Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Snooze and snore siesta silliness
I can't guess what this one might be about, but anything that Morsch considers "silly" is bound to be great fodder for me.
Now here’s an event I’m sorry I missed: Last week Spain started it’s first-ever siesta competition, which will end on Oct. 23, where the winner will be chosen on how long he or she can sleep and snore.
My guess is that the topic of this article will be how qualified Morsch thinks he is for this competition. See also: his columns on National Cheese-ball Day, etc etc.
Napping and snoring. I would not be opposed to the International Olympic Committee (IOC) considering both as new events for the 2012 games in London.
Is his use of "(IOC)" supposed to be funny? I can't really think of a reason why he put that in there, unless he's trying to sound smart.
In the areas of both sleeping and snoring, I’ve essentially been in training my whole life for that and would have to be considered among the favorites for the gold medal.
Bingo. The "for that" is unnecessary.
According to a wire service story, the goal of the competition was to promote Spain’s post-lunch nap time. Contestants will be put into groups of five over the course of nine days and “timed by a doctor with a pulse-measuring device to determine how long they spent snoozing.”
Ah, the ever-popular "wire service story." Has anyone else noticed that Morsch's articles are surprisingly short on humorous commentary and surprisingly high on boring summaries of other articles?
Contestants could score extra points for snoring as well as wearing goofy nightwear or sleeping in an odd position.
The competition was organized by the newly formed National Association of Friends of the Siesta, which had what was described in the wire service story as “a machine to measure the decibels (of snoring) emitted.”
Should I laugh at this? Does this count as "humor"?
Two observations:
Get ready, folks, here it comes!
First off, there is a machine designed specifically to measure snoring decibels? Cool.
Okay, not funny, but at least he's not repeating someone else's comments.
And secondly, the National Association of Friends of the Siesta is a cool name for a group. Or a band. Nobody was sleeping on the job when it came to creatively naming the organization.
It's a terrible name for both a group and a band. If they were really thinking, they would call it something that spelled "NAPS." They're only one letter away. The "sleeping on the job" joke is almost painfully pathetic.
The top prize for the winner will be about $1,400, but no gold medal at this point.
If they have the competition again next year, I may consider actually going over to Spain to compete.
But I’ll have to sleep on that idea.
I like how he breaks up those last few phrases, like he's building up, step-by-step, to the glorious final pun. Forget humor - only about a third of this post were original observations by the author. A job well done.
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Man vs. Wo-man
Outta Leftfield: An unsystematic approach to closet organization
Published: Tuesday, October 12, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I have an odd feeling that this will be an entry akin to his "I can't do laundry" column, dwelling on the fact that men and women are different, men being dumb and women being smart and mysterious.
I was awakened recently one morning with the sounds of a good bit of harrumphing coming from The Blonde Accountant’s closet.
You aren't awakened "with," you're awakened "by."
Early morning harrumphing is usually not a good sign.
“What’s wrong in there?” I asked, only half awake at that point.
Ah, a classic fictional conversation between this mis-matched pair. The conversation will flow thusly: wife will resond, Morsch won't understand, wife will explain, Morsch still won't understand, wife will become exasperated.
“I can’t find my navy blue shoes. I need a new system,” she said.
“A new system? For what?”
“To keep track of what’s in this closet,” she said.
Oh. Well that certainly is a reason to break out the early morning harrumphs.
I don't mean to toot my own horn here, but I was pretty spot-on.
As I pondered whether I wanted to get up and get ready for work or try to sneak in an extra 10 minutes of sack time, it occurred to me that I do not have a system. For anything. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever spent any time thinking about the need for having a system.
Oh, boy, us dopey men. Actually he does have a system for writing his columns: write, then publish, a crappy column.
I have no system for my shoes, I have no system for my clothes, I have no system for any of my stuff. (Although in this instance, I can see the benefit of developing some sort of system for staying in bed in the morning for an extra 10 minutes rather than using that time thinking about the need for developing a system.)
We're belaboring the point a little, but okay.
Oh, I can manage to hang up my shirts and pants in the closet — shirts on the left, pants on the right — but I do that to limit the harrumphing in our house to just one closet.
In more capable hands, I could see this topic being funny. But we've been over this before. How many times can he sit down and write a column about things his wife understands but he does not?
As for shoes, The Blonde Accountant has 6,497 pairs of shoes in the warehouse she calls a closet. (And she of course has nearly that many handbags to match all of those shoes.) I understand the need for her to have a system to keep track of all that footwear and accessories.
Wow, a number that high just HAS to be hilarious!
But I’m a guy, I have substantially fewer pairs of shoes, which is why there is no urgency to develop a system to keep track of them. In fact, I have only five pairs of shoes. Normally I can count to five, so there’s my system right there.
Men are SO stupid it's doubtful that they can even count! America, what a country!
I wondered how others handled this issue, so I threw open the question to my Facebook friends, a motley crew of rascals, rogues and roguettes, but usually good sources of varied perspectives.
Strange how this "crew" always seems to be comprised of the same three or four people. Morsch thinks it's amusing to stick "ettes" onto words (knuckleheadettes, rouguettes, etc). Is it? YOU be the judge.
Ann chimed in and suggested that maybe The Blonde Accountant ought to take pictures of each pair of shoes and attach them to the outside of the boxes.
Take pictures of the shoes and put them on the outside of the box? That would be impossible for me to do because I don’t keep my shoes in the boxes.
Shoes out of the boxes! Not being able to count! Spilling mustard!
Nevertheless, it’s a good suggestion in theory, but by conservative estimates, it could take four years to photograph 6,497 pairs of shoes. I think I will take Ann’s other bit of advice — and I’m paraphrasing here — never get between a women and her efforts to photograph her shoes.
Returning to the "high numbers are funny" thing, I see.
Frank, on the other hand, presents a perspective of both his wife’s closet and his own that makes more sense to me. He describes his wife’s closet as having, “Everything in its place, and there seems to be equal space between every hanger, apparently to allow every fiber to breath.”
This is just a guess on my part, but I suspect all the clothing items in my closet are holding their breath because they have to share space with my shoes.
His feet smell! He gets things stuck between his teeth! He slips on banana peels!
Frank goes on to admit something that sounds more familiar — that he has to step over two piles of laundry on the floor to reach the shelves that hold his extensive T-shirt collection, neatly shoved, but barely folded, into the space it occupies.
I think we get it. Men are slobs compared to women. This is barely even an idea. Remind me again how this man is qualified for his position?
And really, if you’re a guy and your closet doesn’t resemble the aforementioned description, then you’ve got a wife who has been harrumphing around in your closet.
All marriages are comprised of a stern, neat woman and a bumbling, sloppy man. Just ask any TV show.
Truth be told, those of us who actually get our articles of clothing into a closet already have a system that works, it’s just that it’s not likely to be the system employed by those who have lots of shoes and handbags.
Naturally, The Blonde Accountant will read this and I’ll spend all of next weekend cleaning out my closet and taking pictures of my shoes to put on the outside of the shoeboxes that I’ve already tossed.
Women buy shoes! Husbands are hen-pecked! The ideas here are about as fresh as last month's produce.
It’s what I believe is called system maintenance.
This makes no sense.
Published: Tuesday, October 12, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I have an odd feeling that this will be an entry akin to his "I can't do laundry" column, dwelling on the fact that men and women are different, men being dumb and women being smart and mysterious.
I was awakened recently one morning with the sounds of a good bit of harrumphing coming from The Blonde Accountant’s closet.
You aren't awakened "with," you're awakened "by."
Early morning harrumphing is usually not a good sign.
“What’s wrong in there?” I asked, only half awake at that point.
Ah, a classic fictional conversation between this mis-matched pair. The conversation will flow thusly: wife will resond, Morsch won't understand, wife will explain, Morsch still won't understand, wife will become exasperated.
“I can’t find my navy blue shoes. I need a new system,” she said.
“A new system? For what?”
“To keep track of what’s in this closet,” she said.
Oh. Well that certainly is a reason to break out the early morning harrumphs.
I don't mean to toot my own horn here, but I was pretty spot-on.
As I pondered whether I wanted to get up and get ready for work or try to sneak in an extra 10 minutes of sack time, it occurred to me that I do not have a system. For anything. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever spent any time thinking about the need for having a system.
Oh, boy, us dopey men. Actually he does have a system for writing his columns: write, then publish, a crappy column.
I have no system for my shoes, I have no system for my clothes, I have no system for any of my stuff. (Although in this instance, I can see the benefit of developing some sort of system for staying in bed in the morning for an extra 10 minutes rather than using that time thinking about the need for developing a system.)
We're belaboring the point a little, but okay.
Oh, I can manage to hang up my shirts and pants in the closet — shirts on the left, pants on the right — but I do that to limit the harrumphing in our house to just one closet.
In more capable hands, I could see this topic being funny. But we've been over this before. How many times can he sit down and write a column about things his wife understands but he does not?
As for shoes, The Blonde Accountant has 6,497 pairs of shoes in the warehouse she calls a closet. (And she of course has nearly that many handbags to match all of those shoes.) I understand the need for her to have a system to keep track of all that footwear and accessories.
Wow, a number that high just HAS to be hilarious!
But I’m a guy, I have substantially fewer pairs of shoes, which is why there is no urgency to develop a system to keep track of them. In fact, I have only five pairs of shoes. Normally I can count to five, so there’s my system right there.
Men are SO stupid it's doubtful that they can even count! America, what a country!
I wondered how others handled this issue, so I threw open the question to my Facebook friends, a motley crew of rascals, rogues and roguettes, but usually good sources of varied perspectives.
Strange how this "crew" always seems to be comprised of the same three or four people. Morsch thinks it's amusing to stick "ettes" onto words (knuckleheadettes, rouguettes, etc). Is it? YOU be the judge.
Ann chimed in and suggested that maybe The Blonde Accountant ought to take pictures of each pair of shoes and attach them to the outside of the boxes.
Take pictures of the shoes and put them on the outside of the box? That would be impossible for me to do because I don’t keep my shoes in the boxes.
Shoes out of the boxes! Not being able to count! Spilling mustard!
Nevertheless, it’s a good suggestion in theory, but by conservative estimates, it could take four years to photograph 6,497 pairs of shoes. I think I will take Ann’s other bit of advice — and I’m paraphrasing here — never get between a women and her efforts to photograph her shoes.
Returning to the "high numbers are funny" thing, I see.
Frank, on the other hand, presents a perspective of both his wife’s closet and his own that makes more sense to me. He describes his wife’s closet as having, “Everything in its place, and there seems to be equal space between every hanger, apparently to allow every fiber to breath.”
This is just a guess on my part, but I suspect all the clothing items in my closet are holding their breath because they have to share space with my shoes.
His feet smell! He gets things stuck between his teeth! He slips on banana peels!
Frank goes on to admit something that sounds more familiar — that he has to step over two piles of laundry on the floor to reach the shelves that hold his extensive T-shirt collection, neatly shoved, but barely folded, into the space it occupies.
I think we get it. Men are slobs compared to women. This is barely even an idea. Remind me again how this man is qualified for his position?
And really, if you’re a guy and your closet doesn’t resemble the aforementioned description, then you’ve got a wife who has been harrumphing around in your closet.
All marriages are comprised of a stern, neat woman and a bumbling, sloppy man. Just ask any TV show.
Truth be told, those of us who actually get our articles of clothing into a closet already have a system that works, it’s just that it’s not likely to be the system employed by those who have lots of shoes and handbags.
Naturally, The Blonde Accountant will read this and I’ll spend all of next weekend cleaning out my closet and taking pictures of my shoes to put on the outside of the shoeboxes that I’ve already tossed.
Women buy shoes! Husbands are hen-pecked! The ideas here are about as fresh as last month's produce.
It’s what I believe is called system maintenance.
This makes no sense.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The "Hey Kids Get Off My Lawn" Joke Post
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Hurtling toward the 'Age of Grumpiness'
Back in May, Morsch posted a column about the "grump bone," a rather vague term that had something to do with his recent knee surgery. Dare we expect shades of that classic here?
If a new study is any indication, it appears that I don’t have too much longer until I start down the path to “The Age of Grumpiness.”
Ah, talented is the writer who repeats his column title in the first paragraph.
It’s not that I don’t do my share of grumping. I’m already at an age where I do a pretty decent job of being cranky at times, especially when there are no ballgames to watch, which is not the case right now as the Phillies continue to play October baseball.
What else would the Philles play? October badminton?
But according to a wire service story,
Formula for a Morsch column: make joke in first paragraph, than summarize boring news article. Print.
a cable television survey out of London shows that in a study of 2,000 Britons, those over the age of 50 yukked it up far less than younger people. Not only that, the over 50 crowd complained a lot more.
This doesn't seem like a study with a whole lot of scientific merit. If Morsch owns a thesaurus, I hope he opens it one day to find a synonym for "laughter" other than "yukked."
This would be the place to insert the standard Old Guy’s Lament: “Hey you British kids get off my lawn!”
Yeah, because I ALWAYS hear people yell that in real life!
The survey showed that infants laughed up to 300 times a day (little kids will laugh at anything, like putting lipstick on the dog); teenagers laughed only six times a day (you wouldn’t have much time to laugh either if you spent most your time whining about all the homework you had to do);
The Big Morsch Cliche Express rolls on, folks.
and folks over age 60 laughed only 2.5 times a day (because it’s not funny when one pulls a hamstring getting out of a recliner).
This actually happened to him. Guaranteed.
By the way, men were found to be grumpier than women. This should come as no surprise whatsoever because it is the men in general who are in charge of lawn enforcement rules.
I really need to go back and find how often he's used the "get off my lawn" thing. It's a frighteningly high number.
So, when I get to age 52, I’ll be grumpy. And I thought I was just going to be sleepy.
Why did he think that? Why does he reference age 52 instead of age 50 (the one mentioned in the survey)? What was the point of any of this?
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Hurtling toward the 'Age of Grumpiness'
Back in May, Morsch posted a column about the "grump bone," a rather vague term that had something to do with his recent knee surgery. Dare we expect shades of that classic here?
If a new study is any indication, it appears that I don’t have too much longer until I start down the path to “The Age of Grumpiness.”
Ah, talented is the writer who repeats his column title in the first paragraph.
It’s not that I don’t do my share of grumping. I’m already at an age where I do a pretty decent job of being cranky at times, especially when there are no ballgames to watch, which is not the case right now as the Phillies continue to play October baseball.
What else would the Philles play? October badminton?
But according to a wire service story,
Formula for a Morsch column: make joke in first paragraph, than summarize boring news article. Print.
a cable television survey out of London shows that in a study of 2,000 Britons, those over the age of 50 yukked it up far less than younger people. Not only that, the over 50 crowd complained a lot more.
This doesn't seem like a study with a whole lot of scientific merit. If Morsch owns a thesaurus, I hope he opens it one day to find a synonym for "laughter" other than "yukked."
This would be the place to insert the standard Old Guy’s Lament: “Hey you British kids get off my lawn!”
Yeah, because I ALWAYS hear people yell that in real life!
The survey showed that infants laughed up to 300 times a day (little kids will laugh at anything, like putting lipstick on the dog); teenagers laughed only six times a day (you wouldn’t have much time to laugh either if you spent most your time whining about all the homework you had to do);
The Big Morsch Cliche Express rolls on, folks.
and folks over age 60 laughed only 2.5 times a day (because it’s not funny when one pulls a hamstring getting out of a recliner).
This actually happened to him. Guaranteed.
By the way, men were found to be grumpier than women. This should come as no surprise whatsoever because it is the men in general who are in charge of lawn enforcement rules.
I really need to go back and find how often he's used the "get off my lawn" thing. It's a frighteningly high number.
So, when I get to age 52, I’ll be grumpy. And I thought I was just going to be sleepy.
Why did he think that? Why does he reference age 52 instead of age 50 (the one mentioned in the survey)? What was the point of any of this?
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Terrible at Everything
That just wasn't a playoff effort by Roy Oswalt. And despite his W-L record, Bronson Aroyo isn't this good. about 6 hours ago via web
Um... it's Bronson ARROYO. You only had a perfect view of that on his uniform for 5+ innings. And yes, Mr. ARROYO is that good. Over the past three seasons, he has 47 wins for the sinkin' Reds (Cole Hamels, by the way, has 36). He's pitched 200+ innings six years in a row, and he has a 1.15 WHIP this season. Some of Morsch's patented Internet research would really help him in certain situations. Ass.
Even with all that offspeed horsebleep that Aroyo is tossing up there, he shouldn't be able to throw a fastball by Ryan Howard. about 5 hours ago via web
Again, it's ARROYO. Add "horsebleep" to the list of words Morsch absolutely adores using. And in case you haven't watched a single Phillies game in the past 4 years or so, just about every pitcher in baseball can strike out Ryan Howard.
Baseball is the passion of Morsch's life, and he's worse at watching it than he is writing about it. Is there anything this man can't fail at?
Um... it's Bronson ARROYO. You only had a perfect view of that on his uniform for 5+ innings. And yes, Mr. ARROYO is that good. Over the past three seasons, he has 47 wins for the sinkin' Reds (Cole Hamels, by the way, has 36). He's pitched 200+ innings six years in a row, and he has a 1.15 WHIP this season. Some of Morsch's patented Internet research would really help him in certain situations. Ass.
Even with all that offspeed horsebleep that Aroyo is tossing up there, he shouldn't be able to throw a fastball by Ryan Howard. about 5 hours ago via web
Again, it's ARROYO. Add "horsebleep" to the list of words Morsch absolutely adores using. And in case you haven't watched a single Phillies game in the past 4 years or so, just about every pitcher in baseball can strike out Ryan Howard.
Baseball is the passion of Morsch's life, and he's worse at watching it than he is writing about it. Is there anything this man can't fail at?
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Case in Point
The Phils are getting ready to play so the Tood Palin email hoo-ha with the other jamoke is insignificant. Just like Todd's wife.
about 1 hour ago via web
Use of the Morsch standard "jamoke"? Check.
Orienting entire life around a baseball game? Check.
Hatred of Palin? Check.
For someone so "insignificant," I think Morsch has devoted more space in his Twitter account to Palin than any other human being.
about 1 hour ago via web
Use of the Morsch standard "jamoke"? Check.
Orienting entire life around a baseball game? Check.
Hatred of Palin? Check.
For someone so "insignificant," I think Morsch has devoted more space in his Twitter account to Palin than any other human being.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Morsch Uses Two Jokes
Women attracted to men who cut a rug more than those who wear one
Published: Tuesday, October 05, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I'm surprised that he references a toupee, since he himself doesn't wear one. This is going to be one of those self-deprecating columns about how Morsch is a clumsy boob and can't dance, spills things, etc. It's also a bit of a shock that he's doing a full-length column rather than a blog post on a Tuesday.
A new study reveals that women are more attracted to men who have a wide array of dance moves, which only reinforces the notion that I should consider myself lucky that I already have a wife.
Or so we're told. Any confirmation that this quote unquote wife is actually real?
Now if women were attracted to men who stomped on their open-toed shoes when dancing, then I would near the top of the list and women would be lined up around the block for the opportunity to cut a rug with me.
Ah, Morsch, ya big galloot! This "humor" doesn't even work in a printed column - imagining reading it out loud and trying to get a laugh. That's two uses of the phrase "cut a rug" so far.
By the way, according to the website wisegeek.com, there are several theories surrounding the origin of the slang phrase “cut a rug.”
That's three. Have history's great humor writers regularly relied on internet research for so much of their material?
The most reasonable suggests that skilled dancers who danced so well that they wore out the carpet were said to have “cut a rug” or “cut a mean rug.”
Four. And DUH.
I could find no slang phrase for stomping on the toes of one’s dance partner, so I can only rely on personal experience here to coin a phrase based on what I’ve heard in the past, something along the lines of, “Hey jerkweed, we’re not making wine here. We’re trying to dance!”
Wow, apparently the people Morsch steps on are even less funny than he is. And that's the second "I step on feet while dancing" joke.
Somehow, I don’t think that’s gonna catch on like “cut a rug.”
Five.
But alas, the older I get, the less I can dance. This would concern me if I was actually able to dance when I was younger.
Not that I didn’t try. There is a color slide of me at about age 3, dancing in my undershorts next to the record player. It appears I may have been doing a version of The Twist, given the contortions of my body, captured forever in that image.
Can I take this opportunity to say how much I hate the word "undershorts"? I've never heard anyone else say that, and it strikes me as obnoxiously archaic.
(Remember color slides? My dad, like all the other dads from that era, used to take color slides of everything. It seemed highly entertaining at the time for adults to get out the projector and screen, turn out the lights, and view slides from the vacation to Pike’s Peak or kids dancing in their undershorts. It could not have been more boring to me as a youngster.)
Wow, that was one long and pointless aside. Gotta fill up that blank space somehow, I guess.
I believe I danced a little bit in high school in an attempt to attract the girls. Given that I was a jock, I at least had a sense of coordination, and I recall one high school dance my junior year where I thought I actually knew what I was doing on the dance floor.
He was a "jock"? Maybe he means he was a "Jacques," like he belonged to a Jacques Cousteau appreciation society or something.
But subsequent dances proved that I was indeed no John Travolta, as evidenced by the bandaged feet of my then-girlfriend.
There's number three.
By the time I got to college, alcohol had been introduced into the dancing equation, at about the same time that Travolta introduced us to flamboyant moves and white suits. That proved to be a winning combination for me in the dancing department as I became adept on the disco dance floor. Fortunately, there were no cell phone video cameras back then and there is no evidence to the contrary, so I’m sticking with that story.
But wait - he's saying that in college, booze and Travolta appeared at the same time and he became "adept" at dancing. Yet when he was a Junior in high school, he had already proved that he was "indeed no John Travolta." So what's the true story?
As an adult, I did once win an American Legion dance hall contest with my first wife. But it was a fluke.
What was, the dance contest or your marriage?
We were living in a remote rural area of southern Iowa at the time and I believe our only competition in the contest were a cow and a couple of chickens. As I recall, our winning dance moves including stepping lightly around that dance floor.
... Okay.
I never really knew how much I couldn’t dance until actual proof was presented to me sometime in the mid-1990s.
Except that dance in your Junior year, when you yourself realized that you couldn't.
We had taken a trip to DisneyWorld and for those of you who have been there, you know that there is always happy music playing in the theme parks while the Disney characters roam the grounds, posing for pictures.
In every photo — me with Tigger, me with Donald, me with Goofy — there I am pointing my index finger skyward, just like Travolta in “Saturday Night Fever.” Well, at least I didn’t have my finger in my nose when the camera was around. Guess I should have stuck to dancing The Twist in my underwear.
Absolutely disgusting. A nose-picking joke, and another reference to Morsch as a child in his underwear.
Nowadays, my dancing experience is limited to twirling around in a circle with The Blonde Accountant during slow songs and to watching “Dancing With The Stars.” (I am, however, boycotting DWTS because the professional dancers are bigger stars than some of the wannabe jamokes on this year’s show.)
He's referring to Bristol Palin, obviously. One of the many things that bothers me about Morsch's writing style: his reliance on catch phrases like "jamoke" and "knucklehead" and "undershorts." Like he thinks he's famous enough that their use will delight his legions of fans.
According to the study, men who are bad dancers can improve their chances of attracting women if they work on their core body moves around the head, neck and trunk areas. Just to be clear: Women prefer men who can indeed cut a rug rather than men who wear one.
But the study didn't mention anything about men who wear hairpieces. What if a man who wears one also is a good dancer? Where did Morsch make this connection? Use of "cut a rug" number six, by the way.
But it appears at this age I am past the point of worrying about attracting anything more than enough time to work in a nap.
You can't attract time. This doesn't make any sense.
These days, I should stick with what I know when it comes to dancing, which is, of course, wine-making.
"Stepping on toes" joke number four, folks.
From Twitter:
Christine O'Donnell is not a witch. Really, she isn't.
about 14 hours ago via web
Richard Nixon: "I am not a crook." Christine O'Donnell: "I am not a witch."
10 minutes ago via web
Morsch saves his harshest and most obsessive attacks for female politicians. Interesting, isn't it?
Published: Tuesday, October 05, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
I'm surprised that he references a toupee, since he himself doesn't wear one. This is going to be one of those self-deprecating columns about how Morsch is a clumsy boob and can't dance, spills things, etc. It's also a bit of a shock that he's doing a full-length column rather than a blog post on a Tuesday.
A new study reveals that women are more attracted to men who have a wide array of dance moves, which only reinforces the notion that I should consider myself lucky that I already have a wife.
Or so we're told. Any confirmation that this quote unquote wife is actually real?
Now if women were attracted to men who stomped on their open-toed shoes when dancing, then I would near the top of the list and women would be lined up around the block for the opportunity to cut a rug with me.
Ah, Morsch, ya big galloot! This "humor" doesn't even work in a printed column - imagining reading it out loud and trying to get a laugh. That's two uses of the phrase "cut a rug" so far.
By the way, according to the website wisegeek.com, there are several theories surrounding the origin of the slang phrase “cut a rug.”
That's three. Have history's great humor writers regularly relied on internet research for so much of their material?
The most reasonable suggests that skilled dancers who danced so well that they wore out the carpet were said to have “cut a rug” or “cut a mean rug.”
Four. And DUH.
I could find no slang phrase for stomping on the toes of one’s dance partner, so I can only rely on personal experience here to coin a phrase based on what I’ve heard in the past, something along the lines of, “Hey jerkweed, we’re not making wine here. We’re trying to dance!”
Wow, apparently the people Morsch steps on are even less funny than he is. And that's the second "I step on feet while dancing" joke.
Somehow, I don’t think that’s gonna catch on like “cut a rug.”
Five.
But alas, the older I get, the less I can dance. This would concern me if I was actually able to dance when I was younger.
Not that I didn’t try. There is a color slide of me at about age 3, dancing in my undershorts next to the record player. It appears I may have been doing a version of The Twist, given the contortions of my body, captured forever in that image.
Can I take this opportunity to say how much I hate the word "undershorts"? I've never heard anyone else say that, and it strikes me as obnoxiously archaic.
(Remember color slides? My dad, like all the other dads from that era, used to take color slides of everything. It seemed highly entertaining at the time for adults to get out the projector and screen, turn out the lights, and view slides from the vacation to Pike’s Peak or kids dancing in their undershorts. It could not have been more boring to me as a youngster.)
Wow, that was one long and pointless aside. Gotta fill up that blank space somehow, I guess.
I believe I danced a little bit in high school in an attempt to attract the girls. Given that I was a jock, I at least had a sense of coordination, and I recall one high school dance my junior year where I thought I actually knew what I was doing on the dance floor.
He was a "jock"? Maybe he means he was a "Jacques," like he belonged to a Jacques Cousteau appreciation society or something.
But subsequent dances proved that I was indeed no John Travolta, as evidenced by the bandaged feet of my then-girlfriend.
There's number three.
By the time I got to college, alcohol had been introduced into the dancing equation, at about the same time that Travolta introduced us to flamboyant moves and white suits. That proved to be a winning combination for me in the dancing department as I became adept on the disco dance floor. Fortunately, there were no cell phone video cameras back then and there is no evidence to the contrary, so I’m sticking with that story.
But wait - he's saying that in college, booze and Travolta appeared at the same time and he became "adept" at dancing. Yet when he was a Junior in high school, he had already proved that he was "indeed no John Travolta." So what's the true story?
As an adult, I did once win an American Legion dance hall contest with my first wife. But it was a fluke.
What was, the dance contest or your marriage?
We were living in a remote rural area of southern Iowa at the time and I believe our only competition in the contest were a cow and a couple of chickens. As I recall, our winning dance moves including stepping lightly around that dance floor.
... Okay.
I never really knew how much I couldn’t dance until actual proof was presented to me sometime in the mid-1990s.
Except that dance in your Junior year, when you yourself realized that you couldn't.
We had taken a trip to DisneyWorld and for those of you who have been there, you know that there is always happy music playing in the theme parks while the Disney characters roam the grounds, posing for pictures.
In every photo — me with Tigger, me with Donald, me with Goofy — there I am pointing my index finger skyward, just like Travolta in “Saturday Night Fever.” Well, at least I didn’t have my finger in my nose when the camera was around. Guess I should have stuck to dancing The Twist in my underwear.
Absolutely disgusting. A nose-picking joke, and another reference to Morsch as a child in his underwear.
Nowadays, my dancing experience is limited to twirling around in a circle with The Blonde Accountant during slow songs and to watching “Dancing With The Stars.” (I am, however, boycotting DWTS because the professional dancers are bigger stars than some of the wannabe jamokes on this year’s show.)
He's referring to Bristol Palin, obviously. One of the many things that bothers me about Morsch's writing style: his reliance on catch phrases like "jamoke" and "knucklehead" and "undershorts." Like he thinks he's famous enough that their use will delight his legions of fans.
According to the study, men who are bad dancers can improve their chances of attracting women if they work on their core body moves around the head, neck and trunk areas. Just to be clear: Women prefer men who can indeed cut a rug rather than men who wear one.
But the study didn't mention anything about men who wear hairpieces. What if a man who wears one also is a good dancer? Where did Morsch make this connection? Use of "cut a rug" number six, by the way.
But it appears at this age I am past the point of worrying about attracting anything more than enough time to work in a nap.
You can't attract time. This doesn't make any sense.
These days, I should stick with what I know when it comes to dancing, which is, of course, wine-making.
"Stepping on toes" joke number four, folks.
From Twitter:
Christine O'Donnell is not a witch. Really, she isn't.
about 14 hours ago via web
Richard Nixon: "I am not a crook." Christine O'Donnell: "I am not a witch."
10 minutes ago via web
Morsch saves his harshest and most obsessive attacks for female politicians. Interesting, isn't it?
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