Mike Morsch @mmorsch35
Date night. Dinner and theater. Deciding now on which shirt I would like to spill dinner.
Is he baiting me? I think he's baiting me. I can only hope that an enthralling "we ate here, it was pretty good" post is upcoming.
Showing posts with label Spilling Things. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Spilling Things. Show all posts
Friday, February 24, 2012
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.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The Cliche Train Keeps Rolling
Rightfield. Cheesesteak. Spillage. Beautimous.
3 hours ago via Twitter for Android
Amazing. He just never stops.
3 hours ago via Twitter for Android
Amazing. He just never stops.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
One Joke per Column
Outta Leftfield: Oh, I wish I was an Oscar Mayer Wienermobile driver
Published: Tuesday, September 28, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
This is the second known column that will seemingly focus on the subject of hot dogs. It will, I presume, include many weiner-related puns.
New this week on the “Outta Leftfield” blog, “E-mail scams? Must be an election year.” You can also now follow Mike on Facebook and Twitter @Mmorsch35.
Yes, yes, I know all about that. This is a clever new strategy for Morsch, using his print column to cross-advertise his blog.
After months of reflecting and soul-searching, I have finally decided what I want to be when I grow up: the driver of the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile.
Good choice, since you're obviously not qualified for your current position.
Where else could I get a job that includes the spilling of mustard on one’s shirt as part of the job description? Why, as proficient as I am at that, I’d be a shoo-in for the title of “Commodore of the Wienermobile” in no time. There must be a cool hat and blazer that comes with that title.
When making a list of things that never grow old, you'd have to include comedienne Betty White, anyone who carries the One Ring, and the highly amusing "I spill mustard on myself" gag!
When I mentioned to my Facebook friends that I’d like to take a one-year hiatus from my real job to drive the Wienermobile around, they were quite supportive:
Lisa: “It would be a perfect job for you!”
Agreed.
Ann: “Start the legal paperwork to change your name to Frank.”
Why not Oscar? Why not Frank N. Furter? Come on, Ann!
Dan: “Why only a year? This may be your calling.”
Lynne: “Perfect for the man with the cocktail weenie recipe.”
I hope Lynne's isn't a double entendre. I really hope it isn't.
Larry: “I’ll bring the kraut and cheese in an 18-wheeler and drive behind you.”
... Okay.
Turns out that driving the Wienermobile isn’t so far-fetched after all. The folks at Oscar Mayer — in addition to having one of the most recognizable jingles in the history of advertising — have for years recognized the attraction of the Wienermobile. It’s been around since 1936, designed initially to promote the company’s products at supermarkets in the Midwest.
Shockingly, this information was NOT taken word-for-word from Wikipedia.
According to its website, as the company grew, the Wienermobile traveled coast to coast until 1970. I don’t ever recall seeing it in person, but I must have at one time because I remember having one of those little wiener whistles as a kid. I think the only way back then to get the whistle was to have visited the Wienermobile when it came to your town.
Ah, there we go - it was taken word-for-word from the Wienermobile website. I think I speak for all of us when I demand, "Where are the penis jokes?" Come on!
On its 50th anniversary in 1986, the Wienermobile went on tour again and has been on the road ever since. I would think that in addition to the 18-wheeler filled with sauerkraut and Cheese Whiz as suggested by my friend Larry, the Wienermobile caravan must include a pace car as well, something like a Volkswagen Beetle called the “Cocktail Weeniemobile.” Just a thought, in case the Oscar Mayer people haven’t already considered the idea.
Morsch once devoted an entire column to the fact that he loves cocktail weenies (a.k.a. pigs in a blanket). It was as annoying as it sounds, and almost as dumb as this one.
(Editor’s note: Turns out there already is something called a “Mini Wienermobile,” 15 feet long and built on a mini Cooper S chassis that has a horn that plays the Oscar Mayer jingle. Drat. I really wanted to be the first one to come up with the “Cocktail Weeniemobile” idea.)
Well, you were. I mean, "Mini" isn't the same thing as "cocktail." You actually had a semi-original idea there - don't beat yourself up too much.
The Wienermobile itself — which the company says measures 55 hotdogs long, 25 hotdogs high and 18 hotdogs wide — has a custom-made fiberglass hotdog and bun resting on a Chevrolet W4 Series chassis.
You know what the ancient Greeks defined "comedy" as? "The endless repetition of purportedly zany facts and details." I'm paraphrasing, but I think that was it.
Inside it has a hotdog shaped instrument panel; seating for six in mustard and ketchup-colored seats; exterior rearview cameras; a gull-wing door; mustard-splattered walkway; removable bun roof; state-of-the-art audio center with wireless microphone system; and blue sky ceiling art.
Did I miss the joke? I think I missed the joke. Let me read that paragraph again... no, no I don't think I missed it.
And one can apply to be what the company calls a “hotdogger,” which is someone who travels the country in the Wienermobile serving as a goodwill ambassador for Oscar Mayer.
My fingers are tingling - he must be building up to a tremendous burst of humor here somewhere.
To be a hotdogger, the company is looking for people who: have a college degree in journalism, public relations, communications, advertising or marketing; can represent the company in newspaper and television interviews and at grocery stores and charity functions; have a big appetite for travel and adventure; and be a people person.
AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh my gosh... oh my gosh... That was great. Hoo boy. Let me calm down a second here.
I believe I qualify in all those areas and as an experienced mustard-spiller — evidenced by the signed and notarized affidavit from my dry cleaners that I carry around affirming such — I think that would give me a leg up on all the other wannabe hotdoggers.
Stop! Stop! I can't breathe! If I see another variation of that "spilling mustard" joke I'm going to rupture a lung!
Of course, getting clearance from the tower — i.e. The Blonde Accountant and my boss — to take a year off from real life to drive the Wienermobile across the country for a year could be problematic.
I'll say it will! Those "squares" will never understand your wacky sense of humor, Morsch - but don't let them change you! Keep on truckin'!
Check out the "take a year off... for a year." That's not just quality writing - that's Morsch Quality.
Certainly I would never venture out on this journey without my wife riding shotgun in the Wienermobile because I know it would be an experience that she would enjoy and treasure forever.
I suspect that there's a sly, subtle sense of sarcasm at work here.
Something tells me, though, that the mustard-spilling portion of my resume isn’t going to be enough to overcome those two obstacles.
And just when you think you're safe - BOOM, he hits us with ANOTHER mustard-spill joke! Surely, surely that must be it. I mean, to base an entire column on repeating a single joke four times... that would just be too much, wouldn't it?
Still, given the criteria for being a hotdogger and Wienermobile driver, my experience speaks for itself. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can pass muster on this.
Or in this case, pass mustard.
Hmmm, mustard... where have I heard that before?
Published: Tuesday, September 28, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
This is the second known column that will seemingly focus on the subject of hot dogs. It will, I presume, include many weiner-related puns.
New this week on the “Outta Leftfield” blog, “E-mail scams? Must be an election year.” You can also now follow Mike on Facebook and Twitter @Mmorsch35.
Yes, yes, I know all about that. This is a clever new strategy for Morsch, using his print column to cross-advertise his blog.
After months of reflecting and soul-searching, I have finally decided what I want to be when I grow up: the driver of the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile.
Good choice, since you're obviously not qualified for your current position.
Where else could I get a job that includes the spilling of mustard on one’s shirt as part of the job description? Why, as proficient as I am at that, I’d be a shoo-in for the title of “Commodore of the Wienermobile” in no time. There must be a cool hat and blazer that comes with that title.
When making a list of things that never grow old, you'd have to include comedienne Betty White, anyone who carries the One Ring, and the highly amusing "I spill mustard on myself" gag!
When I mentioned to my Facebook friends that I’d like to take a one-year hiatus from my real job to drive the Wienermobile around, they were quite supportive:
Lisa: “It would be a perfect job for you!”
Agreed.
Ann: “Start the legal paperwork to change your name to Frank.”
Why not Oscar? Why not Frank N. Furter? Come on, Ann!
Dan: “Why only a year? This may be your calling.”
Lynne: “Perfect for the man with the cocktail weenie recipe.”
I hope Lynne's isn't a double entendre. I really hope it isn't.
Larry: “I’ll bring the kraut and cheese in an 18-wheeler and drive behind you.”
... Okay.
Turns out that driving the Wienermobile isn’t so far-fetched after all. The folks at Oscar Mayer — in addition to having one of the most recognizable jingles in the history of advertising — have for years recognized the attraction of the Wienermobile. It’s been around since 1936, designed initially to promote the company’s products at supermarkets in the Midwest.
Shockingly, this information was NOT taken word-for-word from Wikipedia.
According to its website, as the company grew, the Wienermobile traveled coast to coast until 1970. I don’t ever recall seeing it in person, but I must have at one time because I remember having one of those little wiener whistles as a kid. I think the only way back then to get the whistle was to have visited the Wienermobile when it came to your town.
Ah, there we go - it was taken word-for-word from the Wienermobile website. I think I speak for all of us when I demand, "Where are the penis jokes?" Come on!
On its 50th anniversary in 1986, the Wienermobile went on tour again and has been on the road ever since. I would think that in addition to the 18-wheeler filled with sauerkraut and Cheese Whiz as suggested by my friend Larry, the Wienermobile caravan must include a pace car as well, something like a Volkswagen Beetle called the “Cocktail Weeniemobile.” Just a thought, in case the Oscar Mayer people haven’t already considered the idea.
Morsch once devoted an entire column to the fact that he loves cocktail weenies (a.k.a. pigs in a blanket). It was as annoying as it sounds, and almost as dumb as this one.
(Editor’s note: Turns out there already is something called a “Mini Wienermobile,” 15 feet long and built on a mini Cooper S chassis that has a horn that plays the Oscar Mayer jingle. Drat. I really wanted to be the first one to come up with the “Cocktail Weeniemobile” idea.)
Well, you were. I mean, "Mini" isn't the same thing as "cocktail." You actually had a semi-original idea there - don't beat yourself up too much.
The Wienermobile itself — which the company says measures 55 hotdogs long, 25 hotdogs high and 18 hotdogs wide — has a custom-made fiberglass hotdog and bun resting on a Chevrolet W4 Series chassis.
You know what the ancient Greeks defined "comedy" as? "The endless repetition of purportedly zany facts and details." I'm paraphrasing, but I think that was it.
Inside it has a hotdog shaped instrument panel; seating for six in mustard and ketchup-colored seats; exterior rearview cameras; a gull-wing door; mustard-splattered walkway; removable bun roof; state-of-the-art audio center with wireless microphone system; and blue sky ceiling art.
Did I miss the joke? I think I missed the joke. Let me read that paragraph again... no, no I don't think I missed it.
And one can apply to be what the company calls a “hotdogger,” which is someone who travels the country in the Wienermobile serving as a goodwill ambassador for Oscar Mayer.
My fingers are tingling - he must be building up to a tremendous burst of humor here somewhere.
To be a hotdogger, the company is looking for people who: have a college degree in journalism, public relations, communications, advertising or marketing; can represent the company in newspaper and television interviews and at grocery stores and charity functions; have a big appetite for travel and adventure; and be a people person.
AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh my gosh... oh my gosh... That was great. Hoo boy. Let me calm down a second here.
I believe I qualify in all those areas and as an experienced mustard-spiller — evidenced by the signed and notarized affidavit from my dry cleaners that I carry around affirming such — I think that would give me a leg up on all the other wannabe hotdoggers.
Stop! Stop! I can't breathe! If I see another variation of that "spilling mustard" joke I'm going to rupture a lung!
Of course, getting clearance from the tower — i.e. The Blonde Accountant and my boss — to take a year off from real life to drive the Wienermobile across the country for a year could be problematic.
I'll say it will! Those "squares" will never understand your wacky sense of humor, Morsch - but don't let them change you! Keep on truckin'!
Check out the "take a year off... for a year." That's not just quality writing - that's Morsch Quality.
Certainly I would never venture out on this journey without my wife riding shotgun in the Wienermobile because I know it would be an experience that she would enjoy and treasure forever.
I suspect that there's a sly, subtle sense of sarcasm at work here.
Something tells me, though, that the mustard-spilling portion of my resume isn’t going to be enough to overcome those two obstacles.
And just when you think you're safe - BOOM, he hits us with ANOTHER mustard-spill joke! Surely, surely that must be it. I mean, to base an entire column on repeating a single joke four times... that would just be too much, wouldn't it?
Still, given the criteria for being a hotdogger and Wienermobile driver, my experience speaks for itself. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can pass muster on this.
Or in this case, pass mustard.
Hmmm, mustard... where have I heard that before?
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
A Rare Two-fer
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Meat and music in Perkasie
There's nothing that brightens up a Tuesday morning like a fresh Outta Leftfield blog post, especially when it has a title like this one. "Meat and Music in Perkasie" harkens back to the classic "A Night Out in Ambler" post - meaning the exciting tale of Morsch going somewhere (and doing something) totally mundane.
Got a chance to go to Perkasie Olde Towne’s “Hot Ribs, Cool Music” event Saturday. Unfortunately, we got there too late to sample the ribs or the pies. Frankly, given my fondness for both ribs and pie, that’s bad weekend planning on our part and an adjustment will have to be made to rectify that before next year’s event.
An adjustment... like getting there earlier?
The festival is built around two favorite pastimes: music and food.
You just said that.
It features ribs-grilling and pie-baking competitions,
You basically just said that, too.
a pie-eating contest and several music performers, including Zydeco-A-Go-Go, Dirk Quinn, Mike Greer & Co. and the Pennridge High School and South Middle School Jazz bands.
Wow, middle school jazz bands! Truly the peak of musical excellence. After stating the name of the event as "Hot Ribs, Cool Music," Morsch has now told us three times that the event features ribs and music.
Despite the steaminess of the day, there was a bit of a cool breeze blowing through the big tent as we enjoyed the music of Zydeco-A-Go-Go.
What does this even mean? "Despite the fact that it was hot, it was pretty cool."
I like any band that features a squeezebox and a guy who plays a metal washboard strapped to his chest with spoons, and Zydeco-A-Go-Go has both.
Was there a guy playing the gutbucket? Or a guy blowing on a jug of moonshine whiskey?
If there was a consolation to missing the ribs and pies, it’s that I didn’t spill any ribs or pie on my shirt. Next year, I’ll plan better and take another shirt along.
Hey, you know what never gets old? That hilarious "I spill things on myself" bit!
Labels: " Outta Leftfield, Mike Morsch, Montomgery Newspapers, Perkasie Olde Towne
So we label "Perkasie Olde Towne"... but not any of the bands and not "Hot Ribs, Cool Music."
Topps promotion is top-notch
And just for good measure - probably since the first post was like 50 words long - we get a second entry! Does everybody remember Morsch's absolutely loathesome "memories of baseball cards" article? Check the March Inta Rightfield archives, under "Morsch Tells Vague Story(ies)".
The Topps Company, longtime maker of baseball cards, has decided to feature one of my past columns in its “Topps Million Card Giveaway” promotion. I am both humbled and honored.
Don't be too honored - this only means that someone at Topps is a total dumbass. And don't be humbled - you're not nearly talented enough.
The column was from earlier this year and centered on a father-son-baseball-baseball cards theme.
Did it? As I remember it was unfocused, rambling, and contained two separate stories without any clarification on which one was the "special memory" the column was supposed to be about. And how sloppy does "father-son-baseball-baseball cards" look? This man writes for a living. Does that seem right to you?
The piece included some very personal and wonderful memories about my father and the collecting of baseball cards when I was a kid.
It also included some meaningless story about the local baseball team and where they went for drinks after a game.
Topps figured out a way to bring baseball-card collecting into the digital world with this promotion. It has reinvigorated my interest in baseball cards — something I never really lost through the years anyway
I call a foul on this. How can it "reinvigorate" something you "never lost"? He is also very mysterious about the nature of the promotion... for once, a little more detail would actually help.
— and I now get to share the hobby with my stepson. It’s heartening to watch the joy he gets from collecting and trading his cards.
I "collected" baseball cards for like a year, before I realized they were just little squares of cheap cardboard that you couldn't play with.
You can read the column here: http://bit.ly/aaazFf
Don't read it. Trust me.
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield, Topps Company
Meat and music in Perkasie
There's nothing that brightens up a Tuesday morning like a fresh Outta Leftfield blog post, especially when it has a title like this one. "Meat and Music in Perkasie" harkens back to the classic "A Night Out in Ambler" post - meaning the exciting tale of Morsch going somewhere (and doing something) totally mundane.
Got a chance to go to Perkasie Olde Towne’s “Hot Ribs, Cool Music” event Saturday. Unfortunately, we got there too late to sample the ribs or the pies. Frankly, given my fondness for both ribs and pie, that’s bad weekend planning on our part and an adjustment will have to be made to rectify that before next year’s event.
An adjustment... like getting there earlier?
The festival is built around two favorite pastimes: music and food.
You just said that.
It features ribs-grilling and pie-baking competitions,
You basically just said that, too.
a pie-eating contest and several music performers, including Zydeco-A-Go-Go, Dirk Quinn, Mike Greer & Co. and the Pennridge High School and South Middle School Jazz bands.
Wow, middle school jazz bands! Truly the peak of musical excellence. After stating the name of the event as "Hot Ribs, Cool Music," Morsch has now told us three times that the event features ribs and music.
Despite the steaminess of the day, there was a bit of a cool breeze blowing through the big tent as we enjoyed the music of Zydeco-A-Go-Go.
What does this even mean? "Despite the fact that it was hot, it was pretty cool."
I like any band that features a squeezebox and a guy who plays a metal washboard strapped to his chest with spoons, and Zydeco-A-Go-Go has both.
Was there a guy playing the gutbucket? Or a guy blowing on a jug of moonshine whiskey?
If there was a consolation to missing the ribs and pies, it’s that I didn’t spill any ribs or pie on my shirt. Next year, I’ll plan better and take another shirt along.
Hey, you know what never gets old? That hilarious "I spill things on myself" bit!
Labels: " Outta Leftfield, Mike Morsch, Montomgery Newspapers, Perkasie Olde Towne
So we label "Perkasie Olde Towne"... but not any of the bands and not "Hot Ribs, Cool Music."
Topps promotion is top-notch
And just for good measure - probably since the first post was like 50 words long - we get a second entry! Does everybody remember Morsch's absolutely loathesome "memories of baseball cards" article? Check the March Inta Rightfield archives, under "Morsch Tells Vague Story(ies)".
The Topps Company, longtime maker of baseball cards, has decided to feature one of my past columns in its “Topps Million Card Giveaway” promotion. I am both humbled and honored.
Don't be too honored - this only means that someone at Topps is a total dumbass. And don't be humbled - you're not nearly talented enough.
The column was from earlier this year and centered on a father-son-baseball-baseball cards theme.
Did it? As I remember it was unfocused, rambling, and contained two separate stories without any clarification on which one was the "special memory" the column was supposed to be about. And how sloppy does "father-son-baseball-baseball cards" look? This man writes for a living. Does that seem right to you?
The piece included some very personal and wonderful memories about my father and the collecting of baseball cards when I was a kid.
It also included some meaningless story about the local baseball team and where they went for drinks after a game.
Topps figured out a way to bring baseball-card collecting into the digital world with this promotion. It has reinvigorated my interest in baseball cards — something I never really lost through the years anyway
I call a foul on this. How can it "reinvigorate" something you "never lost"? He is also very mysterious about the nature of the promotion... for once, a little more detail would actually help.
— and I now get to share the hobby with my stepson. It’s heartening to watch the joy he gets from collecting and trading his cards.
I "collected" baseball cards for like a year, before I realized they were just little squares of cheap cardboard that you couldn't play with.
You can read the column here: http://bit.ly/aaazFf
Don't read it. Trust me.
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield, Topps Company
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Morsch Goes for the Record
Outta Leftfield: Left holding the bag … for a good cause
Published: Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Uh-oh... will this column be continuing the recent trend of "I went to a show, it was really fun"-type entries? [Editor's note: No... it's something far, far worse...]
Just once, I wish I was as lucky at the lottery as I am with purses.
Brandywine Assisted Living at Dresher Estates had its annual purse party last week, and my friend Marge Jacoby — the director of community relations for the facility —invited me to attend.
Now given the fact that I am more of a ballpark guy than I am a purse party guy, one would think that this would have been my first purse party invitation. That would be wrong.
I call a foul on this! Unless the event he is attending is a baseball game or a concert, he will inevitably compare said event (i.e. a flower show, a spelling bee, etc) to a baseball game. At this point, I don't think regular readers (i.e. me) need to be reminded that MM likes baseball.
I was invited to the soiree two years ago — a great sense of humor, that Marge — and ended up going by myself and actually winning a Coach purse, which was confiscated immediately by The Blonde Accountant upon my arrival home. That was OK by me because that particular purse didn’t go with any of my shoes, so I really had no use for it anyway.
Credit where credit is due - I actually thought the "didn't match my shoes" part was kinda funny.
In addition, that first purse party featured a three-legged dog named Lucky — a pet of one of the facility’s residents — who hung around the party being, well … three-legged. A three-legged dog doesn’t have to do much more than just hang around to get attention.
Thank goodness! We're back to familiar territory - mocking disabled animals.
So the mere fact that I attended a purse party with a three-legged dog and actually ended up winning a purse is nothing short of comedy gold. I couldn’t make that up, even with substantial help from beer. In hindsight, maybe I should have let the dog pick my lottery numbers.
Actually it's more like comedy pyrite. And hey, we've got another beer reference! Beer: the drink of classy gentlemen everywhere.
It is under that backdrop that I attended the most recent purse party, designed as a fundraiser this year for the Community Ambulance Association, Ambler.
Unlike the first time, though, I was bringing along some heavy hitters in the area of handbags — The Blonde Accountant and Daughter of Blonde Accountant. Neither of them would have the foggiest notion of how to properly spill mustard on themselves at the ballpark. But purses they know. (And shoes, but that goes without saying, I think.)
Hey-oh! Morsch is really kicking it up a notch here. The mustard comment (complete with yet another "ballpark" reference) is a call-back to last week's column about the Phillies hot dogs, and the shoes thing is, I suspect, a reference to the column that was sort of about shoes from a few weeks ago.
Attending a purse party with those who have expertise in that area relegated me back to a familiar role, that of somewhat disconnected and slightly befuddled onlooker. After all, I have been on many shopping excursions and I am a charter member of the Society of Clueless Husbands Looking at Expensive Purses (SCHLEP), so at the very least, I know my role in these types of situations — and that is to be quiet, find a place to sit down and take a nap. Wake me when a ballgame breaks out, will ya?
First off, the word "schlep" should be relegated to the pages of Mad Magazine, along with all the other vaguely Yiddish words like "schmuck" that haven't been used outside of Queens since the summer of '69. And my goodness - a THIRD baseball reference, and a possible call-back to his spelling bee column!
Actually, the purse party was indeed right in the wheelhouse of The Blonde Accountant and Daughter of Blonde Accountant, as I suspected it would be. They both enjoyed perusing the various handbags being raffled and dropping their tickets into the drawings for their favorites. Add a bit of tea and crumpets-type snacks to the festivities and it really was more of purse party than it was a ballgame — to the surprise of nobody but me, apparently.
Can't... go on... fourth baseball reference... too... much...
In the absence of the three-legged dog — his owner had moved to another facility — the Dresher Estates staff did not disappoint when it came to providing me with an adequate distraction.
What, no crippled old people to ridicule?
Tracey Murphy, director of arts and entertainment at Dresher Estates, worked the room greeting people while carrying a couple of guinea pigs in her pocket, to the surprise and enjoyment of many attending. Although I was unable to get a close enough look at the guinea pigs to see if any of them was three-legged, I do believe that cute little critters generally have a high ceiling when it comes to entertainment value. That is, of course, unless they happened to have an accident in their handler’s pocket. Naturally, that would have been highly entertaining to me but I’m not so sure Tracey would have found it that funny.
I guess it would be pretty hard to relate guinea pigs to a baseball game, so I'll give him a pass on this paragraph.
The event raised approximately $600 for Ambler Ambulance, which Dresher Estates will present to the group at a later date. Drew Lavenberg, chief of operations for Ambler Ambulance, was on hand — looking quite a bit more strapping and dashing in his uniform than I did in my rumpled editor’s getup — for the festivities and expressed his appreciation for the fundraising efforts.
$600, huh? That ought to buy that half a tire they've been hoping for. MM frequently describes himself as "rumpled," perhaps attempting to gain a Columbo-esque charm. He fails.
And wouldn’t you know it, Daughter of Blonde Accountant had one of her tickets pulled and won a Marc Ecko handbag. For the record, I do not know this Marc Ecko as he does not appear to be on the Phillies Opening Day roster.
Alright, that's enough. Seriously. This has gone from "running gag" to "annoying crutch." And this is not the first time that Morsch has made the connection between an unusual name and the Philles roster.
To say that Daughter of Blonde Accountant is quite pleased with the handbag would be like saying that I would be quite pleased to catch a Ryan Howard home run ball. Happy dance, happy dance, happy dance!
Is this even possible???
Alas, I never win anything that I want, like tickets to the ballgame. But we got purses coming out our ears at our house and apparently we can win more of those. As far as winning the lottery … pfffftttt!
Yes... yes, it is possible. Is that seven? Seven baseball references?
Looks like I’m destined to be left holding the handbag on that one.
And the usual incomprehensible last sentence that "ties it all together." But really, he was so close to eight - couldn't he have did a little Shane Victorino "stolen bag" reference or something?
Published: Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Uh-oh... will this column be continuing the recent trend of "I went to a show, it was really fun"-type entries? [Editor's note: No... it's something far, far worse...]
Just once, I wish I was as lucky at the lottery as I am with purses.
Brandywine Assisted Living at Dresher Estates had its annual purse party last week, and my friend Marge Jacoby — the director of community relations for the facility —invited me to attend.
Now given the fact that I am more of a ballpark guy than I am a purse party guy, one would think that this would have been my first purse party invitation. That would be wrong.
I call a foul on this! Unless the event he is attending is a baseball game or a concert, he will inevitably compare said event (i.e. a flower show, a spelling bee, etc) to a baseball game. At this point, I don't think regular readers (i.e. me) need to be reminded that MM likes baseball.
I was invited to the soiree two years ago — a great sense of humor, that Marge — and ended up going by myself and actually winning a Coach purse, which was confiscated immediately by The Blonde Accountant upon my arrival home. That was OK by me because that particular purse didn’t go with any of my shoes, so I really had no use for it anyway.
Credit where credit is due - I actually thought the "didn't match my shoes" part was kinda funny.
In addition, that first purse party featured a three-legged dog named Lucky — a pet of one of the facility’s residents — who hung around the party being, well … three-legged. A three-legged dog doesn’t have to do much more than just hang around to get attention.
Thank goodness! We're back to familiar territory - mocking disabled animals.
So the mere fact that I attended a purse party with a three-legged dog and actually ended up winning a purse is nothing short of comedy gold. I couldn’t make that up, even with substantial help from beer. In hindsight, maybe I should have let the dog pick my lottery numbers.
Actually it's more like comedy pyrite. And hey, we've got another beer reference! Beer: the drink of classy gentlemen everywhere.
It is under that backdrop that I attended the most recent purse party, designed as a fundraiser this year for the Community Ambulance Association, Ambler.
Unlike the first time, though, I was bringing along some heavy hitters in the area of handbags — The Blonde Accountant and Daughter of Blonde Accountant. Neither of them would have the foggiest notion of how to properly spill mustard on themselves at the ballpark. But purses they know. (And shoes, but that goes without saying, I think.)
Hey-oh! Morsch is really kicking it up a notch here. The mustard comment (complete with yet another "ballpark" reference) is a call-back to last week's column about the Phillies hot dogs, and the shoes thing is, I suspect, a reference to the column that was sort of about shoes from a few weeks ago.
Attending a purse party with those who have expertise in that area relegated me back to a familiar role, that of somewhat disconnected and slightly befuddled onlooker. After all, I have been on many shopping excursions and I am a charter member of the Society of Clueless Husbands Looking at Expensive Purses (SCHLEP), so at the very least, I know my role in these types of situations — and that is to be quiet, find a place to sit down and take a nap. Wake me when a ballgame breaks out, will ya?
First off, the word "schlep" should be relegated to the pages of Mad Magazine, along with all the other vaguely Yiddish words like "schmuck" that haven't been used outside of Queens since the summer of '69. And my goodness - a THIRD baseball reference, and a possible call-back to his spelling bee column!
Actually, the purse party was indeed right in the wheelhouse of The Blonde Accountant and Daughter of Blonde Accountant, as I suspected it would be. They both enjoyed perusing the various handbags being raffled and dropping their tickets into the drawings for their favorites. Add a bit of tea and crumpets-type snacks to the festivities and it really was more of purse party than it was a ballgame — to the surprise of nobody but me, apparently.
Can't... go on... fourth baseball reference... too... much...
In the absence of the three-legged dog — his owner had moved to another facility — the Dresher Estates staff did not disappoint when it came to providing me with an adequate distraction.
What, no crippled old people to ridicule?
Tracey Murphy, director of arts and entertainment at Dresher Estates, worked the room greeting people while carrying a couple of guinea pigs in her pocket, to the surprise and enjoyment of many attending. Although I was unable to get a close enough look at the guinea pigs to see if any of them was three-legged, I do believe that cute little critters generally have a high ceiling when it comes to entertainment value. That is, of course, unless they happened to have an accident in their handler’s pocket. Naturally, that would have been highly entertaining to me but I’m not so sure Tracey would have found it that funny.
I guess it would be pretty hard to relate guinea pigs to a baseball game, so I'll give him a pass on this paragraph.
The event raised approximately $600 for Ambler Ambulance, which Dresher Estates will present to the group at a later date. Drew Lavenberg, chief of operations for Ambler Ambulance, was on hand — looking quite a bit more strapping and dashing in his uniform than I did in my rumpled editor’s getup — for the festivities and expressed his appreciation for the fundraising efforts.
$600, huh? That ought to buy that half a tire they've been hoping for. MM frequently describes himself as "rumpled," perhaps attempting to gain a Columbo-esque charm. He fails.
And wouldn’t you know it, Daughter of Blonde Accountant had one of her tickets pulled and won a Marc Ecko handbag. For the record, I do not know this Marc Ecko as he does not appear to be on the Phillies Opening Day roster.
Alright, that's enough. Seriously. This has gone from "running gag" to "annoying crutch." And this is not the first time that Morsch has made the connection between an unusual name and the Philles roster.
To say that Daughter of Blonde Accountant is quite pleased with the handbag would be like saying that I would be quite pleased to catch a Ryan Howard home run ball. Happy dance, happy dance, happy dance!
Is this even possible???
Alas, I never win anything that I want, like tickets to the ballgame. But we got purses coming out our ears at our house and apparently we can win more of those. As far as winning the lottery … pfffftttt!
Yes... yes, it is possible. Is that seven? Seven baseball references?
Looks like I’m destined to be left holding the handbag on that one.
And the usual incomprehensible last sentence that "ties it all together." But really, he was so close to eight - couldn't he have did a little Shane Victorino "stolen bag" reference or something?
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Running Out of Material?
Outta Leftfield: Hot-diggity-dog! Phillies expand the feedbag for upcoming season
In this 3/31 print column, Morsch seems to be covering old ground. Can we really stomach two hotdog articles in the span of two days? Actually, that might be a better pun than the "hot-diggity-dog" that MM settled on.
There really isn't much to cover here. MM attended a media event at Citizen's Bank Park to help them select their new "signature" hotdog for Phillies games. A few highlights:
All the big club has to do is offer a free meal — in the name of good journalism of course — and there’s not a reporter in Southeastern Pennsylvania who wouldn’t show up for the feedbag.
Me included.
Wow, so after stating that there isn't a reporter in the whole region (of which he is one) who wouldn't go, Morsch feels the need to add: "Me included." As usual, that goes without saying.
Now as a big fan of ballpark fare — I am especially partial to much of what is served at Bull’s Barbecue; the Schmitter; the cheesesteaks at Tony Luke’s; and despite the sometimes long lines, I enjoy the Chickie’s and Pete’s crab fries — I am particularly fond of hotdogs in general.
He just named "much of" the food at every eatery in Citizen's Bank Park.
You may recall from past columns that back in our younger days in Illinois, Larry and I would go to the ballpark in St. Louis and buy three seats — one for him, one for me and one between the two of us to put all the hotdogs we were going to eat during the ballgame. So he knows good hotdog player evaluation practices when he sees them.
WHAT? "Good hotdog player evaluation practices"? At this point I'm completely lost. And I don't recall him every mentioning Larry from Illinois before.
MM then describes the hotdog choices in terrible, terrible detail, and notes:
Notice how the descriptions all included the words “all-beef Hatfield hotdogs” in them. The public relations professionals at food vendor Aramark did their job on that press release, huh?
If by "did their job" you mean accurately describing what the hotdogs are made of, then you are correct, Mr. Morsch. You might try "doing your job" sometime by including some actual humor in your column.
In addition, I had difficulty keeping the dog on the pretzel roll. I like my pretzels just the way they are, thank you, so I can tear off bits and dunk them in mustard or cheese, like a guy who’s looking for a real heart attack.
Clumsy, fat, dripping mustard and cheese all over himself… the Blonde Accountant has my sympathy.
And finally, I took the opportunity to spill something from each hotdog on my shirt — which from experience I know happens every time a get a hotdog at the ballpark — and I thought the Amish pepper hash spillage coordinated best with my ballpark attire.
I didn't even read this before I wrote "dripping mustard and cheese all over himself." The "every time a get a hotdog" is [sic], of course.
In this 3/31 print column, Morsch seems to be covering old ground. Can we really stomach two hotdog articles in the span of two days? Actually, that might be a better pun than the "hot-diggity-dog" that MM settled on.
There really isn't much to cover here. MM attended a media event at Citizen's Bank Park to help them select their new "signature" hotdog for Phillies games. A few highlights:
All the big club has to do is offer a free meal — in the name of good journalism of course — and there’s not a reporter in Southeastern Pennsylvania who wouldn’t show up for the feedbag.
Me included.
Wow, so after stating that there isn't a reporter in the whole region (of which he is one) who wouldn't go, Morsch feels the need to add: "Me included." As usual, that goes without saying.
Now as a big fan of ballpark fare — I am especially partial to much of what is served at Bull’s Barbecue; the Schmitter; the cheesesteaks at Tony Luke’s; and despite the sometimes long lines, I enjoy the Chickie’s and Pete’s crab fries — I am particularly fond of hotdogs in general.
He just named "much of" the food at every eatery in Citizen's Bank Park.
You may recall from past columns that back in our younger days in Illinois, Larry and I would go to the ballpark in St. Louis and buy three seats — one for him, one for me and one between the two of us to put all the hotdogs we were going to eat during the ballgame. So he knows good hotdog player evaluation practices when he sees them.
WHAT? "Good hotdog player evaluation practices"? At this point I'm completely lost. And I don't recall him every mentioning Larry from Illinois before.
MM then describes the hotdog choices in terrible, terrible detail, and notes:
Notice how the descriptions all included the words “all-beef Hatfield hotdogs” in them. The public relations professionals at food vendor Aramark did their job on that press release, huh?
If by "did their job" you mean accurately describing what the hotdogs are made of, then you are correct, Mr. Morsch. You might try "doing your job" sometime by including some actual humor in your column.
In addition, I had difficulty keeping the dog on the pretzel roll. I like my pretzels just the way they are, thank you, so I can tear off bits and dunk them in mustard or cheese, like a guy who’s looking for a real heart attack.
Clumsy, fat, dripping mustard and cheese all over himself… the Blonde Accountant has my sympathy.
And finally, I took the opportunity to spill something from each hotdog on my shirt — which from experience I know happens every time a get a hotdog at the ballpark — and I thought the Amish pepper hash spillage coordinated best with my ballpark attire.
I didn't even read this before I wrote "dripping mustard and cheese all over himself." The "every time a get a hotdog" is [sic], of course.
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