center men’s rooms.
... Since only men like "Hawaii Five-O." I guess.
Well, that was wrong. On all accounts.
The phrase is not "on all accounts," it's "on all counts." Can we get an "irregardless," maybe?
Not only wasn’t there a vendor selling Hawaiian shirts — at least not one that I found — there were only about five guys in the crowd of 8 billion flower show attendees that day (we always seem to pick the most crowded day every year to go to this thing) wearing Hawaiian shirts. And I didn’t hear one “Book ’em Dano!” all day.
Perhaps people aren't as ignorant about Hawaii as you are, you know? Maybe they appreciate the islands for their beauty and culture, not for tacky shirts and a 1970s TV show?
Apparently, I’m not the only guy in the greater Philadelphia area who has a wife who hates her husband’s Hawaiian shirts and won’t even let him wear one to a Hawaii-theme flower show that he likely didn’t want to attend in the first place. I had tried to compensate for that oversight by wearing a stylish pink and white striped shirt, despite its lack of adherence to the show’s theme.
Wouch, that "Apparently" monster was one of his worst sentences ever.
At the very least, there should have been a moratorium placed on No Hawaiian Shirts Allowed Rule that wives have obviously imposed on husbands of this area.
Shouldn't that be "a moratorium placed on THE No Hawaiian Shirts Rule"?
It’s a flower show with a Hawaiian theme for crying out loud. Hawaiian shirts should have been standard issue for all the guys.
Alright, as of this second I'm going to tally every time the word "Hawaii" or "Hawaiian" is used here. He's probably already over ten. [Editor's Note: He was already over twenty]
The closest thing I could find to anything Hawaiian that I wanted to purchase was called a Good Luck Bamboo Pot. While standing at that vendor’s booth perusing the pots and wondering if buying one would bring me better luck in finding a new Hawaiian shirt, a woman standing next to me picked up another plant and shook it in my face.
Uh-oh, get ready for a ZANY exchange! Will he use "countered" where it's not appropriate?
“Do you know what this is!” she shouted at me, like she knew at my age I was beginning to get a little hard of hearing.
Usually you use a question mark when someone is asking a question, don't you?
“No, I don’t,” I said.
“Well, don’t you work here?” she asked.
“No ma’am,” I said.
“But you have on such a nice shirt,” she said. “I thought you worked here.”
Wow, given his usual propensity to use "replied slyly" and "demanded angrily," this "asked" and "said" exchange is practically Hemingway-esque.
See, that makes no sense to me at all. Had I been appropriately attired in a Hawaiian shirt, then the woman could have conceivably assumed that I just might be working at the show.
Witnessing the whole exchange, The Blonde Accountant had a smirk that suggested, “Hey, if I would have let you wear a Hawaiian shirt to this thing, then you would have had to figure out a way to sell that woman that plant.”
What? Someone assumed he worked there WITHOUT a Hawaiian shirt. If he wore the shirt, would he be REQUIRED to work there? Is that what's implied? This really doesn't make much sense.
Ahhh, phooey.
The flower show did offer one respite for the Cro-Magnon-inclined — a Man Cave. It’s a dandy concept by the flower show brain trust to accommodate the husbands who get dragged along to the event. And although this Man Cave featured big screen TVs, cold adult beverages, craps and blackjack tables and attractive women in short skirts, I would suggest at least one change for next year: A real Man Cave wouldn’t allow wives and children inside its man-friendly confines.
I've read this paragraph several times now, and I keep asking myself the same question: is it supposed to be funny? "Du-huh, guys are cavemen who like sports and booze." Really?
And next year, if a guy comes into the Man Cave wearing a Hawaiian shirt, he drinks free for the duration of his flower show stint.
Cue the “Hawaii Five-0” theme music for heaven’s sake.
For the record, that was twenty-seven uses of "Hawaii" or "Hawaiian."
Published: Tuesday, March 13, 2012
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Remember the days when I thought Borsch had lost it and I could retire in peace? They seem like so long ago...
My tickets have arrived for the Beach Boys, whose 50th anniversary tour is stopping in Camden in June. And it goes without saying that I need a new Hawaiian shirt to wear to the concert.
For the love of God, STOP TALKING ABOUT THE BEACH BOYS. Hall and Oates will get jealous!
As has been detailed in this space over the years, I used to be quite a fashion plate with my collection of Hawaiian shirts. Unfortunately, The Blonde Accountant is not too keen on Hawaiian shirts. But she married me anyway, and then began a systematic Mike Makeover that resulted in all the Hawaiian shirts being purged from my closet, never to return. Or so she thinks.
Know what else has been "detailed in this space" time and time again? How he has terrible fashion sense and his wife disapproves of it. Can we hope for a Chuck Taylors reference just to sweeten the pot?
But with the Beach Boys getting back together, the time is perfect to start rebuilding my Hawaiian shirt collection. However, we should probably keep this between us, because I wouldn’t want The Blonde Accountant to find out and scuttle my plans before I even get a chance to do some advanced scouting on the Hawaiian shirts.
Just for the record, his past four sentences have started with the following words: "But," "or," "but," and "however." You think this would indicate some alteration in the "wife hates his Hawaiian shirts" scenario - and you'd be wrong. He likes said shirts - but she got rid of them. Or not! But he's buying more. However, don't tell her. Borsch continues to use the (baseball) term "advanced scouting" when I'm pretty sure it's "advance scouting."
The first opportunity for some of that advanced scouting happened last week at the 2012 Philadelphia International Flower Show. This year’s theme was “Hawaii: Islands of Aloha.”
Too bad the Phillies’ Shane Victorino — a native Hawaiian — wasn’t able to attend the flower show because of his spring training commitment in Clearwater, Fla. He surely would have been named Flower Show Grand Poohbah.
Did you know that Shane Victorino is Hawaiian? Borsch does! Did you know that the show "Hawaii Five-O" was filmed on location in Hawaii? Read on to find out how often he can mention that!
Now I’ve sleepwalked through the flower show for several years, so I know the drill. It’s always pleasant enough, and I like to look at the displays for about an hour. But then the cement floor of the Pennsylvania Convention Center starts to raise seven kinds of heck with my back and knees and I get eight kinds of cranky.
From a March 2, 2010 article: "The only problem I ever have at the flower show is that the cement floor of the convention center plays seven kinds of hooey with my knees." If he can somehow mention hot dogs and spilling things, we'll have just about every Borsch cliche in the book!
The Hawaii theme this year, though, offered me some hope. I know from dragging my sorry hind end to past shows that there is a whole section of vendors at the flower show. I figured since everything was Hawaii-themed this year, there had to be at least one Hawaiian-shirt vendor in the house.
Not only that, but I figured the theme was sure to encourage other like-minded mopes to break out the Hawaiian shirts and dust them off for the first time this spring.
"Like-minded mopes"? Does wanting to wear a Hawaiian shirt qualify you as a "mope"?
And I anticipated that the “Hawaii Five-0” theme song would be playing on a continuous loop, at least in the convention center men’s rooms.
... Since only men like "Hawaii Five-O." I guess.
Well, that was wrong. On all accounts.
The phrase is not "on all accounts," it's "on all counts." Can we get an "irregardless," maybe?
Not only wasn’t there a vendor selling Hawaiian shirts — at least not one that I found — there were only about five guys in the crowd of 8 billion flower show attendees that day (we always seem to pick the most crowded day every year to go to this thing) wearing Hawaiian shirts. And I didn’t hear one “Book ’em Dano!” all day.
Perhaps people aren't as ignorant about Hawaii as you are, you know? Maybe they appreciate the islands for their beauty and culture, not for tacky shirts and a 1970s TV show?
Apparently, I’m not the only guy in the greater Philadelphia area who has a wife who hates her husband’s Hawaiian shirts and won’t even let him wear one to a Hawaii-theme flower show that he likely didn’t want to attend in the first place. I had tried to compensate for that oversight by wearing a stylish pink and white striped shirt, despite its lack of adherence to the show’s theme.
Wouch, that "Apparently" monster was one of his worst sentences ever.
At the very least, there should have been a moratorium placed on No Hawaiian Shirts Allowed Rule that wives have obviously imposed on husbands of this area.
Shouldn't that be "a moratorium placed on THE No Hawaiian Shirts Rule"?
It’s a flower show with a Hawaiian theme for crying out loud. Hawaiian shirts should have been standard issue for all the guys.
Alright, as of this second I'm going to tally every time the word "Hawaii" or "Hawaiian" is used here. He's probably already over ten. [Editor's Note: He was already over twenty]
The closest thing I could find to anything Hawaiian that I wanted to purchase was called a Good Luck Bamboo Pot. While standing at that vendor’s booth perusing the pots and wondering if buying one would bring me better luck in finding a new Hawaiian shirt, a woman standing next to me picked up another plant and shook it in my face.
Uh-oh, get ready for a ZANY exchange! Will he use "countered" where it's not appropriate?
“Do you know what this is!” she shouted at me, like she knew at my age I was beginning to get a little hard of hearing.
Usually you use a question mark when someone is asking a question, don't you?
“No, I don’t,” I said.
“Well, don’t you work here?” she asked.
“No ma’am,” I said.
“But you have on such a nice shirt,” she said. “I thought you worked here.”
Wow, given his usual propensity to use "replied slyly" and "demanded angrily," this "asked" and "said" exchange is practically Hemingway-esque.
See, that makes no sense to me at all. Had I been appropriately attired in a Hawaiian shirt, then the woman could have conceivably assumed that I just might be working at the show.
Witnessing the whole exchange, The Blonde Accountant had a smirk that suggested, “Hey, if I would have let you wear a Hawaiian shirt to this thing, then you would have had to figure out a way to sell that woman that plant.”
What? Someone assumed he worked there WITHOUT a Hawaiian shirt. If he wore the shirt, would he be REQUIRED to work there? Is that what's implied? This really doesn't make much sense.
Ahhh, phooey.
The flower show did offer one respite for the Cro-Magnon-inclined — a Man Cave. It’s a dandy concept by the flower show brain trust to accommodate the husbands who get dragged along to the event. And although this Man Cave featured big screen TVs, cold adult beverages, craps and blackjack tables and attractive women in short skirts, I would suggest at least one change for next year: A real Man Cave wouldn’t allow wives and children inside its man-friendly confines.
I've read this paragraph several times now, and I keep asking myself the same question: is it supposed to be funny? "Du-huh, guys are cavemen who like sports and booze." Really?
And next year, if a guy comes into the Man Cave wearing a Hawaiian shirt, he drinks free for the duration of his flower show stint.
Cue the “Hawaii Five-0” theme music for heaven’s sake.
For the record, that was twenty-seven uses of "Hawaii" or "Hawaiian."
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Copy-And-Paste Column
OUTTA LEFTFIELD: Milking a topic for what it’s worth: The Oreo turns 100
Published: Tuesday, March 06, 2012
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I should have known.
In the interest of offering you critical information that you can utilize in your everyday life — as this space so often does, especially during the wacky political season — the Oreo celebrated its 100th birthday this week.
Long-time Borsch readers will know that this political season is only "wacky" because it's the Republican primary.
According to a wire service story,
This means he stole 90% of his content from said wire service story.
a woman by the name of Becky Tousey, corporate archivist for Kraft Foods who is apparently also known as the “Oreo historian,” revealed that the cookie has maintained the same advertising focus since its inception — that it is fun to eat.
The story (which I found) uses the phrase "maintained the same theme in its advertising over the years." This is the most effort Borsch will put into his copying from here on out. I really question whether "inception" is the proper word to use when referring to a cookie.
This, of course, raises the question: Kraft Foods actually employs someone as a “corporate archivist” and expert “Oreo historian”?
Cool. I believe I may have eaten enough Oreo cookies over the course of my lifetime to actually qualify as an “Oreo historian.” I plan to revise my resume to reflect such an accomplishment.
Did you like that "I eat a lot of Oreos" joke? I hope so. You'll be seeing it again. And again. And again.
Here are some other fun facts about the Oreo, according to the wire service story:
This is code for "the remaining 75% of the article is someone else's work."
— The cookie takes 59 minutes to make and consists of 12 flowers, 12 dots and 12 dashes on each side. Each cookie also has 90 ridges.
From the story: "The cookie, which takes 59 minutes to make, consists of 12 flowers, 12 dots and 12 dashes on each side. Each cookie has 90 ridges."
— The cookies are made of 29 percent crème and 71 percent cookie. They are produced in 21 bakeries around the world, and Kraft estimates that more than 500 billion Oreos have been sold since 1912.
You guessed it! From the story: "Oreos are made from 29 percent creme and 71 percent cookie. They are made in 21 bakeries around the world. Kraft Foods estimates that more than 500 billion Oreos have been sold since 1912." Changing punctuation = NOT copying. Kids, take note.
— I believe I am personally responsible for eating at least 1.5 billion of those Oreos, which puts me second on the All-Time Cookie Eater leader board behind, of course, the Cookie Monster. Oddly enough, I’ve never looked at them closely enough to realize that each cookie has a pattern that contains 12 flowers, 12 dots and 12 dashes. What that proves, I think, is that the cookies don’t stay in my hand long enough for me to get a good look at what’s on them.
HA! He eats large quantities of food. Funny. There's an entire, massive paragraph later based solely around this joke, but adds the fact that he drinks a lot of milk to the mix. Double HA!
— Market research reveals that 84 percent of men ate the cookies whole while 41 percent of women pulled the cookie apart.
Per the story: "...market research found that while 84 percent of men ate the cookie whole, 41 percent of women pulled the cookie apart.".
Count me among the 84 percent. I just ate a bunch last weekend and didn’t pull any of them apart. Of course, I’m pretty sure I am practicing the wrong technique there. Even though the women represent only a 41 percent minority of puller-aparters, it’s likely that we men have been doing it all wrong for the past 100 years.
What in hell is he saying here, exactly? Obviously he's doing his usual "men are stupid" thing, but does that mean that 59% of women are also stupid? Does he think that 41% of the entire population, who happen to all be women, pull the Oreo apart? If so, what happened to the 16% of men who do? Really, if Borsch ever reads this (and I know he does), I hope he explains what he was going for.
— Apparently nobody has been credited with coming up with the Oreo idea. However, Ms. Tousey, the “Oreo historian,” believes the name came from combining the “re” in “crème” and the two “o’s” in “chocolate.” I don’t mean to be critical, but that seems like a pretty thin theory for someone with the exulted title of “Oreo historian.” That cookie needs a better backstory.
Borsch says "apparently" because, per the story: "No one has been credited with coming up with the Oreo idea". Tousey's theory about the origin of the name is practically word-for-word, too.
— In 1921, the Oreo biscuit became the Oreo sandwich. In 1937, the name changed to the Oreo crème sandwich. I had no idea is was a biscuit or a sandwich and I’m still not sure why the original bakery — the National Biscuit Co. out of Manhattan — didn’t just name the cookie “The Best Dadgummed Cookie You’ll Ever Dunk in a Glass of Milk.” That certainly could have made for a better backstory if you ask me.
It's been a long time since he's used "dadgummed." And how exactly does a different name for the cookie create a "better backstory"?
— The popular cookie — its Facebook page currently has more than 25 million fans — has had five design changes and been marketed by three companies: the aforementioned National Biscuit Co., which became Nabisco, and now Kraft Foods. I remember is mostly as a Nabisco product.
"I remember is mostly"? Some executive editors didn't proofread!
According to company officials, a limited-edition Oreo with a confetti-sprinkled crème center that tastes like birthday cake has been unveiled for the 100th birthday of the cookie. Swell. Now I have to buy more cookies and milk.
Borsch does a good job of exactly repeating the wire service story again: "...a limited edition cookie with a confetti-sprinkled creme center that tastes like birthday cake."
Now, there might not be anything strictly wrong with repeating your source material word-for-word for the majority of your own column (although I doubt it). But it's further evidence that our favorite author is lazy, slipshod, and unoriginal - and unwilling to admit to it.
Given the history and popularity of the Oreo, it’s little wonder that it has lasted this long. The cookie has become part of the American fabric.
Which, of course, makes it a fitting topic for the next political debate. It’s about time our politicians started talking about something really important — like the best cookies of our time.
... What? Pathetic, sir. Truly a pathetic attempt to frame your copy-and-paste "column" within the context of the primaries (and how in the world he thinks the two topics should even be tenuously tied together is beyond me).
A reader posting under the name of "Kelly Simmons" left the following comment on Borsch's column: Yummy post! I fear for the future of the Republic.
Published: Tuesday, March 06, 2012
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I should have known.
In the interest of offering you critical information that you can utilize in your everyday life — as this space so often does, especially during the wacky political season — the Oreo celebrated its 100th birthday this week.
Long-time Borsch readers will know that this political season is only "wacky" because it's the Republican primary.
According to a wire service story,
This means he stole 90% of his content from said wire service story.
a woman by the name of Becky Tousey, corporate archivist for Kraft Foods who is apparently also known as the “Oreo historian,” revealed that the cookie has maintained the same advertising focus since its inception — that it is fun to eat.
The story (which I found) uses the phrase "maintained the same theme in its advertising over the years." This is the most effort Borsch will put into his copying from here on out. I really question whether "inception" is the proper word to use when referring to a cookie.
This, of course, raises the question: Kraft Foods actually employs someone as a “corporate archivist” and expert “Oreo historian”?
Cool. I believe I may have eaten enough Oreo cookies over the course of my lifetime to actually qualify as an “Oreo historian.” I plan to revise my resume to reflect such an accomplishment.
Did you like that "I eat a lot of Oreos" joke? I hope so. You'll be seeing it again. And again. And again.
Here are some other fun facts about the Oreo, according to the wire service story:
This is code for "the remaining 75% of the article is someone else's work."
— The cookie takes 59 minutes to make and consists of 12 flowers, 12 dots and 12 dashes on each side. Each cookie also has 90 ridges.
From the story: "The cookie, which takes 59 minutes to make, consists of 12 flowers, 12 dots and 12 dashes on each side. Each cookie has 90 ridges."
— The cookies are made of 29 percent crème and 71 percent cookie. They are produced in 21 bakeries around the world, and Kraft estimates that more than 500 billion Oreos have been sold since 1912.
You guessed it! From the story: "Oreos are made from 29 percent creme and 71 percent cookie. They are made in 21 bakeries around the world. Kraft Foods estimates that more than 500 billion Oreos have been sold since 1912." Changing punctuation = NOT copying. Kids, take note.
— I believe I am personally responsible for eating at least 1.5 billion of those Oreos, which puts me second on the All-Time Cookie Eater leader board behind, of course, the Cookie Monster. Oddly enough, I’ve never looked at them closely enough to realize that each cookie has a pattern that contains 12 flowers, 12 dots and 12 dashes. What that proves, I think, is that the cookies don’t stay in my hand long enough for me to get a good look at what’s on them.
HA! He eats large quantities of food. Funny. There's an entire, massive paragraph later based solely around this joke, but adds the fact that he drinks a lot of milk to the mix. Double HA!
— Market research reveals that 84 percent of men ate the cookies whole while 41 percent of women pulled the cookie apart.
Per the story: "...market research found that while 84 percent of men ate the cookie whole, 41 percent of women pulled the cookie apart.".
Count me among the 84 percent. I just ate a bunch last weekend and didn’t pull any of them apart. Of course, I’m pretty sure I am practicing the wrong technique there. Even though the women represent only a 41 percent minority of puller-aparters, it’s likely that we men have been doing it all wrong for the past 100 years.
What in hell is he saying here, exactly? Obviously he's doing his usual "men are stupid" thing, but does that mean that 59% of women are also stupid? Does he think that 41% of the entire population, who happen to all be women, pull the Oreo apart? If so, what happened to the 16% of men who do? Really, if Borsch ever reads this (and I know he does), I hope he explains what he was going for.
— Apparently nobody has been credited with coming up with the Oreo idea. However, Ms. Tousey, the “Oreo historian,” believes the name came from combining the “re” in “crème” and the two “o’s” in “chocolate.” I don’t mean to be critical, but that seems like a pretty thin theory for someone with the exulted title of “Oreo historian.” That cookie needs a better backstory.
Borsch says "apparently" because, per the story: "No one has been credited with coming up with the Oreo idea". Tousey's theory about the origin of the name is practically word-for-word, too.
— In 1921, the Oreo biscuit became the Oreo sandwich. In 1937, the name changed to the Oreo crème sandwich. I had no idea is was a biscuit or a sandwich and I’m still not sure why the original bakery — the National Biscuit Co. out of Manhattan — didn’t just name the cookie “The Best Dadgummed Cookie You’ll Ever Dunk in a Glass of Milk.” That certainly could have made for a better backstory if you ask me.
It's been a long time since he's used "dadgummed." And how exactly does a different name for the cookie create a "better backstory"?
— The popular cookie — its Facebook page currently has more than 25 million fans — has had five design changes and been marketed by three companies: the aforementioned National Biscuit Co., which became Nabisco, and now Kraft Foods. I remember is mostly as a Nabisco product.
"I remember is mostly"? Some executive editors didn't proofread!
According to company officials, a limited-edition Oreo with a confetti-sprinkled crème center that tastes like birthday cake has been unveiled for the 100th birthday of the cookie. Swell. Now I have to buy more cookies and milk.
Borsch does a good job of exactly repeating the wire service story again: "...a limited edition cookie with a confetti-sprinkled creme center that tastes like birthday cake."
Now, there might not be anything strictly wrong with repeating your source material word-for-word for the majority of your own column (although I doubt it). But it's further evidence that our favorite author is lazy, slipshod, and unoriginal - and unwilling to admit to it.
Given the history and popularity of the Oreo, it’s little wonder that it has lasted this long. The cookie has become part of the American fabric.
Which, of course, makes it a fitting topic for the next political debate. It’s about time our politicians started talking about something really important — like the best cookies of our time.
... What? Pathetic, sir. Truly a pathetic attempt to frame your copy-and-paste "column" within the context of the primaries (and how in the world he thinks the two topics should even be tenuously tied together is beyond me).
A reader posting under the name of "Kelly Simmons" left the following comment on Borsch's column: Yummy post! I fear for the future of the Republic.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Not So Fast...
"Ugh," my brother said to me, "I logged onto the Souderton Independent page and guess whose gigantic, grinning face I saw?"
Since my retirement in the Fall, the menace known as Michael Morsch has been relatively silent. He would regurgitate concert promos every once in a while, but in general he remained the unamusing, uninspired hack he had become by late 2011.
Until I followed my brother's lead and found this:
OUTTA LEFTFIELD: Perfect banquet - Short speeches, great dessert, lots of yuks
Published: Thursday, January 26, 2012
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Laughter described as "yuks" in the headline? How could I resist?
As a veteran of the rubber chicken circuit, I can tell you that the three things one needs most for a successful banquet experience are short speeches, good dessert and someone at the table with whom you can yuk it up for the entire evening.
Now, I didn't go to school for journalism like Borsch did. But isn't it poor form to repeat your headline practically word-for-word in the first paragraph? Borsch goes on to describe how he got to "yuk it up" with a guy at his table named Bob.
I had never met Bob and his wife, Ellen — a perfectly lovely couple — before the banquet. I promised that if I wrote about them, I wouldn’t use their last name. Besides, everyone in the Indian Valley probably knows Bob and Ellen, which lets me off the hook because I forgot to ask them what their last name was anyway. Some reporter I am.
See, that's a problem. He's not a reporter anymore - he's the executive editor and self-aggrandizing columnist. He has (one would assume) a decent number of real reporters in his employ. Why isn't he sending these people out to interview celebrities, review concerts, etc? Especially since he's just as bad at reporting as he is at editing and writing?
But I knew right away that Bob and I were going to hit it off when I saw him dipping his napkin in his water glass, then dabbing at his shirt.
That’s right, good old Bob is a spiller, just like me.
He's returning to true form here, people. Spilling things! Hilarious!
“I spill something on myself every time I eat,” said Bob.
“Me too,” I said. “My wife carries one of those Tide sticks in her purse and I have to use it at every meal we eat out.”
Remember that episode of The Simpsons where former President Gerald Ford moves in, and he and Homer get along really well because they're both clumsy and dumb? This is sort of like that, but a lot less amusing.
Oddly enough, and what I didn’t tell Bob because I didn’t want to spoil the illusion that I was a Major League spiller, was that I rarely, if ever, spill anything on myself when we eat dinner at home.
Major League = Unnecessary Baseball Reference. He's jumped right back in the saddle.
So at banquets and restaurants, I’ve taken to just tucking my napkin up into my collar like a bib to cover my front. I am way past the point of worrying whether anyone thinks that looks goofy in favor of a more reasonable dry cleaning bill.
True to form, Borsch will now drive this "I spill things on myself" bit (which - hard to believe, I know - he HAS mentioned before) as far into the ground as possible.
Bob decided, after spilling some of the fruit cup on his shirt, that tucking his napkin up under his chin was a good strategy for the rest of the meal, so he willingly followed my lead.
“I’ll bet we’re the only two in here tonight who have our napkins tucked into our collars,” he said.
Is it any wonder this man is reviled? Here he is, attending the Indian Valley Chamber of Commerce banquet at a country club, and he's wearing a bib and blundering about with some moron next to him.
As we chit-chatted, Bob would spill something and I would drop my napkin. Then we’d hardy-har-har about it. Then I would spill something and he’d drop his napkin. And then we’d hardy-har-har some more.
Dropping napkins: an endless source of amusement. How exactly did their napkins get dropped in the first place? Shouldn't their elephantine double chins have wedged those things firmly in place?
We discovered that we both like baseball and that Bob still plays in an over-60 softball league.
Apparently it took him longer to mention baseball in conversation than it did to mention it in this column. Wonders will never cease.
I only got into trouble with Bob a few times during the course of the evening. One was when I told him that I went to school at the University of Iowa. Bob, a college wrestling fan, apparently is not a big fan of Iowa and its string of NCAA national wrestling championships in the 1980s under legendary Iowa wrestling coach Dan Gable. So we went round and round about that.
Got that? The school was "Iowa," and the coach was "Iowa wrestling coach Dan Gable." Good writing.
Har-har-hardy-har-har, guffaw-guffaw and snicker-snicker.
What is funny about this? "Hey, I attended the University of Iowa." "I don't like them, nor do I like their coach, Iowa's Dan Gable." I assume the side-splitting comedy is contained somewhere in the phrase "we went round and round about that." Too bad we, the audience, will never know what it was. Bob then asks Borsch if he fishes:
“No, I’m not a fisherman,” I said. “I don’t mind sitting in a boat with a line in the water, but I really don’t like baiting the hook.”
“Wussie,” said Bob.
Giggle-giggle, hardy-har-har (accompanied by elbow nudges and a back slap or two).
First of all, in real life, nobody does the elbow nudge thing. Second, outside of Beavis and Butthead, nobody would laugh this much just because the word "wussie" was utilized.
I certainly don’t agree with him on his Iowa approach, but since my official stance on worms has always been that they’re “yucky,” he’s probably right about the fishing thing.
Tee-hee, ho-ho-ha-ha-ha.
Hey Borsch - remember when you talked about the wrestling thing and the fishing thing in the previous paragraphs? Yeah. You don't have to repeat that in THIS paragraph. It was even less funny the second time around.
The evening was delightful — due in large part to Bob and Ellen —
Wait - what did Ellen spill on herself?
and was made even more special because the Souderton Independent was named the 2011 Cornerstone Award winner as the small business of the year by the chamber. Congratulations to my hard-working colleagues at the Souderton Independent and thanks to my friend Sharon Minninger, executive director of the chamber, and the group’s board for the honor and for putting on a superb banquet. I will be happy to spill something on myself at any of the chamber’s future events.
As long as I get to sit next to Bob.
Sharon Minninger needs to cultivate better friends. In true Borsch fashion, he does an excellent job of TELLING us that things are funny, but a horrible job of SHOWING us that they are. Imagine the following exchange:
Morsch: Hey, I went to this great banquet. The speeches were short, the food was great, and I sat next to this hilarious guy.
You: Oh yeah? What were the speeches about?
Morsch: Never mind about that.
You: How was the food?
Morsch: Good cake. But this guy Bob, he was great. We both spill things on ourselves.
You: You don't say so.
Mosrch: Yeah! We dropped our napkins and stuff. It was hilarious.
You: Oh?
Morsch: Then we went round and round about college wrestling. I thought I was gonna bust a gut.
You: Sounds... great.
Morsch: And THEN we talked about fishing! Bob called me a 'wussie.'
You: Do people even use that word anymore?
Morsch: Yeah, so did I mention we talked about wrestling and fishing?
You: You did mention that, yes.
Morsch: Oh. So anyway, it was just amazing.
Welcome back, Borsch. You're just as terrible as you always have been.
Since my retirement in the Fall, the menace known as Michael Morsch has been relatively silent. He would regurgitate concert promos every once in a while, but in general he remained the unamusing, uninspired hack he had become by late 2011.
Until I followed my brother's lead and found this:
OUTTA LEFTFIELD: Perfect banquet - Short speeches, great dessert, lots of yuks
Published: Thursday, January 26, 2012
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Laughter described as "yuks" in the headline? How could I resist?
As a veteran of the rubber chicken circuit, I can tell you that the three things one needs most for a successful banquet experience are short speeches, good dessert and someone at the table with whom you can yuk it up for the entire evening.
Now, I didn't go to school for journalism like Borsch did. But isn't it poor form to repeat your headline practically word-for-word in the first paragraph? Borsch goes on to describe how he got to "yuk it up" with a guy at his table named Bob.
I had never met Bob and his wife, Ellen — a perfectly lovely couple — before the banquet. I promised that if I wrote about them, I wouldn’t use their last name. Besides, everyone in the Indian Valley probably knows Bob and Ellen, which lets me off the hook because I forgot to ask them what their last name was anyway. Some reporter I am.
See, that's a problem. He's not a reporter anymore - he's the executive editor and self-aggrandizing columnist. He has (one would assume) a decent number of real reporters in his employ. Why isn't he sending these people out to interview celebrities, review concerts, etc? Especially since he's just as bad at reporting as he is at editing and writing?
But I knew right away that Bob and I were going to hit it off when I saw him dipping his napkin in his water glass, then dabbing at his shirt.
That’s right, good old Bob is a spiller, just like me.
He's returning to true form here, people. Spilling things! Hilarious!
“I spill something on myself every time I eat,” said Bob.
“Me too,” I said. “My wife carries one of those Tide sticks in her purse and I have to use it at every meal we eat out.”
Remember that episode of The Simpsons where former President Gerald Ford moves in, and he and Homer get along really well because they're both clumsy and dumb? This is sort of like that, but a lot less amusing.
Oddly enough, and what I didn’t tell Bob because I didn’t want to spoil the illusion that I was a Major League spiller, was that I rarely, if ever, spill anything on myself when we eat dinner at home.
Major League = Unnecessary Baseball Reference. He's jumped right back in the saddle.
So at banquets and restaurants, I’ve taken to just tucking my napkin up into my collar like a bib to cover my front. I am way past the point of worrying whether anyone thinks that looks goofy in favor of a more reasonable dry cleaning bill.
True to form, Borsch will now drive this "I spill things on myself" bit (which - hard to believe, I know - he HAS mentioned before) as far into the ground as possible.
Bob decided, after spilling some of the fruit cup on his shirt, that tucking his napkin up under his chin was a good strategy for the rest of the meal, so he willingly followed my lead.
“I’ll bet we’re the only two in here tonight who have our napkins tucked into our collars,” he said.
Is it any wonder this man is reviled? Here he is, attending the Indian Valley Chamber of Commerce banquet at a country club, and he's wearing a bib and blundering about with some moron next to him.
As we chit-chatted, Bob would spill something and I would drop my napkin. Then we’d hardy-har-har about it. Then I would spill something and he’d drop his napkin. And then we’d hardy-har-har some more.
Dropping napkins: an endless source of amusement. How exactly did their napkins get dropped in the first place? Shouldn't their elephantine double chins have wedged those things firmly in place?
We discovered that we both like baseball and that Bob still plays in an over-60 softball league.
Apparently it took him longer to mention baseball in conversation than it did to mention it in this column. Wonders will never cease.
I only got into trouble with Bob a few times during the course of the evening. One was when I told him that I went to school at the University of Iowa. Bob, a college wrestling fan, apparently is not a big fan of Iowa and its string of NCAA national wrestling championships in the 1980s under legendary Iowa wrestling coach Dan Gable. So we went round and round about that.
Got that? The school was "Iowa," and the coach was "Iowa wrestling coach Dan Gable." Good writing.
Har-har-hardy-har-har, guffaw-guffaw and snicker-snicker.
What is funny about this? "Hey, I attended the University of Iowa." "I don't like them, nor do I like their coach, Iowa's Dan Gable." I assume the side-splitting comedy is contained somewhere in the phrase "we went round and round about that." Too bad we, the audience, will never know what it was. Bob then asks Borsch if he fishes:
“No, I’m not a fisherman,” I said. “I don’t mind sitting in a boat with a line in the water, but I really don’t like baiting the hook.”
“Wussie,” said Bob.
Giggle-giggle, hardy-har-har (accompanied by elbow nudges and a back slap or two).
First of all, in real life, nobody does the elbow nudge thing. Second, outside of Beavis and Butthead, nobody would laugh this much just because the word "wussie" was utilized.
I certainly don’t agree with him on his Iowa approach, but since my official stance on worms has always been that they’re “yucky,” he’s probably right about the fishing thing.
Tee-hee, ho-ho-ha-ha-ha.
Hey Borsch - remember when you talked about the wrestling thing and the fishing thing in the previous paragraphs? Yeah. You don't have to repeat that in THIS paragraph. It was even less funny the second time around.
The evening was delightful — due in large part to Bob and Ellen —
Wait - what did Ellen spill on herself?
and was made even more special because the Souderton Independent was named the 2011 Cornerstone Award winner as the small business of the year by the chamber. Congratulations to my hard-working colleagues at the Souderton Independent and thanks to my friend Sharon Minninger, executive director of the chamber, and the group’s board for the honor and for putting on a superb banquet. I will be happy to spill something on myself at any of the chamber’s future events.
As long as I get to sit next to Bob.
Sharon Minninger needs to cultivate better friends. In true Borsch fashion, he does an excellent job of TELLING us that things are funny, but a horrible job of SHOWING us that they are. Imagine the following exchange:
Morsch: Hey, I went to this great banquet. The speeches were short, the food was great, and I sat next to this hilarious guy.
You: Oh yeah? What were the speeches about?
Morsch: Never mind about that.
You: How was the food?
Morsch: Good cake. But this guy Bob, he was great. We both spill things on ourselves.
You: You don't say so.
Mosrch: Yeah! We dropped our napkins and stuff. It was hilarious.
You: Oh?
Morsch: Then we went round and round about college wrestling. I thought I was gonna bust a gut.
You: Sounds... great.
Morsch: And THEN we talked about fishing! Bob called me a 'wussie.'
You: Do people even use that word anymore?
Morsch: Yeah, so did I mention we talked about wrestling and fishing?
You: You did mention that, yes.
Morsch: Oh. So anyway, it was just amazing.
Welcome back, Borsch. You're just as terrible as you always have been.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Borsch Unamusingly Gets a Hat
OUTTA LEFTFIELD: Hats amore: No need now to kick the bucket lid
Published: Tuesday, June 21, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
It took some doing but I finally got a new lid.
Wahoooo, what zany adventures did he have searching for a new hat? Maybe he wants to buy a ridiculous hat of some sort, and his wife advises against it? Maybe he refers to famous hats from TV shows? Maybe some of his previous hats have been, shall we say, less than stylish?
For the past few years, I’ve been going round and round with The Blonde Accountant about my choice of headgear. I have more baseball caps than I can count and I wear different ones for different occasions. She has absolutely no problem with me wearing the baseball caps.
I think he should be true to form and refer to them as "baseball ballcaps."
But for a while now, I have wanted to branch out — to have options — some different and stylish hats available that were maybe a little more sophisticated than just a ballcap.
You could just say "cap."
Besides, I’m growing a bald spot on the back of my noodle and wearing something to cover that is becoming more imperative during the summer months because the reflection is starting to blind drivers and create traffic hazards.
If he had just jammed a few more words into that sentence, just imagine how much funnier it would have been! Bald guys with shiny heads, where does he GET this stuff?
So after much pondering, I have decided to toss my hat into the ring when it comes to my favorites: the Panama straw hat, the Frank Sinatra fedora, the Rocky low rider felt hat and the Gilligan bucket hat.
Reference to TV show hat: check.
Well, none of those choices impressed The Blonde Accountant.
Wife advising against choice of hat: check.
She does not wear hats and is of the general opinion that if I didn’t wear hats either, it just might be easier for me to pull my head out once in a while.
Huh? Pull his head out? I don't get that.
“You look stupid in that hat,” was the typical refrain any time I tried one on during the thousands of shopping excursions I’ve been on with her in the past six years.
“But Frank Sinatra looked cool in this hat,” I would counter.
Wow, a proper use of "counter" as a verb! I'm starting to suspect he doesn't know any other words to use in these situations.
All together now: “Well, you’re not Frank Sinatra.”
Last summer I thought I had found the perfect hat, a Sinatra cool fedora straw hat with a blue band. It was perfect. And I’m not just talking through my hat on that.
Ha... ha... ha. "Sinatra cool fedora straw hat" is one of the worst phrases I have ever heard - "cool Sinatra straw fedora" makes about 1,000,000 times more sense.
Apparently merely invoking the name of Sinatra is not enough to get this hat onto my head in public. I still have it sitting on my dresser hoping that someday it will become acceptably fashionable for the particular coconut that I am forced to carry around. At this point, though, I’m not allowed out of the house wearing it unless I am on my way to throw it in the trash.
Previous hats not being stylish: check. "Noodle," "coconut"... how many substitutes for "head" can we use?
Throughout the whole hat discussion, I always have thought my fallback position would be the Gilligan bucket hat. Surely I couldn’t look any stupider than Gilligan in a bucket hat. Turns out I was wrong about that.
"Stupider." Nice.
But the real game changer was leaving the hat decision in the hands of The Blonde Accountant for the past year or so. And why not? She already picks out all of my clothes, so there’s no reason she can’t pick out the hats, too. I figured as long as she was the one doing the choosing, then I couldn’t look stupid wearing one of her fashion decisions.
Turns out that I was wrong about that, too. Even with the hat decision squarely in her jurisdiction, my noggin was still bare all these many months.
Read those two paragraphs again. I dare you to try and figure out what the hell he's talking about. "Noggin" - synonym #3.
That is, until Father’s Day last weekend. I finally got a hat from The Blonde Accountant. And I didn’t even have to pass the hat to get it.
See that? See what he did there? We're talking about hats, so he used a phrase that has "hat" in it. It's clever! And FUNNY!
It is indeed the bucket hat that has finally won out. It is olive in color with an orange, gray and navy blue band. Of course, I got a whole new outfit that includes a golf shirt and flat-front shorts, and the hat is a perfectly coordinated accessory. That in itself shows you how far I’ve come in my fashion sense: I now know what accessories are.
Alright, we know he's dumb, unattractive, his breath smells, he spills things, he doesn't "get" shopping, etc etc etc... but really? "What's an accessory? My wife hides the dictionary!"
According to online research, the bucket hat, also known as a fishing hat, is a soft cotton hat with a wide and downwards sloping brim. A similar hat is used by the U.S. Navy and is called a “Dixie Cup” hat.
Why did he need to research what one looks like? He has one!!!
It has other names as well. In Australia, for example, it is called a “giggle hat.” Apparently the Australians think it’s a stupid-looking hat too if it has elicited so much laughter that the word “giggle” has been worked into its name.
This is spectacularly uninteresting and unamusing.
I can’t wait to try out my new hat, especially when we go down the shore this summer. I am a shoobie by nature, so maybe the new hat will help me look a little less out of place at the shore.
I don't know what a "shoobie" is. Nor do I wish to know.
Of course, with the new bucket hat will come bucket hat head. I’m not sure how to prevent that but I am going to try to convince The Blonde Accountant that hat head would be less of a problem in an as yet unused Sinatra cool fedora straw hat with a blue band. And hey, I just happen to have one of those sitting on my dresser.
Good lord, his writing is so cumbersome! I mean, look at it - look at how he puts words together. How on Earth this man is a published writer is beyond my ken. Saying "cool fedora straw hat" is akin to saying "cool Lamborghini red car."
If she goes for that, I’ll have to tip my hat to her.
And it wouldn't be a Borsch column if he didn't end it on a cheesy pun! But what, may I ask, is the meaning of the title - "No need to kick the bucket lid"? I know he gets a bucket hat, but... what the heck? I'll list this one under "Men are Dumb," due to the fact that, once again, his wife knows more about something than he does.
Published: Tuesday, June 21, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
It took some doing but I finally got a new lid.
Wahoooo, what zany adventures did he have searching for a new hat? Maybe he wants to buy a ridiculous hat of some sort, and his wife advises against it? Maybe he refers to famous hats from TV shows? Maybe some of his previous hats have been, shall we say, less than stylish?
For the past few years, I’ve been going round and round with The Blonde Accountant about my choice of headgear. I have more baseball caps than I can count and I wear different ones for different occasions. She has absolutely no problem with me wearing the baseball caps.
I think he should be true to form and refer to them as "baseball ballcaps."
But for a while now, I have wanted to branch out — to have options — some different and stylish hats available that were maybe a little more sophisticated than just a ballcap.
You could just say "cap."
Besides, I’m growing a bald spot on the back of my noodle and wearing something to cover that is becoming more imperative during the summer months because the reflection is starting to blind drivers and create traffic hazards.
If he had just jammed a few more words into that sentence, just imagine how much funnier it would have been! Bald guys with shiny heads, where does he GET this stuff?
So after much pondering, I have decided to toss my hat into the ring when it comes to my favorites: the Panama straw hat, the Frank Sinatra fedora, the Rocky low rider felt hat and the Gilligan bucket hat.
Reference to TV show hat: check.
Well, none of those choices impressed The Blonde Accountant.
Wife advising against choice of hat: check.
She does not wear hats and is of the general opinion that if I didn’t wear hats either, it just might be easier for me to pull my head out once in a while.
Huh? Pull his head out? I don't get that.
“You look stupid in that hat,” was the typical refrain any time I tried one on during the thousands of shopping excursions I’ve been on with her in the past six years.
“But Frank Sinatra looked cool in this hat,” I would counter.
Wow, a proper use of "counter" as a verb! I'm starting to suspect he doesn't know any other words to use in these situations.
All together now: “Well, you’re not Frank Sinatra.”
Last summer I thought I had found the perfect hat, a Sinatra cool fedora straw hat with a blue band. It was perfect. And I’m not just talking through my hat on that.
Ha... ha... ha. "Sinatra cool fedora straw hat" is one of the worst phrases I have ever heard - "cool Sinatra straw fedora" makes about 1,000,000 times more sense.
Apparently merely invoking the name of Sinatra is not enough to get this hat onto my head in public. I still have it sitting on my dresser hoping that someday it will become acceptably fashionable for the particular coconut that I am forced to carry around. At this point, though, I’m not allowed out of the house wearing it unless I am on my way to throw it in the trash.
Previous hats not being stylish: check. "Noodle," "coconut"... how many substitutes for "head" can we use?
Throughout the whole hat discussion, I always have thought my fallback position would be the Gilligan bucket hat. Surely I couldn’t look any stupider than Gilligan in a bucket hat. Turns out I was wrong about that.
"Stupider." Nice.
But the real game changer was leaving the hat decision in the hands of The Blonde Accountant for the past year or so. And why not? She already picks out all of my clothes, so there’s no reason she can’t pick out the hats, too. I figured as long as she was the one doing the choosing, then I couldn’t look stupid wearing one of her fashion decisions.
Turns out that I was wrong about that, too. Even with the hat decision squarely in her jurisdiction, my noggin was still bare all these many months.
Read those two paragraphs again. I dare you to try and figure out what the hell he's talking about. "Noggin" - synonym #3.
That is, until Father’s Day last weekend. I finally got a hat from The Blonde Accountant. And I didn’t even have to pass the hat to get it.
See that? See what he did there? We're talking about hats, so he used a phrase that has "hat" in it. It's clever! And FUNNY!
It is indeed the bucket hat that has finally won out. It is olive in color with an orange, gray and navy blue band. Of course, I got a whole new outfit that includes a golf shirt and flat-front shorts, and the hat is a perfectly coordinated accessory. That in itself shows you how far I’ve come in my fashion sense: I now know what accessories are.
Alright, we know he's dumb, unattractive, his breath smells, he spills things, he doesn't "get" shopping, etc etc etc... but really? "What's an accessory? My wife hides the dictionary!"
According to online research, the bucket hat, also known as a fishing hat, is a soft cotton hat with a wide and downwards sloping brim. A similar hat is used by the U.S. Navy and is called a “Dixie Cup” hat.
Why did he need to research what one looks like? He has one!!!
It has other names as well. In Australia, for example, it is called a “giggle hat.” Apparently the Australians think it’s a stupid-looking hat too if it has elicited so much laughter that the word “giggle” has been worked into its name.
This is spectacularly uninteresting and unamusing.
I can’t wait to try out my new hat, especially when we go down the shore this summer. I am a shoobie by nature, so maybe the new hat will help me look a little less out of place at the shore.
I don't know what a "shoobie" is. Nor do I wish to know.
Of course, with the new bucket hat will come bucket hat head. I’m not sure how to prevent that but I am going to try to convince The Blonde Accountant that hat head would be less of a problem in an as yet unused Sinatra cool fedora straw hat with a blue band. And hey, I just happen to have one of those sitting on my dresser.
Good lord, his writing is so cumbersome! I mean, look at it - look at how he puts words together. How on Earth this man is a published writer is beyond my ken. Saying "cool fedora straw hat" is akin to saying "cool Lamborghini red car."
If she goes for that, I’ll have to tip my hat to her.
And it wouldn't be a Borsch column if he didn't end it on a cheesy pun! But what, may I ask, is the meaning of the title - "No need to kick the bucket lid"? I know he gets a bucket hat, but... what the heck? I'll list this one under "Men are Dumb," due to the fact that, once again, his wife knows more about something than he does.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Guys Say Dumb Things
OUTTA LEFTFIELD: Father's Day marks the 'Silly Sayings Season' for dads
Published: Thursday, June 16, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Oh joy! It's been at LEAST two or three columns since we've had one focusing on dumb guys and the dumb things they say. Will there be a "Hey kids, get off my lawn" reference? Something about grilling (and burning) food, perhaps?
Dads say the silliest things. It seems to be part of their essential fabric, kind of like wearing Bermuda shorts with black socks and dress shoes and considering it a cutting-edge fashion statement.
So fresh! What, no reference to playing golf or moving to Florida?
My dad had a boatload of favorite sayings, only a few of which didn’t contain a profanity of some sort. It’s one of the many things I miss about him now that he’s gone.
I swear, if he rips off another Jeff Foxworthy routine, I'm going to lose it.
As a school superintendent in a different era, he didn’t use profanities around the students. But he was used to giving directives and having the students follow them. Immediately, if not sooner.
“Don’t just stand there with your teeth in your mouth and your elbow halfway up your arm,” he would say after issuing an order. The literal meaning was, “Get moving!” But the teeth and elbow part of that phrase always seemed to confuse kids, and they’d tilt their heads like dogs hearing a high-pitched sound while they tried to process the information.
Is this really "things dads say"? Shouldn't it be "things school superintendents in a different era say"?
“Wait … my teeth are already in my mouth and my elbow is already … oh, I get it.”
Another of my dad’s favorites that I could never completely interpret was: “Well I’ll be kiss your fanny.” It was an expanded, “Well I’ll be … ” as an exclamation of surprise, but I can’t figure out the “kiss your fanny” part. Kissing fanny was never part of his repertoire, so I’m not sure why he would suggest that he was in such a position.
I'd say kissing fanny is VERY much a part of Borsch's repertoire - witness his interview with every celebrity who is not Dennis Miller.
But no matter how goofy or silly it sounded, I think my dad got a kick out of entertaining himself with language, a character trait I seem to have inherited from him.
You may entertain yourself, sir, but you entertain no one else. Borsch "entertaining himself" with the language is akin to a boy "entertaining himself" by pulling the wings off flies.
My theory on why dads say silly things is that in general, they are characters. Dads have no problem picking their noses, scratching their hind ends, creating funny sounds with various parts of their bodies (would a woman ever have thought of the hand-in-the-armpit tooting routine?), using the great outdoors as their personal rest room and belching the ABCs. I can’t imagine my mom, wife, daughters, stepdaughter, mother-in-law or boss doing any of those things.
And there you have it: dads (he clearly means all guys) are characters who do all kinds of rude, crude things. Right? HA! In all his years he has NEVER explored territory like this before. Guys being dumb, goofy and slobby! This slays me!
When I became a dad, I considered it one of my parental duties to say silly things. But I only use a few of them when my kids are around. The R-rated ones I save for my buddies.
What exactly are the "R-rated" antics? I'm seriously trying to think of what they could be. Violently killing someone? Explicit sexual material?
For example, when we pull into a store parking lot and there is an open space close to the door, I will exclaim, “Executive parking! Did you call ahead?”
Since this immediately follows the "R-rated" remark, one would think this would be an example of such uncensored antics. This is not only pathetically G-rated, but pathetically lame and stupid as well.
Oddly enough, when I’m driving, the closest open parking space is usually in Delaware,
He used this same "can't find nearby parking" gag at least twice in his post about shopping on Memorial Day.
so I don’t get to use that phrase as often. But when The Blonde Accountant is behind the wheel and I’m riding shotgun, she has this uncanny good fortune of finding open parking spots close to the door virtually every single time. It’s almost like the parking lot realizes that she is wearing fabulous-looking shoes, but that having to walk very far in them will most certainly hurt her feet.
Women wearing nice shoes! He's only used that gag 500 times.
Many of my favorites, though, come from movies and they are for the guys only. My dad’s exclamation of surprise was tame compared to my “You gotta be bleepin’ me, Pyle!” That comes from the movie “Full Metal Jacket.”
Really? Because he throws the "sh*ts" and "a$$es" around quite liberally on his Twitter account. Let's hope the kids can't access them Internets!
Older Daughter never knew where that saying came from, and why would she? “Full Metal Jacket” isn’t a movie for kids. But just a few months ago, she and her husband were watching the movie and when the line was said, she jumped up and pointed to the TV, exclaiming, “That’s what my dad always says!”
And thus a lifetime of unoriginality was laid bare. And didn't he just say that these phrases were "for the guys only"? Yet his daughter knows it so well she only identifies it with him?
(I believe that in that instance, my dad would have said, “Well I’ll be kiss your fanny!” at the realization of where the phrase originated. And I think it would have been funnier had Older Daughter had the wherewithal to channel her grandfather there.)
If you say "in that instance," you don't have to add, "at the realization of where the phrase originated." It's already covered.
Another of my favorites: When somebody asks me to do something that is well within my areas of expertise, I respond, “You think this is the first hole I ever dug?” That’s a Joe Pesci line straight out of “Goodfellas.”
So this is not so much "silly things dads say" as "lines I repeat from movies."
I also take several lines from “Animal House,” the cleanest of which is “Good, good, good!” That one is said by Faber College’s Dean Vernon Wormer when he finds out the Delta House guys’ grades are bad enough to get them expelled. I utilize “Good, good, good!” during those times when I experience something that’s, well … good. Upon further reflection, maybe there isn’t a whole lot of creativity exhibited in the execution of this line.
There isn't a whole lot of creativity in anything he does, really.
Makes the hand-in-the-armpit tooting routine seem downright brilliant, doesn’t it?
I'd say that much of Borsch's material is equal in quality to armpit-created fart noises, actually.
On this Father’s Day weekend, I encourage all you silly dads to not just stand there with your teeth in your mouth and your elbow halfway up your arm waiting for someone to kiss your fanny. Get out and enjoy the day. If you’re lucky, you just might find some executive parking in your travels, which would be good, good, good!
I'm so glad that the average American dad is much, much more clever than this.
As for those Bermuda shorts with the black socks and dress shoes … you gotta be bleepin’ me, Pyle.
Just to sum up, this column seemed to promise a number of universal "dad" phrases. You know, things he has culled from a lifetime observing others. What we got was the following:
(1) Something his dad said to students (not his own kids)
(2) Something his dad used to say (to anyone, presumably)
(3) Something Borsch says in parking lots (he only mentions his wife, not his kids)
(4) 3 movie lines Borsch repeats (but not to his kids, because they're "for guys only")
So basically NONE of the "sayings" he relates are in any way tied with fatherhood OR with Father's Day. They aren't things he says to his kids; they aren't things he says to other parents. They're just random quotes from people who happen to be fathers. Nice effort, Borsch.
Published: Thursday, June 16, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Oh joy! It's been at LEAST two or three columns since we've had one focusing on dumb guys and the dumb things they say. Will there be a "Hey kids, get off my lawn" reference? Something about grilling (and burning) food, perhaps?
Dads say the silliest things. It seems to be part of their essential fabric, kind of like wearing Bermuda shorts with black socks and dress shoes and considering it a cutting-edge fashion statement.
So fresh! What, no reference to playing golf or moving to Florida?
My dad had a boatload of favorite sayings, only a few of which didn’t contain a profanity of some sort. It’s one of the many things I miss about him now that he’s gone.
I swear, if he rips off another Jeff Foxworthy routine, I'm going to lose it.
As a school superintendent in a different era, he didn’t use profanities around the students. But he was used to giving directives and having the students follow them. Immediately, if not sooner.
“Don’t just stand there with your teeth in your mouth and your elbow halfway up your arm,” he would say after issuing an order. The literal meaning was, “Get moving!” But the teeth and elbow part of that phrase always seemed to confuse kids, and they’d tilt their heads like dogs hearing a high-pitched sound while they tried to process the information.
Is this really "things dads say"? Shouldn't it be "things school superintendents in a different era say"?
“Wait … my teeth are already in my mouth and my elbow is already … oh, I get it.”
Another of my dad’s favorites that I could never completely interpret was: “Well I’ll be kiss your fanny.” It was an expanded, “Well I’ll be … ” as an exclamation of surprise, but I can’t figure out the “kiss your fanny” part. Kissing fanny was never part of his repertoire, so I’m not sure why he would suggest that he was in such a position.
I'd say kissing fanny is VERY much a part of Borsch's repertoire - witness his interview with every celebrity who is not Dennis Miller.
But no matter how goofy or silly it sounded, I think my dad got a kick out of entertaining himself with language, a character trait I seem to have inherited from him.
You may entertain yourself, sir, but you entertain no one else. Borsch "entertaining himself" with the language is akin to a boy "entertaining himself" by pulling the wings off flies.
My theory on why dads say silly things is that in general, they are characters. Dads have no problem picking their noses, scratching their hind ends, creating funny sounds with various parts of their bodies (would a woman ever have thought of the hand-in-the-armpit tooting routine?), using the great outdoors as their personal rest room and belching the ABCs. I can’t imagine my mom, wife, daughters, stepdaughter, mother-in-law or boss doing any of those things.
And there you have it: dads (he clearly means all guys) are characters who do all kinds of rude, crude things. Right? HA! In all his years he has NEVER explored territory like this before. Guys being dumb, goofy and slobby! This slays me!
When I became a dad, I considered it one of my parental duties to say silly things. But I only use a few of them when my kids are around. The R-rated ones I save for my buddies.
What exactly are the "R-rated" antics? I'm seriously trying to think of what they could be. Violently killing someone? Explicit sexual material?
For example, when we pull into a store parking lot and there is an open space close to the door, I will exclaim, “Executive parking! Did you call ahead?”
Since this immediately follows the "R-rated" remark, one would think this would be an example of such uncensored antics. This is not only pathetically G-rated, but pathetically lame and stupid as well.
Oddly enough, when I’m driving, the closest open parking space is usually in Delaware,
He used this same "can't find nearby parking" gag at least twice in his post about shopping on Memorial Day.
so I don’t get to use that phrase as often. But when The Blonde Accountant is behind the wheel and I’m riding shotgun, she has this uncanny good fortune of finding open parking spots close to the door virtually every single time. It’s almost like the parking lot realizes that she is wearing fabulous-looking shoes, but that having to walk very far in them will most certainly hurt her feet.
Women wearing nice shoes! He's only used that gag 500 times.
Many of my favorites, though, come from movies and they are for the guys only. My dad’s exclamation of surprise was tame compared to my “You gotta be bleepin’ me, Pyle!” That comes from the movie “Full Metal Jacket.”
Really? Because he throws the "sh*ts" and "a$$es" around quite liberally on his Twitter account. Let's hope the kids can't access them Internets!
Older Daughter never knew where that saying came from, and why would she? “Full Metal Jacket” isn’t a movie for kids. But just a few months ago, she and her husband were watching the movie and when the line was said, she jumped up and pointed to the TV, exclaiming, “That’s what my dad always says!”
And thus a lifetime of unoriginality was laid bare. And didn't he just say that these phrases were "for the guys only"? Yet his daughter knows it so well she only identifies it with him?
(I believe that in that instance, my dad would have said, “Well I’ll be kiss your fanny!” at the realization of where the phrase originated. And I think it would have been funnier had Older Daughter had the wherewithal to channel her grandfather there.)
If you say "in that instance," you don't have to add, "at the realization of where the phrase originated." It's already covered.
Another of my favorites: When somebody asks me to do something that is well within my areas of expertise, I respond, “You think this is the first hole I ever dug?” That’s a Joe Pesci line straight out of “Goodfellas.”
So this is not so much "silly things dads say" as "lines I repeat from movies."
I also take several lines from “Animal House,” the cleanest of which is “Good, good, good!” That one is said by Faber College’s Dean Vernon Wormer when he finds out the Delta House guys’ grades are bad enough to get them expelled. I utilize “Good, good, good!” during those times when I experience something that’s, well … good. Upon further reflection, maybe there isn’t a whole lot of creativity exhibited in the execution of this line.
There isn't a whole lot of creativity in anything he does, really.
Makes the hand-in-the-armpit tooting routine seem downright brilliant, doesn’t it?
I'd say that much of Borsch's material is equal in quality to armpit-created fart noises, actually.
On this Father’s Day weekend, I encourage all you silly dads to not just stand there with your teeth in your mouth and your elbow halfway up your arm waiting for someone to kiss your fanny. Get out and enjoy the day. If you’re lucky, you just might find some executive parking in your travels, which would be good, good, good!
I'm so glad that the average American dad is much, much more clever than this.
As for those Bermuda shorts with the black socks and dress shoes … you gotta be bleepin’ me, Pyle.
Just to sum up, this column seemed to promise a number of universal "dad" phrases. You know, things he has culled from a lifetime observing others. What we got was the following:
(1) Something his dad said to students (not his own kids)
(2) Something his dad used to say (to anyone, presumably)
(3) Something Borsch says in parking lots (he only mentions his wife, not his kids)
(4) 3 movie lines Borsch repeats (but not to his kids, because they're "for guys only")
So basically NONE of the "sayings" he relates are in any way tied with fatherhood OR with Father's Day. They aren't things he says to his kids; they aren't things he says to other parents. They're just random quotes from people who happen to be fathers. Nice effort, Borsch.
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.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
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."
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."
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
AMAZING! Men Don't Know Fancy Colors
Outta Leftfield: Bedtime discussion over anchorman's tie turns colorful
Published: Wednesday, April 06, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I'm interested to see just how fake this "bedtime conversation" with his wife will turn out to be. I'm also predicting that the talk "turns colorful" because they discuss colors.
I am more and more convinced that wives rule the world and we husbands are here just to amuse them (less so, as time goes on, I think).
Wow, here's a novel column idea - women smart, men dumb! What exactly does the "less so, as time goes on" apply to? If it implies that husbands get less amusing, he does a poor job of grammatically connecting the two thoughts.
And where they really seem to have us bamboozled is when it comes to their awareness and knowledge of colors.
... Sort of like that post where he didn't know the color of the bedroom, the couch, or the neighbor's car?
Case in point: citrine.
Show of hands, how many guys knew this was a color? And if so, what color? When I first heard it, I thought it was a 25-cent word for “latrine.”
... Sort of like that post where he is baffled by all the different kinds of candles and soaps.
From my days as a regular Crayola user — which just ended last year — I am familiar with some basic colors: black, white, red, blue, green, yellow, brown, orange. That’s about all I ever needed.
But apparently there are colors I’ve never heard of, like amethyst, fuchsia, bleu de France (a favorite of Pepe LePew and Maurice Chevalier),
Haw haw haw, foreign-sounding names are funny! He does like the Maurice Chevalier references, doesn't he?
buff (a WWE color, no doubt), caput mortuum (Grateful Dead fans will like this one), chartreuse, grullo (a Grillo pad on steroids), lapis lazuli (a backup middle infielder for the old Philadelphia Athletics, I think),
Wresting reference. Suggestion that strange name is obscure baseball player. Can we get some new "joke" material here? Please?
periwinkle (Bullwinkle’s dumber cousin), razzmatazz (the color of the Harlem Globetrotters’ basketball uniforms) and wisteria (yes, it’s a color and not a lane).
Which brings us back to citrine. The way I learned this was a color was quite by accident.
What brings us back to citrine? Wisteria? What's happening?
While I was watching the news just before retiring last Sunday evening, 6ABC anchor Rob Jennings was wearing a tie that didn’t do justice to the word “loud.” It virtually jumped off the television screen, nearly blinding me, which I don’t think was Rob’s original intent. I’m pretty sure he wants me to keep watching the newscast.
That's painful.
“Hey, check out Rob’s tie tonight,” I said innocently enough, waiting for the nightly Blonde Accountant Lotions and Potions Bathroom Tour to conclude for the evening.
“Oh, that’s citrine,” she said matter-of-factly, poking her head out of the bathroom to take a glimpse.
Another thing Borsch loves: adverbs. "I said innocently," "She said matter-of-factly"... it's like the more description he can heap on, the funnier it gets!
“Citrine? What the (bleep) is Citrine? You just made that up, didn’t you?” I said.
“No, it’s a yellow-green,” she countered.
Is that really a "counter"?
“Then why isn’t it called yellow-green?” I offered.
Is that really an "offer"? Wouldn't it make more sense to use "countered" here, since he's actually making an argument? I've said it before and I'll say it again: Michael Morsch is a really, really, really terrible writer.
It’s usually at this point in the conversation where I wish I had the Just Shut the Bleep Up Gene and that it automatically kicked in when I approached a certain level of stupidity.
As it turns out, The Blonde Accountant is very familiar with citrine, which I’m told is the hot fashion color for this season. (Personally, I’d pick Phillies red this year.)
Why? Do you like baseball or something?
I’m not sure who decides what the hot fashion color is for the season, but I do believe one of the requirements ought to be that everybody knows that citrine is not actually the secret ingredient in Listerine or some kind of disease one gets from eating too many oranges.
The more definitions we get, the more hilarious this gag becomes!
To demonstrate, The Blonde Accountant went to her closet and pulled out a sweater on a hanger.
“This is citrine,” she said, holding it up in front of her so as to assure my undivided attention.
Honestly, the sweater looked like lime green to me, which I remember from the 1970s.
Reference to a lime green outfit he used to wear incoming! I'm so sure of it.
As I have shared in this space before, I had a swell lime green leisure suit in 1977 that was the epitome of stylin’ and profilin’, such as that was in 1977. I had no idea then that I was wearing a citrine leisure suit and can only assume that had I known and shared that information with the women of that era, they would have been even more attracted to me in that suit.
Yes, you have shared it before. More times than I can count. You stink.
Of course, if a woman has a citrine sweater, she then must have citrine shoes to match, and The Blonde Accountant did indeed pull out one of the 900 or so shoeboxes in her garage/closet to reveal the citrine shoes.
Ah, you know dem women and dere huge shoe collections, eh? Eh? Ehhhh, get outta heah!
Keep in mind that this particular boudoir fashion show kicked off after the start of the 11 o’clock news. Thanks, Rob Jennings — it’s not like I wanted to go to sleep or anything before I opened my big mouth about your necktie.
I know! I'd HATE to have to talk to my wife about things.
I’d like to report that my citrine schooling concluded for the evening at the end of the impromptu fashion show, but the bedtime discussion continued with me learning that citrine goes best with Navy blue. Sure enough, Rob Jennings probably has a wife at home who knows something about colors because he did indeed have a Navy blue suit on with his citrine tie. I am soooooo glad I asked.
I like the "sure enough" just before the "did indeed." The way he says it, it's like the color of the suit was hidden from view until that very moment.
My Facebook guy friends were no help. They looked up citrine online — just like I did the next morning at work — and acted like they knew what it was, just to make me look like a horse’s patootie. As Facebook friends, they should already know that I’ve never needed any help in the department of looking like a horse’s patootie.
Everybody knows that. It's not just your Facebook friends.
From here on out, I am no longer commenting on the neckties of newscasters. I only hope that Rob Jennings doesn’t have burlywood, carnelian, ecru, gamboge or phlox ties in his collection. If he does, I’ll never get any sleep.
Wow, what a terrible thing! The conversation was literally this long:
"Look at this necktie. The color is unfamiliar to me."
"The color is called citrine."
"I do not know what that is."
"Here, let me show you some examples."
The whole exchange probably took four minutes. What an ordeal!
Mike Morsch is executive editor of Montgomery Newspapers. He can be reached by calling 215-542-0200, ext. 415, or by email at msquared35@yahoo.com.
Call this man. Tell him to stop.
Published: Wednesday, April 06, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I'm interested to see just how fake this "bedtime conversation" with his wife will turn out to be. I'm also predicting that the talk "turns colorful" because they discuss colors.
I am more and more convinced that wives rule the world and we husbands are here just to amuse them (less so, as time goes on, I think).
Wow, here's a novel column idea - women smart, men dumb! What exactly does the "less so, as time goes on" apply to? If it implies that husbands get less amusing, he does a poor job of grammatically connecting the two thoughts.
And where they really seem to have us bamboozled is when it comes to their awareness and knowledge of colors.
... Sort of like that post where he didn't know the color of the bedroom, the couch, or the neighbor's car?
Case in point: citrine.
Show of hands, how many guys knew this was a color? And if so, what color? When I first heard it, I thought it was a 25-cent word for “latrine.”
... Sort of like that post where he is baffled by all the different kinds of candles and soaps.
From my days as a regular Crayola user — which just ended last year — I am familiar with some basic colors: black, white, red, blue, green, yellow, brown, orange. That’s about all I ever needed.
But apparently there are colors I’ve never heard of, like amethyst, fuchsia, bleu de France (a favorite of Pepe LePew and Maurice Chevalier),
Haw haw haw, foreign-sounding names are funny! He does like the Maurice Chevalier references, doesn't he?
buff (a WWE color, no doubt), caput mortuum (Grateful Dead fans will like this one), chartreuse, grullo (a Grillo pad on steroids), lapis lazuli (a backup middle infielder for the old Philadelphia Athletics, I think),
Wresting reference. Suggestion that strange name is obscure baseball player. Can we get some new "joke" material here? Please?
periwinkle (Bullwinkle’s dumber cousin), razzmatazz (the color of the Harlem Globetrotters’ basketball uniforms) and wisteria (yes, it’s a color and not a lane).
Which brings us back to citrine. The way I learned this was a color was quite by accident.
What brings us back to citrine? Wisteria? What's happening?
While I was watching the news just before retiring last Sunday evening, 6ABC anchor Rob Jennings was wearing a tie that didn’t do justice to the word “loud.” It virtually jumped off the television screen, nearly blinding me, which I don’t think was Rob’s original intent. I’m pretty sure he wants me to keep watching the newscast.
That's painful.
“Hey, check out Rob’s tie tonight,” I said innocently enough, waiting for the nightly Blonde Accountant Lotions and Potions Bathroom Tour to conclude for the evening.
“Oh, that’s citrine,” she said matter-of-factly, poking her head out of the bathroom to take a glimpse.
Another thing Borsch loves: adverbs. "I said innocently," "She said matter-of-factly"... it's like the more description he can heap on, the funnier it gets!
“Citrine? What the (bleep) is Citrine? You just made that up, didn’t you?” I said.
“No, it’s a yellow-green,” she countered.
Is that really a "counter"?
“Then why isn’t it called yellow-green?” I offered.
Is that really an "offer"? Wouldn't it make more sense to use "countered" here, since he's actually making an argument? I've said it before and I'll say it again: Michael Morsch is a really, really, really terrible writer.
It’s usually at this point in the conversation where I wish I had the Just Shut the Bleep Up Gene and that it automatically kicked in when I approached a certain level of stupidity.
As it turns out, The Blonde Accountant is very familiar with citrine, which I’m told is the hot fashion color for this season. (Personally, I’d pick Phillies red this year.)
Why? Do you like baseball or something?
I’m not sure who decides what the hot fashion color is for the season, but I do believe one of the requirements ought to be that everybody knows that citrine is not actually the secret ingredient in Listerine or some kind of disease one gets from eating too many oranges.
The more definitions we get, the more hilarious this gag becomes!
To demonstrate, The Blonde Accountant went to her closet and pulled out a sweater on a hanger.
“This is citrine,” she said, holding it up in front of her so as to assure my undivided attention.
Honestly, the sweater looked like lime green to me, which I remember from the 1970s.
Reference to a lime green outfit he used to wear incoming! I'm so sure of it.
As I have shared in this space before, I had a swell lime green leisure suit in 1977 that was the epitome of stylin’ and profilin’, such as that was in 1977. I had no idea then that I was wearing a citrine leisure suit and can only assume that had I known and shared that information with the women of that era, they would have been even more attracted to me in that suit.
Yes, you have shared it before. More times than I can count. You stink.
Of course, if a woman has a citrine sweater, she then must have citrine shoes to match, and The Blonde Accountant did indeed pull out one of the 900 or so shoeboxes in her garage/closet to reveal the citrine shoes.
Ah, you know dem women and dere huge shoe collections, eh? Eh? Ehhhh, get outta heah!
Keep in mind that this particular boudoir fashion show kicked off after the start of the 11 o’clock news. Thanks, Rob Jennings — it’s not like I wanted to go to sleep or anything before I opened my big mouth about your necktie.
I know! I'd HATE to have to talk to my wife about things.
I’d like to report that my citrine schooling concluded for the evening at the end of the impromptu fashion show, but the bedtime discussion continued with me learning that citrine goes best with Navy blue. Sure enough, Rob Jennings probably has a wife at home who knows something about colors because he did indeed have a Navy blue suit on with his citrine tie. I am soooooo glad I asked.
I like the "sure enough" just before the "did indeed." The way he says it, it's like the color of the suit was hidden from view until that very moment.
My Facebook guy friends were no help. They looked up citrine online — just like I did the next morning at work — and acted like they knew what it was, just to make me look like a horse’s patootie. As Facebook friends, they should already know that I’ve never needed any help in the department of looking like a horse’s patootie.
Everybody knows that. It's not just your Facebook friends.
From here on out, I am no longer commenting on the neckties of newscasters. I only hope that Rob Jennings doesn’t have burlywood, carnelian, ecru, gamboge or phlox ties in his collection. If he does, I’ll never get any sleep.
Wow, what a terrible thing! The conversation was literally this long:
"Look at this necktie. The color is unfamiliar to me."
"The color is called citrine."
"I do not know what that is."
"Here, let me show you some examples."
The whole exchange probably took four minutes. What an ordeal!
Mike Morsch is executive editor of Montgomery Newspapers. He can be reached by calling 215-542-0200, ext. 415, or by email at msquared35@yahoo.com.
Call this man. Tell him to stop.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Surprise! Borsch's Wife Has Superior Fashion Sense
OUTTA LEFTFIELD: Attempt to buy new pair of 'Chucks' gets off on the wrong foot
Published: Tuesday, February 22, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Because a shoe goes on your foot, see.
Much of what The Blonde Accountant says makes sense. Unfortunately for her, sometimes I prefer to make nonsense.
Uh-oh. Yet another column about how Borsch's wife knows more about fashion than he does. What a creative man!
Take shoes for example. There is an entire closet in our house devoted to shoes. Her shoes. She can be considered, without a doubt, a distinguished Imelda Marcos fellow at the University of Heel and Toe. She sports a master’s and a doctorate in footwear fashion.
Women own multiple shoes! And men never put the toilet seat down! HAW!
It is on our shoe store excursions that I fall woefully outside my element and I do not quibble over that. The shoe store — while a necessity of life — holds no special appeal to me.
So it was with no sense of pending conflict that I followed her into the shoe store last weekend, content with my usual moment of browsing followed by the ever-present desire to locate the nearest bench and nap peacefully and without incident.
How many of his "columns" have referenced sleeping on benches while others shop? Definitely a motif in the Borsch symphony.
And then I stumbled past the display that featured black, high-top Converse Chuck Taylor All-Stars on sale for $36 a pair. Commonly known as “Chucks,” these canvas sneakers have been around forever. My dad had a pair of white Chucks back in the 1960s and I believe he wore them for 30 years. They were just that cool. Today, Chucks have become somewhat of a fashion statement for young people.
Oh no! Could it be that our zany protagonist will buy a pair?!?
Keep in mind that shoe sales have commonly been the spontaneous trigger for The Blonde Accountant’s Happy Feet Dance, an aspect of the shoe store experience that I actually enjoy and someday hope to get on video to share with you all.
This will never happen, because this "dance" does not exist.
Chucks for $36. How great is that? Happy dance, happy dance, happy dance.
See? Only in his diseased dome are do these dances have any reality.
My first inclination was to try on a pair and pirouette across the shoe store to where The Blonde Accountant was shopping to show her how good I looked. But me pirouetting across the shoe store might raise eyebrows because — and I know this may be hard to believe — I am not that graceful. So I decided to wait for her to make her way back toward the men’s section and surprise her with my find.
“You look ridiculous,” she said without hesitation as she came around to the aisle where I was standing, pant legs hiked up to show off the glorious pair of spanking brand-new black, high-top canvas Chucks.
The Blonde Accountant is too much the prototypical "straight man" to be real. She never laughs, never jokes, never plays along. She is eternally bland, practical, and reserved. I would rather read a column written by her.
It was not the first time I had heard that. In fact, I’ve spent most of my life looking ridiculous, so I am quite used to that type of reaction, especially from women.
I guess the only fashion statement that black canvas high-tops Chucks make for old guys is that, “Yes, I am an idiot.”
I can't disagree.
“Wait. These are cool shoes. They’re classic. And they’re on sale!” I said as I broke into my version of the Shoe Sale Two-Step. (I would add that the lightweight Chucks appear to be perfectly conducive for just about any aspect of the Happy Dance.)
But she turned without further comment and headed toward the check-out counter with her shoe selections, leaving me holding nothing but my pant legs.
That's a vaguely disgusting sentence, out of context.
It appears that my innocent desire to have a pair of Chucks — which I probably haven’t had since I was a kid — failed to take into account that The Blonde Accountant has spent quite a bit of time trying to teach me a sense of style when it comes to clothes. For her, the Chucks do not fall into the category of How I’d Like To Have My Husband Look When I’m Out in Public With Him. They have fallen into the same category as Hawaiian shirts and Panama hats, which is to say they are on the Mike Restricted List of Idiotic Fashion Statements by 51-Year-Old Husbands.
Wait, he's only 51? We've got at LEAST 11 years until he retires. Kill me.
Of course, I reached out to family and friends for help on this one. Older Daughter thought the Chucks were OK for me to purchase, as did Daughter of Blonde Accountant. Younger Daughter and Son of Blonde Accountant fell into the other camp. My Facebook friends were mostly all pro-Chucks, but my Facebook friends do not often have to be seen with me in public.
Much to their relief.
I even called Dad of Blonde Accountant for some help.
“Did you ever wear Chuck Taylors?” I asked him on the phone.
“Ya, when I was 10,” he said.
Thanks Pop-Pop, that was absolutely no help at all.
Truth: Dad of Blonde Accountant hates Borsch with a passion. And how was that statement no help? He answered the question! "Wear Chucks?" "Yes. Here's when." Doesn't Borsch, ya know, interview people for a living?
I have continued to lobby for the Chucks but I’m thinking about a change of strategy. Instead of buying a pair for stylin’ and profilin’ purposes, I have decided to take a more logical approach. I’m going to use them for my regular walking workouts once the weather allows me to get outside full-time.
So intead of buying the shoes and wearing them, he's going to... buy the shoes and wear them. Nice.
After reading this column (she always gets the first read and nothing appears in print without her OK), she turned to me and said:
Before we start this made-up exchange... If it's true that TBA has "first read" on all his columns and still allows them to be published, she's just as much to blame for this as he is.
“Ok, I’ll make a compromise deal with you. You can buy the Chucks, but you can’t wear them anywhere.”
“Not even in the house?’ I said.
“Nope. You can leave them in your closet.”
Would a real wife suggest such a thing? Maybe. But this begs the question: how did the column originally end, before TBA read it and offered that "compromise"? It's obvious that Borsch has never re-read or revised anything. Therefore I must conclude that the above exchange, like all the others, never took place.
Well, I guess compromise is indeed the key to a successful marriage. I may save the driving time to the shoe store and actually just leave the $36 in my closet.
Because when it comes right down to it, The Blonde Accountant is right. She is the shoe expert and she knows how she wants me to look when we’re out in public.
Oh! This comes as something of a let-down, doesn't it? I thought for sure we'd get a scene where he buys the shoes, and maybe the person at the register gives him an odd look, or a colleague mocks his choice of footwear. In fact, just about anything would be better than: "Can I buy these shoes?" "No, they wouldn't look good." "Hey yeah, you're right."
After all, shoes make the man. All the Chucks will do is make me look like a heel.
How exactly did he arrive at this realization? Just a couple paragraphs ago he really wanted these shoes. No big epiphany?
Published: Tuesday, February 22, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Because a shoe goes on your foot, see.
Much of what The Blonde Accountant says makes sense. Unfortunately for her, sometimes I prefer to make nonsense.
Uh-oh. Yet another column about how Borsch's wife knows more about fashion than he does. What a creative man!
Take shoes for example. There is an entire closet in our house devoted to shoes. Her shoes. She can be considered, without a doubt, a distinguished Imelda Marcos fellow at the University of Heel and Toe. She sports a master’s and a doctorate in footwear fashion.
Women own multiple shoes! And men never put the toilet seat down! HAW!
It is on our shoe store excursions that I fall woefully outside my element and I do not quibble over that. The shoe store — while a necessity of life — holds no special appeal to me.
So it was with no sense of pending conflict that I followed her into the shoe store last weekend, content with my usual moment of browsing followed by the ever-present desire to locate the nearest bench and nap peacefully and without incident.
How many of his "columns" have referenced sleeping on benches while others shop? Definitely a motif in the Borsch symphony.
And then I stumbled past the display that featured black, high-top Converse Chuck Taylor All-Stars on sale for $36 a pair. Commonly known as “Chucks,” these canvas sneakers have been around forever. My dad had a pair of white Chucks back in the 1960s and I believe he wore them for 30 years. They were just that cool. Today, Chucks have become somewhat of a fashion statement for young people.
Oh no! Could it be that our zany protagonist will buy a pair?!?
Keep in mind that shoe sales have commonly been the spontaneous trigger for The Blonde Accountant’s Happy Feet Dance, an aspect of the shoe store experience that I actually enjoy and someday hope to get on video to share with you all.
This will never happen, because this "dance" does not exist.
Chucks for $36. How great is that? Happy dance, happy dance, happy dance.
See? Only in his diseased dome are do these dances have any reality.
My first inclination was to try on a pair and pirouette across the shoe store to where The Blonde Accountant was shopping to show her how good I looked. But me pirouetting across the shoe store might raise eyebrows because — and I know this may be hard to believe — I am not that graceful. So I decided to wait for her to make her way back toward the men’s section and surprise her with my find.
“You look ridiculous,” she said without hesitation as she came around to the aisle where I was standing, pant legs hiked up to show off the glorious pair of spanking brand-new black, high-top canvas Chucks.
The Blonde Accountant is too much the prototypical "straight man" to be real. She never laughs, never jokes, never plays along. She is eternally bland, practical, and reserved. I would rather read a column written by her.
It was not the first time I had heard that. In fact, I’ve spent most of my life looking ridiculous, so I am quite used to that type of reaction, especially from women.
I guess the only fashion statement that black canvas high-tops Chucks make for old guys is that, “Yes, I am an idiot.”
I can't disagree.
“Wait. These are cool shoes. They’re classic. And they’re on sale!” I said as I broke into my version of the Shoe Sale Two-Step. (I would add that the lightweight Chucks appear to be perfectly conducive for just about any aspect of the Happy Dance.)
But she turned without further comment and headed toward the check-out counter with her shoe selections, leaving me holding nothing but my pant legs.
That's a vaguely disgusting sentence, out of context.
It appears that my innocent desire to have a pair of Chucks — which I probably haven’t had since I was a kid — failed to take into account that The Blonde Accountant has spent quite a bit of time trying to teach me a sense of style when it comes to clothes. For her, the Chucks do not fall into the category of How I’d Like To Have My Husband Look When I’m Out in Public With Him. They have fallen into the same category as Hawaiian shirts and Panama hats, which is to say they are on the Mike Restricted List of Idiotic Fashion Statements by 51-Year-Old Husbands.
Wait, he's only 51? We've got at LEAST 11 years until he retires. Kill me.
Of course, I reached out to family and friends for help on this one. Older Daughter thought the Chucks were OK for me to purchase, as did Daughter of Blonde Accountant. Younger Daughter and Son of Blonde Accountant fell into the other camp. My Facebook friends were mostly all pro-Chucks, but my Facebook friends do not often have to be seen with me in public.
Much to their relief.
I even called Dad of Blonde Accountant for some help.
“Did you ever wear Chuck Taylors?” I asked him on the phone.
“Ya, when I was 10,” he said.
Thanks Pop-Pop, that was absolutely no help at all.
Truth: Dad of Blonde Accountant hates Borsch with a passion. And how was that statement no help? He answered the question! "Wear Chucks?" "Yes. Here's when." Doesn't Borsch, ya know, interview people for a living?
I have continued to lobby for the Chucks but I’m thinking about a change of strategy. Instead of buying a pair for stylin’ and profilin’ purposes, I have decided to take a more logical approach. I’m going to use them for my regular walking workouts once the weather allows me to get outside full-time.
So intead of buying the shoes and wearing them, he's going to... buy the shoes and wear them. Nice.
After reading this column (she always gets the first read and nothing appears in print without her OK), she turned to me and said:
Before we start this made-up exchange... If it's true that TBA has "first read" on all his columns and still allows them to be published, she's just as much to blame for this as he is.
“Ok, I’ll make a compromise deal with you. You can buy the Chucks, but you can’t wear them anywhere.”
“Not even in the house?’ I said.
“Nope. You can leave them in your closet.”
Would a real wife suggest such a thing? Maybe. But this begs the question: how did the column originally end, before TBA read it and offered that "compromise"? It's obvious that Borsch has never re-read or revised anything. Therefore I must conclude that the above exchange, like all the others, never took place.
Well, I guess compromise is indeed the key to a successful marriage. I may save the driving time to the shoe store and actually just leave the $36 in my closet.
Because when it comes right down to it, The Blonde Accountant is right. She is the shoe expert and she knows how she wants me to look when we’re out in public.
Oh! This comes as something of a let-down, doesn't it? I thought for sure we'd get a scene where he buys the shoes, and maybe the person at the register gives him an odd look, or a colleague mocks his choice of footwear. In fact, just about anything would be better than: "Can I buy these shoes?" "No, they wouldn't look good." "Hey yeah, you're right."
After all, shoes make the man. All the Chucks will do is make me look like a heel.
How exactly did he arrive at this realization? Just a couple paragraphs ago he really wanted these shoes. No big epiphany?
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Hey... Is it Spring Training???
Outta Leftfield: Pitchers and catchers reporting on Valentine's Day sure is sweet
Published: Tuesday, February 15, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I know this is Borsch we're talking about... but could he focus a little less on baseball?
Boy, if you’re a Phillies fan — and we’ve got plenty of those around here given the expectations of the 2011 squad — then this past Valentine’s Day could have turned sour in a hurry for those members of the Stupid Men Club who failed to practice some basic awareness of the situation.
Wow, two never-touched-upon topics for him: baseball and how men are dumb. Let's see what revolutionary ideas he brings to the table!
See, pitchers and catchers reported for the first full spring training workouts this year on Monday, Valentine’s Day. And if, for example, you got up Monday morning and said to your sweetheart, “Hey, pitchers and catchers report today,” instead “Happy Valentine’s Day, honey,” then it’s likely you are still attempting to remove a stuffed teddy bear from your ear.
He forgot the "of" in "instead of." Have we established the fact that pitchers and catchers reported yet?
Certainly, since pitchers and catchers report about the same time every year in mid-February, they have done so on Valentine’s Day at some point in the past.
Thank goodness! NOW we've established it: pitchers and catchers. Valentine's Day. Same time. Proceed.
I just don’t remember it happening before now. If it had, I would likely have gotten picked off and I would have remembered sleeping in the garage for a month.
Picked off... how does that... apply?
And since some baseball fanatics consider the day pitchers and catchers report as some sort of the unofficial beginning of spring — if it were up to me that day, along with Opening Day and every day of the World Series, would be official paid holidays off of work — one could easily get distracted by Roy Halladay, Cliff Lee, Roy Oswalt, Cole Hamels and Joe Blanton showing up for their first full day of work on Valentine’s Day.
Things I Now Understand: Pitchers and catchers have reported, and they reported on Valentine's Day. By the way, that entire section was one sentence. Marvel at how bad a writer Borsch is.
Fortunately, I did not succumb to the cluelessness of confusing Valentine’s Day with pitchers and catchers reporting, which I realize is somewhat out of character for me. No, this year I was not caught unawares and was on top of my game for Valentine’s Day, making it last the whole weekend. Among the festivities, The Blonde Accountant and I had a nice dinner at our favorite restaurant and exchanged cards and winks.
Hey wait a second. Back up there, chief - Valentine's Day... pitchers and... catchers... reporting... could these two events be taking place... on the same day? I'm thinking that Borsch winking makes his face look like a butthole with teeth.
In fact, it was such a special weekend that I opted for the Woo Hoo cologne, which I only put on for special occasions. For the record, Woo Hoo cologne does not smell like Old Catcher’s Mitt cologne, although in past years I have splashed on a bit of the Old Catcher’s Mitt around the time spring training starts. Fortunately, I did not get the two colognes confused this year.
Is it possible to have a paragraph not containing the word "catcher"?
However, the Official Rules of Gentlemanly Behavior and Decorum prevent me from commenting further on the effectiveness of Woo Hoo cologne in the romance department.
My prediction: it's about as effective as his composition skills.
My sense is that the exception to the pitchers and catchers report on Valentine’s Day rule probably applies to the Phillies players themselves.
Great goodness, man, can we move on? Please? So far 50% of the column has been four words!
Given the salaries that ballplayers earn these days, they probably get a pass from their wives and significant others if the excitement of spring training — especially one like this with the lofty expectations — overshadows a romantic holiday. I’m pretty sure The Blonde Accountant would understand the postponement of the romantic holiday dinner if I was bringing home $14 million a year. She might not even care if I got my colognes mixed up.
Quite honestly, it's a sin that this man is bringing home any dollars a year.
But my awareness this year can be traced back to when The Blonde Accountant and I got married. Back in 2007 — before the Phillies had become perennial fixtures in October baseball — she had suggested three wedding dates. Up to that point, the Phillies hadn’t been playing much baseball in October, so I had no qualms about selecting an October wedding date.
How did we get from - dare I say it - Valentine's Day to an October wedding? 2007 must have been an "off" year for The Blonde Accountant.
Then the Phillies made the playoffs. In fact, in 2007, had the Phils advanced through the postseason, they would have ended up playing in the seventh game of the National League Championship Series to decide who would go to the World Series the very day of the wedding.
HA! Wait wait wait... so the point of his story is that there was only the most tenuous imaginary connection between the date of his wedding and the Phillies being in the playoffs? I guess what counts is that HE sees the connection.
It didn’t happen because the Phils lost in the first round, but the lesson was not lost on me — never let the baseball season interfere with the important stuff.
I'm confused - so you should intentionally try to schedule important things on days that sports might be played? This "lesson" makes no sense.
That’s why I was able to set aside my enthusiasm over pitchers and catchers reporting and concentrate on Valentine’s Day. Sleeping in the garage this time of year can get a bit chilly in the Northeast.
So what I'm getting from this story is that two important events occurred on the same date... but what are they? What are they? Will someone please tell me?
The Phillies gave their fans a big Valentine’s Day present Monday by trotting out the five pitchers, dressed in their red jerseys, for a collective press conference, guaranteed to get the faithful all amped up for the season.
Red jerseys are an unconventional choice for Phillies players, huh?
But whether it’s Valentine’s Day or the first day of spring training,
SOMEBODY STOP THIS MAN! STOP HIM!
one word can describe having them both fall on the same day this year: Sweet.
Eight. That's the number of times Borsch told us on what day what people reported. What buffoon ever thought this man could write?
Published: Tuesday, February 15, 2011
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I know this is Borsch we're talking about... but could he focus a little less on baseball?
Boy, if you’re a Phillies fan — and we’ve got plenty of those around here given the expectations of the 2011 squad — then this past Valentine’s Day could have turned sour in a hurry for those members of the Stupid Men Club who failed to practice some basic awareness of the situation.
Wow, two never-touched-upon topics for him: baseball and how men are dumb. Let's see what revolutionary ideas he brings to the table!
See, pitchers and catchers reported for the first full spring training workouts this year on Monday, Valentine’s Day. And if, for example, you got up Monday morning and said to your sweetheart, “Hey, pitchers and catchers report today,” instead “Happy Valentine’s Day, honey,” then it’s likely you are still attempting to remove a stuffed teddy bear from your ear.
He forgot the "of" in "instead of." Have we established the fact that pitchers and catchers reported yet?
Certainly, since pitchers and catchers report about the same time every year in mid-February, they have done so on Valentine’s Day at some point in the past.
Thank goodness! NOW we've established it: pitchers and catchers. Valentine's Day. Same time. Proceed.
I just don’t remember it happening before now. If it had, I would likely have gotten picked off and I would have remembered sleeping in the garage for a month.
Picked off... how does that... apply?
And since some baseball fanatics consider the day pitchers and catchers report as some sort of the unofficial beginning of spring — if it were up to me that day, along with Opening Day and every day of the World Series, would be official paid holidays off of work — one could easily get distracted by Roy Halladay, Cliff Lee, Roy Oswalt, Cole Hamels and Joe Blanton showing up for their first full day of work on Valentine’s Day.
Things I Now Understand: Pitchers and catchers have reported, and they reported on Valentine's Day. By the way, that entire section was one sentence. Marvel at how bad a writer Borsch is.
Fortunately, I did not succumb to the cluelessness of confusing Valentine’s Day with pitchers and catchers reporting, which I realize is somewhat out of character for me. No, this year I was not caught unawares and was on top of my game for Valentine’s Day, making it last the whole weekend. Among the festivities, The Blonde Accountant and I had a nice dinner at our favorite restaurant and exchanged cards and winks.
Hey wait a second. Back up there, chief - Valentine's Day... pitchers and... catchers... reporting... could these two events be taking place... on the same day? I'm thinking that Borsch winking makes his face look like a butthole with teeth.
In fact, it was such a special weekend that I opted for the Woo Hoo cologne, which I only put on for special occasions. For the record, Woo Hoo cologne does not smell like Old Catcher’s Mitt cologne, although in past years I have splashed on a bit of the Old Catcher’s Mitt around the time spring training starts. Fortunately, I did not get the two colognes confused this year.
Is it possible to have a paragraph not containing the word "catcher"?
However, the Official Rules of Gentlemanly Behavior and Decorum prevent me from commenting further on the effectiveness of Woo Hoo cologne in the romance department.
My prediction: it's about as effective as his composition skills.
My sense is that the exception to the pitchers and catchers report on Valentine’s Day rule probably applies to the Phillies players themselves.
Great goodness, man, can we move on? Please? So far 50% of the column has been four words!
Given the salaries that ballplayers earn these days, they probably get a pass from their wives and significant others if the excitement of spring training — especially one like this with the lofty expectations — overshadows a romantic holiday. I’m pretty sure The Blonde Accountant would understand the postponement of the romantic holiday dinner if I was bringing home $14 million a year. She might not even care if I got my colognes mixed up.
Quite honestly, it's a sin that this man is bringing home any dollars a year.
But my awareness this year can be traced back to when The Blonde Accountant and I got married. Back in 2007 — before the Phillies had become perennial fixtures in October baseball — she had suggested three wedding dates. Up to that point, the Phillies hadn’t been playing much baseball in October, so I had no qualms about selecting an October wedding date.
How did we get from - dare I say it - Valentine's Day to an October wedding? 2007 must have been an "off" year for The Blonde Accountant.
Then the Phillies made the playoffs. In fact, in 2007, had the Phils advanced through the postseason, they would have ended up playing in the seventh game of the National League Championship Series to decide who would go to the World Series the very day of the wedding.
HA! Wait wait wait... so the point of his story is that there was only the most tenuous imaginary connection between the date of his wedding and the Phillies being in the playoffs? I guess what counts is that HE sees the connection.
It didn’t happen because the Phils lost in the first round, but the lesson was not lost on me — never let the baseball season interfere with the important stuff.
I'm confused - so you should intentionally try to schedule important things on days that sports might be played? This "lesson" makes no sense.
That’s why I was able to set aside my enthusiasm over pitchers and catchers reporting and concentrate on Valentine’s Day. Sleeping in the garage this time of year can get a bit chilly in the Northeast.
So what I'm getting from this story is that two important events occurred on the same date... but what are they? What are they? Will someone please tell me?
The Phillies gave their fans a big Valentine’s Day present Monday by trotting out the five pitchers, dressed in their red jerseys, for a collective press conference, guaranteed to get the faithful all amped up for the season.
Red jerseys are an unconventional choice for Phillies players, huh?
But whether it’s Valentine’s Day or the first day of spring training,
SOMEBODY STOP THIS MAN! STOP HIM!
one word can describe having them both fall on the same day this year: Sweet.
Eight. That's the number of times Borsch told us on what day what people reported. What buffoon ever thought this man could write?
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
