Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The best-ever TV theme songs
Prediction: he will pick "Hawaii Five-0" as the best ever. Morsch has particularly atrocious taste in pop culture, so this should be good.
A Facebook conversation this week touched off a discussion of the best television show theme songs of all time.
I'm guessing that this conversation involved the same three people he references in every other column. I guess the whole "you, my audience, will decide my topics" post really meant "you, the handful of people who actually talk to me, will decide my topics."
A couple of friends chimed in that the “Dr. Who” intro is the best TV theme song. A lot of sci-fi fans share that feeling. Part of the reason is that when Delia Derbyshire created the theme, it was innovative electronic music for its time.
No way is this original knowledge on his part. A Google search for "Dr. Who theme" brings up Wikipedia: The original 1963 recording... is widely regarded as a significant and innovative piece of electronic music. What a dope.
I was not a “Dr. Who” fan,
How much do you want to bed that Morsch doesn't "get" The Far Side either?
so I was unfamiliar with the theme song until listening to it on YouTube. It’s OK if you like that kind thing, but it really didn’t do much for me in the way of supplanting my favorite television theme songs.
I am so excited to hear this. I'm hoping "The Beverly Hillbillies" appears somewhere.
A few other favorite themes mentioned in the discussion included “Law and Order: UK,” “The Prisoner,” “Sanford and Son,” “The Dukes of Hazzard,” “The Brady Bunch,” “Green Acres” and “The Beverly Hillbillies.”
I swear to goodness I didn't skip ahead and read that. "Dukes of Hazzard" is great, though.
My top five, in order, are “Hawaii Five-0,” “Cheers,” “Gilligan’s Island,” “M*A*S*H*” and “The Partridge Family.”
BINGO. I know this man backwards and forwards. My only disappointment is that he doesn't specify whether he likes the "And the rest" version of the Gilligan theme or the "Professor and Mary Ann" version. On second thought, he probably doesn't know the difference.
I also liked, in no particular order, “The Flintstones,” “Love, American Style,” “Bonanza,” “High Chapparral,” “Bullwinkle and Rocky,”
It's "Rocky and Bullwinkle."
the original television version of “Mission Impossible,” “The Odd Couple,” and, I take a lot of ribbing for this one . . . “The Lawrence Welk Show.”
This has to be the lamest list in history.
It seems like there are fewer memorable television theme songs these days. In fact, I have to think hard just to whistle one. But I can still sing all the words to “Go Go Gophers.”
Off the top of my head, I'd guess that's because most shows already have barely 20 minutes to tell a story and can't afford to waste time on a 3-minute song introducing the characters.
Go figure.
Was that a joke? Working off the "Go Go Gophers" theme? If so, it's the only one in the entire post.
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
A Joke to be Thankful For
The pressures of shopping for the Thanksgiving meal on a stupid man like me.
Recent column topics: "Doesn't know how to use tissues"; "Doesn't know about cars"; "Doesn't know how to organize his closet"; and now "Doesn't know how to cook"? I'm actually starting to miss the posts about baseball.
Outta Leftfield: The pressure and payoff of the Thanksgiving meal
Published: Tuesday, November 23, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
When it comes to the planning and preparation of the holiday meal, husbands would be well served if their contributions were limited to the eating of said meal.
I guarantee that he refers to Thanksgiving as "Turkey Day" at least once in the course of this column.
Fortunately, I have learned over the years that the only time I should open my mouth on this subject is when I’m stuffing it with stuffing.
But for those who host the Thanksgiving meal, the planning and preparation can be pressure-packed. It is at those times that we as husbands and partners need to be as helpful and supportive as possible.
Check out that alliteration! Someone must have gotten the Writer's Tip O' The Day Calendar for his birthday this year.
The first rule of holiday meal planning is to just shut up and do what you’re told.
So in the span of three paragraphs, we've been told three times that men shouldn't say anything about the holiday meal.
Actually, that’s the first rule of being married, the first rule household chores,
He forgot the "of" in "first rule household chores."
the first rule of home projects and the first rule of assessing the female hind end in a pair of jeans. Truth be told, if we men just paid attention to Rule No. 1, we would be allowed to watch even more sports on TV. We really should have a meeting and adopt that into the Stupid Man Club Bylaws.
Rule No. 1 for hilarity - create elaborate names for fictional organizations!
This year, we are again hosting the family Thanksgiving dinner, which only adds to the madness that is The Blonde Accountant’s life. Not only does she work full time, take care of the house and deal with the trials and tribulations of living with two teenagers and me, she’s always hosted the Thanksgiving meal. And she does so with grace and style.
Wow, I can't imagine working, living with people, and celebrating holidays all at once.
So I decided to do my part to help with the festivities and volunteered to be Vice President in Charge of Pushing the Grocery Cart,
They get funnier by the word.
which fits perfectly into my wheelhouse
Unnecessary use of baseball lingo.
because I perform that duty every week at the grocery store. The holiday grocery cart, however, is a bit of a different beast because we have a tendency to overdo it when comes to the holiday feast to the point that the possibility exists that a second cart will be needed. But I am the muscle and I know my role.
"The holiday" sentence reads like a diseased bowel - long, twisted and crappy.
And when I say “we” have a tendency to overdo it, I of course mean “me,” because I also realize that everything that happens in the grocery store is my fault and I accept that without comment. (See Rule No. 1.)
Rule No. 1 is "shut up and do as you're told." I don't understand how that applies. In fact, I don't even understand what he's saying. Is he picking out the food (a clear violation of Rule No. 1)? Or is he just being blamed?
Certainly, we are thankful for all that we have and that we are in a position to share a bountiful meal with our loved ones. We have eight, maybe nine family members who are scheduled to join us on Thanksgiving.
The complication, however, is that we sometimes end up with enough food for 38, maybe 39 people. I never know where I’m going to find the extra chairs and tables.
He puts food on chairs?
This year, the bird itself and the cranberry sauce seemed to be the most problematic menu items.
“I need about a 15-pound turkey,” said The Blonde Accountant.
I was sure this was a lead-in to a Fictional Conversation. No such luck - yet!
Unfortunately, the store was stocking only 12-pounders and 22-pounders during our time there, which is of course my fault. This created a bit of consternation for The Blonde Accountant as I struggled to maintain the integrity of Rule No. 1.
Hey, it will be funny if you keep referring to this Rule No. 1 thing. Please do so at lease once every other paragraph.
A nice gentlemen working at the grocery store — apparently he was Assistant Butcher in Charge of Stocking the Turkeys in the Freezer — was standing near us during The Blonde Accountant’s harumpfing portion of the turkey dilemma and witnessed the exchange.
Chalk up our third elaborate fictional title.
“You stay here with the 12-pound turkey, I’m going to the other freezer to see if they have bigger ones,” said The Blonde Accountant.
As she vacated the area, the butcher sauntered over to me, got real close to my ear, like he was revealing a state secret about turkeys, and whispered: “I had a lady earlier today who wanted a 20-pound turkey. I had one that weighed 19.97 pounds. She wouldn’t take it because it wasn’t 20 pounds.”
“Did you say anything to her?” I asked.
“No, I just shut up,” he said.
Atta boy. We need to get that guy to the next meeting of the Stupid Man Club to vote aye on Rule No. 1.
It's highly unlikely that this guy would initiate such a conversation. But I appreciate the monumental effort Morsch exerts to make the whole thing seem like a work of Swiftian genius.
We ended up with a 22-pound turkey, which was really no surprise to me.
When we got to the cranberry aisle, The Blonde Accountant exclaimed: “Oh, we need cranberry sauce!” Kind of like she had almost forgotten about it.
“Who eats cranberry sauce in our family?” I asked, which certainly could have been considered a minor infraction of Rule No. 1.
I want to revise my "Rule No. 1" for comedy to read: "Repeat the same joke fifteen times."
“Nobody,” she said as she put the cranberry sauce into the cart.
Hmmm. See, if I would have further questioned the cranberry decision, I risked being flagged for excessive man stupidity as well as violating Rule No. 1.
Alright, that's quite enough, sir.
The answer is quite simple, of course: Cranberry sauce is a traditional part of the Thanksgiving meal and we are thankful to have it grace our table.
Fortunately, I like turkey, so eating the leftovers through the end of March shouldn’t be a problem. As for the cranberry sauce, we will try to share it with someone less fortunate, someone who maybe even likes cranberry sauce.
I don't understand the flow of the last two paragraphs in the least.
There are a lot of things to be thankful for this time of year. One of those is that I have a wife who on top of everything else puts a tremendous amount of love and effort in the holiday meal for her family.
Flag me if you must for a rules violation, but I’m not shutting up about how thankful and appreciative I am about that.
For the record, I'm incredibly disappointed that he didn't say "Turkey Day," and that he deprived us of one last uproarious "Rule No.1" reference.
Recent column topics: "Doesn't know how to use tissues"; "Doesn't know about cars"; "Doesn't know how to organize his closet"; and now "Doesn't know how to cook"? I'm actually starting to miss the posts about baseball.
Outta Leftfield: The pressure and payoff of the Thanksgiving meal
Published: Tuesday, November 23, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
When it comes to the planning and preparation of the holiday meal, husbands would be well served if their contributions were limited to the eating of said meal.
I guarantee that he refers to Thanksgiving as "Turkey Day" at least once in the course of this column.
Fortunately, I have learned over the years that the only time I should open my mouth on this subject is when I’m stuffing it with stuffing.
But for those who host the Thanksgiving meal, the planning and preparation can be pressure-packed. It is at those times that we as husbands and partners need to be as helpful and supportive as possible.
Check out that alliteration! Someone must have gotten the Writer's Tip O' The Day Calendar for his birthday this year.
The first rule of holiday meal planning is to just shut up and do what you’re told.
So in the span of three paragraphs, we've been told three times that men shouldn't say anything about the holiday meal.
Actually, that’s the first rule of being married, the first rule household chores,
He forgot the "of" in "first rule household chores."
the first rule of home projects and the first rule of assessing the female hind end in a pair of jeans. Truth be told, if we men just paid attention to Rule No. 1, we would be allowed to watch even more sports on TV. We really should have a meeting and adopt that into the Stupid Man Club Bylaws.
Rule No. 1 for hilarity - create elaborate names for fictional organizations!
This year, we are again hosting the family Thanksgiving dinner, which only adds to the madness that is The Blonde Accountant’s life. Not only does she work full time, take care of the house and deal with the trials and tribulations of living with two teenagers and me, she’s always hosted the Thanksgiving meal. And she does so with grace and style.
Wow, I can't imagine working, living with people, and celebrating holidays all at once.
So I decided to do my part to help with the festivities and volunteered to be Vice President in Charge of Pushing the Grocery Cart,
They get funnier by the word.
which fits perfectly into my wheelhouse
Unnecessary use of baseball lingo.
because I perform that duty every week at the grocery store. The holiday grocery cart, however, is a bit of a different beast because we have a tendency to overdo it when comes to the holiday feast to the point that the possibility exists that a second cart will be needed. But I am the muscle and I know my role.
"The holiday" sentence reads like a diseased bowel - long, twisted and crappy.
And when I say “we” have a tendency to overdo it, I of course mean “me,” because I also realize that everything that happens in the grocery store is my fault and I accept that without comment. (See Rule No. 1.)
Rule No. 1 is "shut up and do as you're told." I don't understand how that applies. In fact, I don't even understand what he's saying. Is he picking out the food (a clear violation of Rule No. 1)? Or is he just being blamed?
Certainly, we are thankful for all that we have and that we are in a position to share a bountiful meal with our loved ones. We have eight, maybe nine family members who are scheduled to join us on Thanksgiving.
The complication, however, is that we sometimes end up with enough food for 38, maybe 39 people. I never know where I’m going to find the extra chairs and tables.
He puts food on chairs?
This year, the bird itself and the cranberry sauce seemed to be the most problematic menu items.
“I need about a 15-pound turkey,” said The Blonde Accountant.
I was sure this was a lead-in to a Fictional Conversation. No such luck - yet!
Unfortunately, the store was stocking only 12-pounders and 22-pounders during our time there, which is of course my fault. This created a bit of consternation for The Blonde Accountant as I struggled to maintain the integrity of Rule No. 1.
Hey, it will be funny if you keep referring to this Rule No. 1 thing. Please do so at lease once every other paragraph.
A nice gentlemen working at the grocery store — apparently he was Assistant Butcher in Charge of Stocking the Turkeys in the Freezer — was standing near us during The Blonde Accountant’s harumpfing portion of the turkey dilemma and witnessed the exchange.
Chalk up our third elaborate fictional title.
“You stay here with the 12-pound turkey, I’m going to the other freezer to see if they have bigger ones,” said The Blonde Accountant.
As she vacated the area, the butcher sauntered over to me, got real close to my ear, like he was revealing a state secret about turkeys, and whispered: “I had a lady earlier today who wanted a 20-pound turkey. I had one that weighed 19.97 pounds. She wouldn’t take it because it wasn’t 20 pounds.”
“Did you say anything to her?” I asked.
“No, I just shut up,” he said.
Atta boy. We need to get that guy to the next meeting of the Stupid Man Club to vote aye on Rule No. 1.
It's highly unlikely that this guy would initiate such a conversation. But I appreciate the monumental effort Morsch exerts to make the whole thing seem like a work of Swiftian genius.
We ended up with a 22-pound turkey, which was really no surprise to me.
When we got to the cranberry aisle, The Blonde Accountant exclaimed: “Oh, we need cranberry sauce!” Kind of like she had almost forgotten about it.
“Who eats cranberry sauce in our family?” I asked, which certainly could have been considered a minor infraction of Rule No. 1.
I want to revise my "Rule No. 1" for comedy to read: "Repeat the same joke fifteen times."
“Nobody,” she said as she put the cranberry sauce into the cart.
Hmmm. See, if I would have further questioned the cranberry decision, I risked being flagged for excessive man stupidity as well as violating Rule No. 1.
Alright, that's quite enough, sir.
The answer is quite simple, of course: Cranberry sauce is a traditional part of the Thanksgiving meal and we are thankful to have it grace our table.
Fortunately, I like turkey, so eating the leftovers through the end of March shouldn’t be a problem. As for the cranberry sauce, we will try to share it with someone less fortunate, someone who maybe even likes cranberry sauce.
I don't understand the flow of the last two paragraphs in the least.
There are a lot of things to be thankful for this time of year. One of those is that I have a wife who on top of everything else puts a tremendous amount of love and effort in the holiday meal for her family.
Flag me if you must for a rules violation, but I’m not shutting up about how thankful and appreciative I am about that.
For the record, I'm incredibly disappointed that he didn't say "Turkey Day," and that he deprived us of one last uproarious "Rule No.1" reference.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Impossible Lack of Observation
My wife got a new SUV. This week's column deals with just how very little I know about moving vehicles.
Hey, here's a fresh new idea! Honestly though, "things I don't know" is probably Morsch's largest pool of possible topics.
Outta Leftfield: Inability to answer new-car questions exposes his true colors
Published: Tuesday, November 16, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Here’s how little I know about cars: I’m not even sure what color the one is that has been parked in my driveway for the past five years.
Impossible.
The Blonde Accountant got a new car last weekend. Actually, it’s an SUV because accountants are in most cases better compensated in life than are journalists, most of whom still go to work in a horse and buggy because hay is more affordable than gasoline these days.
The horse and buggy is just about the only thing more out-dated than the printed newspaper.
The new ride is what I would call a maroon color and replaces one that I always thought was a blue, or at the very least, a charcoal blue-gray something-or-other.
Oh ho, what wacky lack of knowledge will Morsch come up with next!
So it came as no surprise that our weekend dinner table conversation centered on the new vehicle and its advantages over the one it replaced. Quite innocently and in passing, I happened to mention the color of the old car as blue.
Fictional Conversation Alert! TBA will correct Morsch; Morsch will still not understand the TBA; she'll put him down; he'll make an ironic comment.
“No, it wasn’t blue, it was sage green,” said The Blonde Accountant, a statement confirmed by both the kids.
“What in tarnation is sage green? That car was blue,” I insisted, believing even at my advanced age, I can still recognize the difference between blue and green.
"Tarnation"?
That of course led me down a path for which I was unprepared.
“What color is our couch?” she said. “What color are the walls in our bedroom? What color are my eyes?”
Wow, she's really calling him out. Can it be that he doesn't know the color of ANY of these things? And aren't all men equally as oblivious? Ha! Oh, what a world.
Duh. I don’t know sage green from the Green Hornet. I have no idea what color the couch is, even when I’m sitting on it. And I didn’t realize the bedroom walls were painted. Hard to believe sometimes that I am a formally trained observer.
He brings up a good point - how DID he get his job?
“Green, green and green,” I responded, figuring green was the answer of the day at that point. “Uh, and your eyes are beautiful, too,” I said.
It was all I could muster given the fact that we went from talking about the color of the old SUV — that we no longer own or care about given the shiny new vehicle now parked in the driveway — to talking about eye color.
That's a big shift alright. I mean, to go from talking about colors to talking about colors. Who wouldn't be thrown?
Fortunately, I was somewhat redeemed the next day when I asked the neighbor lady what color the old car was and she confirmed that she thought it was indeed a blue-gray charcoal. Of course, she couldn’t answer what color The Blonde Accountant’s eyes are, but the neighbor lady got in quite a bit less trouble with her answer than I did.
So the neighbor knows what color the car is, but Morsch doesn't know the color of the couch in his own house?
What all of this illustrates is my total lack of interest in cars.
It would if he only failed to note the color of the car... does this also illustrate a total lack of interest in the bedroom, his wife, and the couch?
That is because I really could care less about anything to do with a car other than having it start when I turn the key and for it to get me where I need to go without breaking down along the way.
The extent of my car maintenance program includes brushing the sandwich crumbs off the car seats and onto the floor mats.
Oh Morsch! You never miss an opportunity to make a "spilling food on myself" joke, do you?
And that’s why shopping for a new car is no fun at all for me.
Here's a fresh, original topic: people don't like shopping for new cars. Would you believe I've never, ever heard anyone discuss this before?
I have on more than one occasion walked into a car dealership, pointed to the cars in the lot, and said, “Do you have any horses?”
(Insert Rimshot)
I do not have a preference on leather vs. cloth seats; I don’t care about a sun roof; and I am only slightly concerned about how many miles per gallon the vehicle gets only because I prefer not to have to fill it up every other block.
Hey, who was the columnist who was just ranting about how a horse and buggy is better than a car because of how expensive gas is?
I do not care what color it is, although my sense is that the next time I need a new car, I can pretty much guarantee it won’t be sage green. I do not need to have that conversation ever again.
Sir, your audience demands that you have this conversation again! The laughs it produces are worth their weight in gold.
When the old car does not run anymore, that’s when I will go looking for a different car. In fact — and I hate to put this in writing because it will be used against me some day — Younger Daughter is the likely beneficiary of my next car purchase because she will get the one that I am driving now, which is of course a charcoal blue-gray something-or-other color. (Same as the couch, I think.)
To paraphrase the creepy old general in White Christmas: "We have established the fact that he doesn't care much about cars."
Still, it’s kind of nice to have a new vehicle in the driveway, which I will likely get to drive occasionally if I can just be a little more prepared the next time the eye color question comes up.
Suggestion for preparation: observe the color of your wife's eyes.
In fact, since my car and the sandwich crumbs inside it are 5 years old now, you might say that the new vehicle makes me a little green with envy.
"Green with envy" - did he use that one in his post about the color of the doctor's office? Nope, he didn't. And I can't believe he missed that opportunity. But there's one opportunity he didn't miss: working in a final "spilling food" joke.
Hey, here's a fresh new idea! Honestly though, "things I don't know" is probably Morsch's largest pool of possible topics.
Outta Leftfield: Inability to answer new-car questions exposes his true colors
Published: Tuesday, November 16, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Here’s how little I know about cars: I’m not even sure what color the one is that has been parked in my driveway for the past five years.
Impossible.
The Blonde Accountant got a new car last weekend. Actually, it’s an SUV because accountants are in most cases better compensated in life than are journalists, most of whom still go to work in a horse and buggy because hay is more affordable than gasoline these days.
The horse and buggy is just about the only thing more out-dated than the printed newspaper.
The new ride is what I would call a maroon color and replaces one that I always thought was a blue, or at the very least, a charcoal blue-gray something-or-other.
Oh ho, what wacky lack of knowledge will Morsch come up with next!
So it came as no surprise that our weekend dinner table conversation centered on the new vehicle and its advantages over the one it replaced. Quite innocently and in passing, I happened to mention the color of the old car as blue.
Fictional Conversation Alert! TBA will correct Morsch; Morsch will still not understand the TBA; she'll put him down; he'll make an ironic comment.
“No, it wasn’t blue, it was sage green,” said The Blonde Accountant, a statement confirmed by both the kids.
“What in tarnation is sage green? That car was blue,” I insisted, believing even at my advanced age, I can still recognize the difference between blue and green.
"Tarnation"?
That of course led me down a path for which I was unprepared.
“What color is our couch?” she said. “What color are the walls in our bedroom? What color are my eyes?”
Wow, she's really calling him out. Can it be that he doesn't know the color of ANY of these things? And aren't all men equally as oblivious? Ha! Oh, what a world.
Duh. I don’t know sage green from the Green Hornet. I have no idea what color the couch is, even when I’m sitting on it. And I didn’t realize the bedroom walls were painted. Hard to believe sometimes that I am a formally trained observer.
He brings up a good point - how DID he get his job?
“Green, green and green,” I responded, figuring green was the answer of the day at that point. “Uh, and your eyes are beautiful, too,” I said.
It was all I could muster given the fact that we went from talking about the color of the old SUV — that we no longer own or care about given the shiny new vehicle now parked in the driveway — to talking about eye color.
That's a big shift alright. I mean, to go from talking about colors to talking about colors. Who wouldn't be thrown?
Fortunately, I was somewhat redeemed the next day when I asked the neighbor lady what color the old car was and she confirmed that she thought it was indeed a blue-gray charcoal. Of course, she couldn’t answer what color The Blonde Accountant’s eyes are, but the neighbor lady got in quite a bit less trouble with her answer than I did.
So the neighbor knows what color the car is, but Morsch doesn't know the color of the couch in his own house?
What all of this illustrates is my total lack of interest in cars.
It would if he only failed to note the color of the car... does this also illustrate a total lack of interest in the bedroom, his wife, and the couch?
That is because I really could care less about anything to do with a car other than having it start when I turn the key and for it to get me where I need to go without breaking down along the way.
The extent of my car maintenance program includes brushing the sandwich crumbs off the car seats and onto the floor mats.
Oh Morsch! You never miss an opportunity to make a "spilling food on myself" joke, do you?
And that’s why shopping for a new car is no fun at all for me.
Here's a fresh, original topic: people don't like shopping for new cars. Would you believe I've never, ever heard anyone discuss this before?
I have on more than one occasion walked into a car dealership, pointed to the cars in the lot, and said, “Do you have any horses?”
(Insert Rimshot)
I do not have a preference on leather vs. cloth seats; I don’t care about a sun roof; and I am only slightly concerned about how many miles per gallon the vehicle gets only because I prefer not to have to fill it up every other block.
Hey, who was the columnist who was just ranting about how a horse and buggy is better than a car because of how expensive gas is?
I do not care what color it is, although my sense is that the next time I need a new car, I can pretty much guarantee it won’t be sage green. I do not need to have that conversation ever again.
Sir, your audience demands that you have this conversation again! The laughs it produces are worth their weight in gold.
When the old car does not run anymore, that’s when I will go looking for a different car. In fact — and I hate to put this in writing because it will be used against me some day — Younger Daughter is the likely beneficiary of my next car purchase because she will get the one that I am driving now, which is of course a charcoal blue-gray something-or-other color. (Same as the couch, I think.)
To paraphrase the creepy old general in White Christmas: "We have established the fact that he doesn't care much about cars."
Still, it’s kind of nice to have a new vehicle in the driveway, which I will likely get to drive occasionally if I can just be a little more prepared the next time the eye color question comes up.
Suggestion for preparation: observe the color of your wife's eyes.
In fact, since my car and the sandwich crumbs inside it are 5 years old now, you might say that the new vehicle makes me a little green with envy.
"Green with envy" - did he use that one in his post about the color of the doctor's office? Nope, he didn't. And I can't believe he missed that opportunity. But there's one opportunity he didn't miss: working in a final "spilling food" joke.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Animal Kruelty = Komedy
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Granny vs. The Fighting Conch
A promising title, which shockingly doesn't contain a pun. I guess he couldn't think of a way to work "shell" or "crab" in.
Grandmothers toting tweezers probably ought not to be going after Florida’s Fighting Conches, which by the way is not the nickname of a high school football team but an actual sea creature.
"Toting tweezers" - Morsch has been particularly fond of "t" alliteration lately - see the "Teens Tackle Terror" title of his previous post.
My mom is in Florida for a month hanging with one of her pals and putting her toes in the sand. That’s one of the benefits that comes with retirement I guess, something I won’t likely realize for quite some time.
... Unfortunately for the literate world. Case in point: his clumsy use of the word "realize." He's trying to use it in the sense of achieving something. Instead it sounds like he's saying he doesn't realize what the benefits of retirement are (which he clearly does).
As native Midwesterners, we have some hillbillies in the family tree. Although we have traveled a bit over the years and are no strangers to warmer climates and sandy beaches, we don’t have an ocean in Illinois, which I realize may come as a surprise to some of you. As a result, our rural upbringing did not provide us much in the way of proper Fighting Conch (pronounced “konk”) etiquette. We are, however, very schooled in all things stinkbug.
Problems with this paragraph:
1.) What does the fact that they have hillbillies in their family tree have to do with anything else in the paragraph?
2.) He says that, although they are "no strangers" to beaches, his people don't know much about them since they didn't grow up right next to an ocean. What?
3.) The constant references to that stinkbug article he wrote way back when. The only thing that gets more shout-outs is the "Magic of Baseball Cards" column.
The Florida Fighting Conch — Strombus alatus — is essentially a sea snail in a decorative shell. The Illinois Vacationing Granny — Feistyius Oldladyius — likes to collect decorative shells. You may be able to see where this is going.
From Morsch's June 16 article on the wandering yaks: former Vice President Dick Cheney (Latin name: Grumpius oldguyus), not to mention Mr. Rogers (Latin name: Nottheguyus withthesweatersus). Nice to know he doesn't observe even a six month moratorium on recycling material.
He also screws up his own joke. By adding the "ius" to the end of "feisty" and "oldlady," he's telling us to pronounce them (phonetically) "feistee-eeus" and "oldladee-eeus."
So during a phone call this week, Granny was telling me of her recent shell-hunting expedition on the south Florida beach near her condo.
“I put all the shells in the sink to clean them and one of them was moving,” said Granny. “So I got out my tweezers and tried to pull the dadgummed thing outta there, and boy did it start hissing and squealing at me.”
I guess hokey old expressions like "dadgummed" run in the family.
Fighting Conches apparently do not like being yanked from their home with a pair of tweezers, and in addition, they likely will raise quite a ruckus when someone tries to do so.
By the way, that’s all new information for me, my mom and the rest of the Corncob Crowd from Calico County.
I had to Google the phrase "Corncob Crowd from Calico County," because I thought that it was a reference to some stupid old 1970's variety show. Nope. It's just some stupid thing he made up himself.
Granny decided it was best to let nature takes its course and placed the highly agitated conch on the back deck. Her thinking was that after a few days in the sunshine, the critter would buy the farm and could then be easily tweezed from the coveted shell.
Am I the only one who thinks that's rather cruel? Children and old people - the nastiest creatures on earth.
No such luck. After three days, the conch was still giving Granny seven kinds of heck for the armed and attempted home invasion, so she took it to the beach and tossed it in back the drink.
"Armed and attempted?" We all remember how walking on cement floors plays "seven kinds of hooey" with Morsch's knees. Then from last week's column: ...mostly because I didn’t want to catch seven kinds of heck. Apparently Morsch doesn't observe even a six day moratorium on his material.
Since she still has a few more weeks of vacation, further beach expeditions are pending. No doubt with tweezers at the ready. I anxiously await her next report.
Wow, what animals will she try to cruelly put to death next? Maybe she should give Mike Vick a call.
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Granny vs. The Fighting Conch
A promising title, which shockingly doesn't contain a pun. I guess he couldn't think of a way to work "shell" or "crab" in.
Grandmothers toting tweezers probably ought not to be going after Florida’s Fighting Conches, which by the way is not the nickname of a high school football team but an actual sea creature.
"Toting tweezers" - Morsch has been particularly fond of "t" alliteration lately - see the "Teens Tackle Terror" title of his previous post.
My mom is in Florida for a month hanging with one of her pals and putting her toes in the sand. That’s one of the benefits that comes with retirement I guess, something I won’t likely realize for quite some time.
... Unfortunately for the literate world. Case in point: his clumsy use of the word "realize." He's trying to use it in the sense of achieving something. Instead it sounds like he's saying he doesn't realize what the benefits of retirement are (which he clearly does).
As native Midwesterners, we have some hillbillies in the family tree. Although we have traveled a bit over the years and are no strangers to warmer climates and sandy beaches, we don’t have an ocean in Illinois, which I realize may come as a surprise to some of you. As a result, our rural upbringing did not provide us much in the way of proper Fighting Conch (pronounced “konk”) etiquette. We are, however, very schooled in all things stinkbug.
Problems with this paragraph:
1.) What does the fact that they have hillbillies in their family tree have to do with anything else in the paragraph?
2.) He says that, although they are "no strangers" to beaches, his people don't know much about them since they didn't grow up right next to an ocean. What?
3.) The constant references to that stinkbug article he wrote way back when. The only thing that gets more shout-outs is the "Magic of Baseball Cards" column.
The Florida Fighting Conch — Strombus alatus — is essentially a sea snail in a decorative shell. The Illinois Vacationing Granny — Feistyius Oldladyius — likes to collect decorative shells. You may be able to see where this is going.
From Morsch's June 16 article on the wandering yaks: former Vice President Dick Cheney (Latin name: Grumpius oldguyus), not to mention Mr. Rogers (Latin name: Nottheguyus withthesweatersus). Nice to know he doesn't observe even a six month moratorium on recycling material.
He also screws up his own joke. By adding the "ius" to the end of "feisty" and "oldlady," he's telling us to pronounce them (phonetically) "feistee-eeus" and "oldladee-eeus."
So during a phone call this week, Granny was telling me of her recent shell-hunting expedition on the south Florida beach near her condo.
“I put all the shells in the sink to clean them and one of them was moving,” said Granny. “So I got out my tweezers and tried to pull the dadgummed thing outta there, and boy did it start hissing and squealing at me.”
I guess hokey old expressions like "dadgummed" run in the family.
Fighting Conches apparently do not like being yanked from their home with a pair of tweezers, and in addition, they likely will raise quite a ruckus when someone tries to do so.
By the way, that’s all new information for me, my mom and the rest of the Corncob Crowd from Calico County.
I had to Google the phrase "Corncob Crowd from Calico County," because I thought that it was a reference to some stupid old 1970's variety show. Nope. It's just some stupid thing he made up himself.
Granny decided it was best to let nature takes its course and placed the highly agitated conch on the back deck. Her thinking was that after a few days in the sunshine, the critter would buy the farm and could then be easily tweezed from the coveted shell.
Am I the only one who thinks that's rather cruel? Children and old people - the nastiest creatures on earth.
No such luck. After three days, the conch was still giving Granny seven kinds of heck for the armed and attempted home invasion, so she took it to the beach and tossed it in back the drink.
"Armed and attempted?" We all remember how walking on cement floors plays "seven kinds of hooey" with Morsch's knees. Then from last week's column: ...mostly because I didn’t want to catch seven kinds of heck. Apparently Morsch doesn't observe even a six day moratorium on his material.
Since she still has a few more weeks of vacation, further beach expeditions are pending. No doubt with tweezers at the ready. I anxiously await her next report.
Wow, what animals will she try to cruelly put to death next? Maybe she should give Mike Vick a call.
Labels: Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
Monday, November 15, 2010
Echo Effect
Outta Leftfield: Teens tackle terror while terror turn tables on timid taxi driver
Published: Tuesday, November 09, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Hmm. I'm really wondering whether a "taxi driver" will factor into this story at all.
Actually not too much to report on this one. The basics: Morsch takes his daughter and her friends to a haunted prison attraction that, on a previous trip, had frightened him. I'm going to skip around, because vast portions of this entry are just plain boring.
The teenagers apparently have a surplus of bejeebers and they were perfectly happy to part with a boatload of them in the name of having a good time. I do not understand that approach but was willing to be the taxi service that delivered them to their fate as long as I got to stay in the car.
What approach? Running the gauntlet of Morsch's tortured prose gets more exhausting by the day.
The Philadelphia prison’s attraction — “Terror Behind The Walls” — is recognized by those who recognize such things as one of the scariest Halloween-themed attractions in the country. Frankly, the only aspect of this attraction that I was even remotely interested in was the “Comfort and Safety of the Parking Lot” portion of it.
Hey, will Morsch be going in? Or will he be, like staying in the car? He should really clarify this a little. Is "recognized by those who recognize" supposed to be funny? If not it's a complete waste of language.
It was not my first visit to the prison. I took the kids to see it about six years ago, when Younger Daughter was 10 years old and Older Daughter was 16. It was their idea, not mine, but I had to dad up on that one and actually go inside the prison.
I get that self-deprecation is sort of his schtick, but come on. Stupid, smelly, rude, loud, lazy, physically gross, and now cowardly. Are his readers supposed to find this endearing? There's an entire paragraph about how he swears at the costumed monsters and hides behind his kids.
The end result of that trip was that the monsters did their job and Younger Daughter was so scared that we only made it through half the attraction before skeedaddling the premises, and in a hurry. That’s probably the quickest I’ve gotten out of Dodge for anything in the past two decades.
You can't "skeedaddle the premises." You can skeedaddle from.
That experience, though, did nothing to dissuade the now 16-year-old Younger Daughter from returning to the scene of the puddle.
Add "peeing his pants" to the list of self-ascribed Morsch defects.
This time, however, she surrounded herself with other teenagers and I was relegated to chauffeur and cash machine, which was fine with me. I had no intention of contributing another puddle to the prison’s efforts.
That's two pee jokes in one paragraph, and yet another mention of the fact that he is staying in the car and not going in. Can we move on?
The place was packed, so I dropped the teens off at the front gate and began what looked like it could be a futile search for a parking space. After several passes around the prison and surrounding neighborhood (the parking lot was full),
Good LORD, he just said "the place was packed" one sentence ago! It occurs to me that Morsch is like an unfunny version of Seinfeld. While that show could take the trivial parts of life and make them hilarious, Morsch takes the trivial parts of life and makes them downright unbearable.
I got lucky and scored a space right in front of the prison, about 30 yards from the front gate.
From that vantage point, I got an up-close look at the people standing in the long lines waiting to get inside. I also found that with the crack of the passenger-side windows, I could hear the reactions of the people who had just experienced the terror and were headed back to their cars in the parking lot.
“Better bring an extra diaper, you’re going to need it!” shouted one jamoke to the people waiting in line.
"Jamoke": classic Morsch over-used word. I bet Morsch uses the diaper reference to work in a poop joke.
It turned out to be a perfect spot for people watching.
Why? Is it because you can get "an up-close look at the people standing in the long lines," as you said a few sentences ago? Try submitting an effort like this in any college composition class. A teacher would rip it to shreds.
One monster — who I can only describe as Beetlejuice on stilts (and probably several cups of coffee) — noticed me and stuck his face into the passenger-side window.
I can't fault the author too much for this, but the character's name is "Betelgeuse." For once in his life, he didn't have time to Google this? I'm sure this is the lead-up to an epic Morsch Fictional Conversation.
“Hey, buddy,” he said.
“Hey,” I said.
Funny?
That’s all you got pal? Why that didn’t scare me at all.
No. Not funny.
I had stayed outside the attraction this time specifically because I did not want to have to find a 10-year-old to hide behind. Now I had the monsters coming out to my car for criminny sakes.
Is there an echo in this column? Because it seems like the entire thing as been Morsch making a statement in one paragraph and then repeating it in the next one.
I must admit at one point, when [another monster] was crouched in front of my car, I considered blasting the horn in his ear. I had a fleeting thought that it would be funny if I could actually turn the tables and startle the monster. I would have considered it a little bit of payback from six years ago.
No, see, there's a difference. That was guys being paid to dress up and frighten people. This would be Morsch being a total douche.
But I resisted that urge, mostly because I didn’t want to catch seven kinds of heck from the Federated Brotherhood of Monsters and Ghouls Union. I don’t need a whole group of monsters latching onto my pant leg.
First rule of fictional organizations: as the name becomes longer, the laughs generated by it increase exponentially! Note the use of "seven kinds of heck," because he's used it before, and gosh darn it, he'll use it in next week's column too.
It sure sounded like they had a good time. Me, I can think of better ways to have fun, ones that don’t require I bring along an extra diaper.
And we get the pee joke hat trick to end the story. By the way, how exactly did the monsters "turn the tables" on Morsch?
Published: Tuesday, November 09, 2010
By Mike Morsch
Executive Editor
Hmm. I'm really wondering whether a "taxi driver" will factor into this story at all.
Actually not too much to report on this one. The basics: Morsch takes his daughter and her friends to a haunted prison attraction that, on a previous trip, had frightened him. I'm going to skip around, because vast portions of this entry are just plain boring.
The teenagers apparently have a surplus of bejeebers and they were perfectly happy to part with a boatload of them in the name of having a good time. I do not understand that approach but was willing to be the taxi service that delivered them to their fate as long as I got to stay in the car.
What approach? Running the gauntlet of Morsch's tortured prose gets more exhausting by the day.
The Philadelphia prison’s attraction — “Terror Behind The Walls” — is recognized by those who recognize such things as one of the scariest Halloween-themed attractions in the country. Frankly, the only aspect of this attraction that I was even remotely interested in was the “Comfort and Safety of the Parking Lot” portion of it.
Hey, will Morsch be going in? Or will he be, like staying in the car? He should really clarify this a little. Is "recognized by those who recognize" supposed to be funny? If not it's a complete waste of language.
It was not my first visit to the prison. I took the kids to see it about six years ago, when Younger Daughter was 10 years old and Older Daughter was 16. It was their idea, not mine, but I had to dad up on that one and actually go inside the prison.
I get that self-deprecation is sort of his schtick, but come on. Stupid, smelly, rude, loud, lazy, physically gross, and now cowardly. Are his readers supposed to find this endearing? There's an entire paragraph about how he swears at the costumed monsters and hides behind his kids.
The end result of that trip was that the monsters did their job and Younger Daughter was so scared that we only made it through half the attraction before skeedaddling the premises, and in a hurry. That’s probably the quickest I’ve gotten out of Dodge for anything in the past two decades.
You can't "skeedaddle the premises." You can skeedaddle from.
That experience, though, did nothing to dissuade the now 16-year-old Younger Daughter from returning to the scene of the puddle.
Add "peeing his pants" to the list of self-ascribed Morsch defects.
This time, however, she surrounded herself with other teenagers and I was relegated to chauffeur and cash machine, which was fine with me. I had no intention of contributing another puddle to the prison’s efforts.
That's two pee jokes in one paragraph, and yet another mention of the fact that he is staying in the car and not going in. Can we move on?
The place was packed, so I dropped the teens off at the front gate and began what looked like it could be a futile search for a parking space. After several passes around the prison and surrounding neighborhood (the parking lot was full),
Good LORD, he just said "the place was packed" one sentence ago! It occurs to me that Morsch is like an unfunny version of Seinfeld. While that show could take the trivial parts of life and make them hilarious, Morsch takes the trivial parts of life and makes them downright unbearable.
I got lucky and scored a space right in front of the prison, about 30 yards from the front gate.
From that vantage point, I got an up-close look at the people standing in the long lines waiting to get inside. I also found that with the crack of the passenger-side windows, I could hear the reactions of the people who had just experienced the terror and were headed back to their cars in the parking lot.
“Better bring an extra diaper, you’re going to need it!” shouted one jamoke to the people waiting in line.
"Jamoke": classic Morsch over-used word. I bet Morsch uses the diaper reference to work in a poop joke.
It turned out to be a perfect spot for people watching.
Why? Is it because you can get "an up-close look at the people standing in the long lines," as you said a few sentences ago? Try submitting an effort like this in any college composition class. A teacher would rip it to shreds.
One monster — who I can only describe as Beetlejuice on stilts (and probably several cups of coffee) — noticed me and stuck his face into the passenger-side window.
I can't fault the author too much for this, but the character's name is "Betelgeuse." For once in his life, he didn't have time to Google this? I'm sure this is the lead-up to an epic Morsch Fictional Conversation.
“Hey, buddy,” he said.
“Hey,” I said.
Funny?
That’s all you got pal? Why that didn’t scare me at all.
No. Not funny.
I had stayed outside the attraction this time specifically because I did not want to have to find a 10-year-old to hide behind. Now I had the monsters coming out to my car for criminny sakes.
Is there an echo in this column? Because it seems like the entire thing as been Morsch making a statement in one paragraph and then repeating it in the next one.
I must admit at one point, when [another monster] was crouched in front of my car, I considered blasting the horn in his ear. I had a fleeting thought that it would be funny if I could actually turn the tables and startle the monster. I would have considered it a little bit of payback from six years ago.
No, see, there's a difference. That was guys being paid to dress up and frighten people. This would be Morsch being a total douche.
But I resisted that urge, mostly because I didn’t want to catch seven kinds of heck from the Federated Brotherhood of Monsters and Ghouls Union. I don’t need a whole group of monsters latching onto my pant leg.
First rule of fictional organizations: as the name becomes longer, the laughs generated by it increase exponentially! Note the use of "seven kinds of heck," because he's used it before, and gosh darn it, he'll use it in next week's column too.
It sure sounded like they had a good time. Me, I can think of better ways to have fun, ones that don’t require I bring along an extra diaper.
And we get the pee joke hat trick to end the story. By the way, how exactly did the monsters "turn the tables" on Morsch?
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Disgracing James MacArthur
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
End of the original 'Book 'em' era
Morsch disgraces the memory of James MacArthur. He has truly sunk to a new low.
I was saddened to learn of the recent death of James MacArthur, who played Detective Danny “Danno” Williams, the right-hand man of Jack Lord’s character Steve McGarrett on the television show “Hawaii Five-0.”
He actually mentioned (and tagged!) Hawaii Five-0 in another post. The only problem is that it's tagged as "Hawaii 5-0," so there's no way to connect the two. Another savvy move by our favorite blogger.
The original television series, which ran from 1968 through 1980, was one of my favorites as a kid and the attraction lasted into my college years. No matter what was going on with my schedule of toga parties, I always tried to find time to catch the show. At the very least, I tried to get in on the last few minutes of the episode, just to hear McGarrett say to Williams, “Book ’em Danno, murder one.”
McGarrett really didn't say it that often. Per Morsch's previous post on this subject: I spent many a night ditching the books in college... primarily just so I could hear Steve McGarrett say “Book ’em, Dano!” at the end of each episode. Ignore the "Dano" and focus on how this guy's terrible style varies so little from post to post.
Although I never got to meet MacArthur, I did get the opportunity to meet another “Hawaii Five-0" regular before the end of the original show’s run.
Really? Was he friendly and gracious? Did he take the time to greet fans after the event?
In 1979, our college baseball team’s spring trip was to Hawaii. (It was a good time to be a baseball player in Iowa in 1979.)
What was a good time? 1979? How nonsensical is this statement?
We were there for 10 days and were scheduled to play 10 games against the University of Hawaii.
Many of those games were played during the day, which left us the evenings to explore as much of Hawaii as we could with our limited free time.
My folks went along on the trip, and one evening we attended a nightclub act by Al Harrington, who played Detective Ben Kokua, another cop in McGarrett’s crew, for several years on the show. (On rare occasions, McGarrett would ask Ben to “Book ’em.”)
There's a website that analyzes the Five-0 series episode by episode. There are maybe only two or three instances of Steve saying "Book 'em" each season. I love how Morsch is trying to sound like an authority here. Stick with the Stooges, pal.
In addition to his television gig, Harrington was a singer and dancer in Waikiki, and along with Don Ho, helped define Hawaii’s entertainment industry in the 1970s and 1980s.
Because the history of the Hawaiian entertainment industry is funny! ... Right?
I got to meet Harrington after his show and asked him to sign my program, which he did. He signed it, “Book ’em Mike.” Given that I was such a big fan of the show, I got a kick out of that.
What a kind, generous, gracious man that Al Harrington is, taking the time to sign that autograph.
Unfortunately, I haven’t been back to Hawaii since.
All the main actors on the original “Hawaii Five-0” are gone now. I’ve watched the new version of the show Monday nights on CBS and it’s OK. Hawaii is still Hawaii, so the scenery is still fabulous. And the McGarrett character still says “Book ’em Danno” to the Williams character.
What is this post about? The death of James MacArthur? Al Harrington? Morsch's trip to Hawaii? "Hawaii Five-0"?
As with a lot of things, in this instance though, the original still outshines the remake.
"I was sad that MacArthur died. I never met him, but I met someone on the same show as him while I was in Hawaii once. I liked that show. The new version of the show is okay, but not as good as the original."
I'd like to linger on this last sentence for a moment. It would make sense if it read "As with a lot of things, the original still outshines the remake." But the inclusion of "in this instance though" destroys it. It's a complete contradiction. It's like saying, "Quite often, but fairly rarely."
Labels: Hawaii Five-0, Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
End of the original 'Book 'em' era
Morsch disgraces the memory of James MacArthur. He has truly sunk to a new low.
I was saddened to learn of the recent death of James MacArthur, who played Detective Danny “Danno” Williams, the right-hand man of Jack Lord’s character Steve McGarrett on the television show “Hawaii Five-0.”
He actually mentioned (and tagged!) Hawaii Five-0 in another post. The only problem is that it's tagged as "Hawaii 5-0," so there's no way to connect the two. Another savvy move by our favorite blogger.
The original television series, which ran from 1968 through 1980, was one of my favorites as a kid and the attraction lasted into my college years. No matter what was going on with my schedule of toga parties, I always tried to find time to catch the show. At the very least, I tried to get in on the last few minutes of the episode, just to hear McGarrett say to Williams, “Book ’em Danno, murder one.”
McGarrett really didn't say it that often. Per Morsch's previous post on this subject: I spent many a night ditching the books in college... primarily just so I could hear Steve McGarrett say “Book ’em, Dano!” at the end of each episode. Ignore the "Dano" and focus on how this guy's terrible style varies so little from post to post.
Although I never got to meet MacArthur, I did get the opportunity to meet another “Hawaii Five-0" regular before the end of the original show’s run.
Really? Was he friendly and gracious? Did he take the time to greet fans after the event?
In 1979, our college baseball team’s spring trip was to Hawaii. (It was a good time to be a baseball player in Iowa in 1979.)
What was a good time? 1979? How nonsensical is this statement?
We were there for 10 days and were scheduled to play 10 games against the University of Hawaii.
Many of those games were played during the day, which left us the evenings to explore as much of Hawaii as we could with our limited free time.
My folks went along on the trip, and one evening we attended a nightclub act by Al Harrington, who played Detective Ben Kokua, another cop in McGarrett’s crew, for several years on the show. (On rare occasions, McGarrett would ask Ben to “Book ’em.”)
There's a website that analyzes the Five-0 series episode by episode. There are maybe only two or three instances of Steve saying "Book 'em" each season. I love how Morsch is trying to sound like an authority here. Stick with the Stooges, pal.
In addition to his television gig, Harrington was a singer and dancer in Waikiki, and along with Don Ho, helped define Hawaii’s entertainment industry in the 1970s and 1980s.
Because the history of the Hawaiian entertainment industry is funny! ... Right?
I got to meet Harrington after his show and asked him to sign my program, which he did. He signed it, “Book ’em Mike.” Given that I was such a big fan of the show, I got a kick out of that.
What a kind, generous, gracious man that Al Harrington is, taking the time to sign that autograph.
Unfortunately, I haven’t been back to Hawaii since.
All the main actors on the original “Hawaii Five-0” are gone now. I’ve watched the new version of the show Monday nights on CBS and it’s OK. Hawaii is still Hawaii, so the scenery is still fabulous. And the McGarrett character still says “Book ’em Danno” to the Williams character.
What is this post about? The death of James MacArthur? Al Harrington? Morsch's trip to Hawaii? "Hawaii Five-0"?
As with a lot of things, in this instance though, the original still outshines the remake.
"I was sad that MacArthur died. I never met him, but I met someone on the same show as him while I was in Hawaii once. I liked that show. The new version of the show is okay, but not as good as the original."
I'd like to linger on this last sentence for a moment. It would make sense if it read "As with a lot of things, the original still outshines the remake." But the inclusion of "in this instance though" destroys it. It's a complete contradiction. It's like saying, "Quite often, but fairly rarely."
Labels: Hawaii Five-0, Mike Morsch, Montgomery Newspapers, Outta Leftfield
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