Sportsman's Daily


Ask Andre

Andre Morrelenbaum, "award-winning" journalist and TSD Radio correspondent.

Andre Morrelenbaum is an "award-winning" journalist and TSD Radio correspondent. Andre fields all questions, no matter how off-topic, off-color, off-center or off-the-wall. Please note that Andre's responses -- particularly his snide, smug tone -- do not necessarily represent the views or attitudes of TSD or those of our parent company, Sportsman's Media. Frankly we'd prefer to have no part of Mr. Morrelenbaum, but he pays good money on time for the priviledge, and the bills have a way of adding up.

Ask Andre Here

Hello Andre:

Its been many years, but I came across a case of Pineau des Sablons cognac in my attic. One bottle is missing -- the one you and I shared with those two lovely Swedish flight attendants who were in town when we were covering the first Ali-Frazier fight.

Perhaps we can get together and polish off the last three with flight attendents from other Scandanavian locales.

Your thoughts?

Tony Carrington,
Garden City, NY

Dear Sweet Lord,

Tony Carrington?! Tony "9 livers" Carrington?! What a thrill and a surprise it is to hear from you!

First of all, I must ask if that case of cognac was labeled "CAUTION: Carrot Juice"... I am surprised that it lasted an hour in your attic, let alone the 37 years since that freezing night in New York. As I recall, it would take you 4 bottles of cheap Hennesey just to get the moths out of that stubborn old head of yours.

(ed. Tony Carrington is a splendid journalist who covered the Korean War and boxing for The Economist, was the inspiration for Clete Roberts' appearances on MASH, and the man who coined the phrase "once is twice, minus eternity")

You've warmed my heart sir. I've become a bitter old scribe - excoriating children and riduculing fans. Perhaps your missive can return me to a more civilized journal-ism, one that challenges and enlightens, while telling truths that need telling. Like the truths about the Skamen sisters, those KLM darlings from the advent of the jet age. Ahhh, rest assured though, my bushy chinned pal, the Skamen secret will remain with me always, as long as the offer of your caramel colored elixir still remains.

So I shall take you up on your offer - sans Scans (as my wife of 36 years might protest). Where shall we meet?

But before I attempt a reform, I must admit that my story from that chilly March night made yours appear as if typed at the jumbled keyboard of a dyslexic squirrel.


Hey You --

You're a cocky bastard aint' ya?

Spiro Pappas
Corinth, Greece

Yes I am, Spiro. Yes I am.

See, when one is a decorated and respected Journal-ist, one can afford a certain air of privilege, or as the pedestrian among us call it - cocky.

But, my bona fides alone do not qualify me to be elite - it is my dramatic and superb knowledge of every subject on earth. In short - Spiro - I am who I am as a result of what I've done. And what I've done is quite breathtaking and I doubt a person of your lacking intellect can comprehend the staggering depth of my brilliance. Or as you might put it: I'm smarter than you..

Oh, and by the way, the Turkish soccer team looks gorgeous in their short pants - the same cannot be said for your team.

Dear Mr. Andre,

If Roger Clemens was a tree, what tree would he be?

Buddy Hayward, Age 6

Plymouth Meeting, PA

Hi Buddy!

Thanks for your question. Before I answer it, could you tell me if your parents are home? Because I want them to be around when I tell you that you should just go ahead and get that job at the mall now, and forget about an education. It's not gonna take. You're pretty dumb. Ahhh, good. Your parents are here.

Mom, Dad, you raised an idiot. Look above at his question. Go ahead. Drink it in. See what I mean? Why don't you help him out now by either taking him to the Food Court and co-signing him for a gig, or better yet, take one of those Pokemon pillows he has on his piss-stained bed and just end it all with a few minutes of good strong application on and around his face area.

In the meantime, I'm gonna need you - Buddy - to think about what you've done here. And reflect back on a life wasted.

Be well.

PS - he'd be a lemon tree.

Hey Pally,

Did you take care of that thing?

Rocco Milazzo, Tenafly, NJ


I told you not to use this address. If you had paid attention, you'd have used the proper address. But you had to make things complicated by contacting me here.

So, how do I say this, I wouldn't leave my house if I were you. Several of my more muscular friends have you in their sites pretty much around the clock. And I say this knowing full well that I know where to contact you in PRIVACY. I know this note is between you and me. So, let me be clear. I did take care of that thing, and it was not pretty. And, your role in it was made clear with each severed finger.

I don't know how to tell you this. And then again, I don't need to. So I won't. Or maybe I will.

And by the way, go fuck yourself.


Mr. M,

You bio reads that you're an award-winning journalist. Yet, it never makes mention of what those awards are for. Would you please enlighten me as to your achievements?

With deep, abiding respect,

Jack Roykirk Ames, Iowa

Dear Jack

Thank you for your inquiry. I appreciate a man willing to find out more about his favorite journalist.

Thus far in my career, I have seven hundred and ninety five awards for my journalistic endeavours (that's the British version). Among them are the "Honorable Mention Award for Most Conservative Rendering of the Dwight D. Eisenhower Elementary School Lunch Listings for the Week of March 21, 1959". That was an early award, for example.

In High School, I wrote for the monthly community newspaper (by the way, when pronouncing the word newspaper among friends, please pronounce it as follows: "NYOOSS-paper") - the North Valley Sun Community Journal of Classified Advertisements. I won 9th Runner-Up for my entry "25 Year Old Couch"

While the above citations illustrate my skills, the following awards are my three most significant:

3.) The Larksville-Courtdale-Pringle Area Chamber of Commerce Annual Supper Placard Writing Award. This honor showcased my, to quote the judges, "Consistency of Penmanship" after personally scribing over 50 placards for the attendants-to-be at the annual supper dinner Supper.

2.) The Crispin Glover Award for Deep Undercover Journalism. This award was given for my 45 word series investigating the abuse of intergovernmental revenue between the emerging economies of the transitioning Dutch-run Republic of CongolesiBurundi and the Arena Football League's Christopher Fystem, the third-string offensive guard for the Grand Rapids Rampage. The intersection of Pan-Afro-Asian governmental corruption and Upper Level American Foot Ball was - again, quoting the judges - "different."

1.) The Noble Prize for Good Writing - Silver Knob. The Silver Knob is the pinnacle of journal-ism. I received it for my coverage of the 1982 disturbance at the Monsterrain Medium Security Facility in the Missouri Flatlands. To quote the judges, the story was "the only one submitted" and "as far as we can tell, it's OK", and finally, the most telling quote "it doesn't stink."

For a complete rundown of my awards, send me an email.

With All Due Sincerity,


Look You, I've had enough, ya see? I'll put you in the nickel seats, ya see? It Fatlipsville for you brother. I'll drop you where you stand, ya see? It's curtains for the likes of you. You're small time. You're bologna on a cold roll. This town ain't big enough for the two of us. Watch it,

Leo Gorcey lll The Bowery, NY

Dear Leo,

Wake up, it's not 1975 anymore. Take your antagonism elsewhere.

In this day and age, we settle our differences with pen and paper. Come see me when you're ready to do it my way.

But watch your back, jack, and lay off the giggle water, or some tomato with great gams is gonna lay a wallop on you.

And that tomato is me.

With All Due Sincerity,


Yo A,

Ruff - woof woof. Grrr.. Ruff ruff. (pant pant) Grrr. Woof woof. Rex (Survivor) Michael Vick's Bad Newz Kennels, VA

Dearest Rex,

Glad to hear of your disposition.

As a journalist, it is my duty to extract meaning from the most mundane utterances. I understand the words that end in "f", but I am troubled by your use of "grrr".
I maintain a balance and objectivity in my work, but it becomes a challenge to stay clear-headed when you pepper your otherwise eloquent note with such clearly hostile words.
I won't honor your note - in spite of its cogent point - as a result of your demeanor. So, I will make this a teaching moment. Here's the lesson: "When making a point, stay clear and focused. Distractions distract."

So, once again, glad you are well. But your note did not pass my journalistic filter, so move along.

(ITALICS) (EDITOR): "Uh, Andre, this is from a dog." (/ITALICS)
Yes it is, Editor. Yes it is. A Dog of Freedom.

With All Due Sincerity,

Dr. Morrelenbaum,

I'm a Knicks fan and whenever the camera shows Isiah Thomas on the sidelines, I get a throbbing sensation in the back of my neck, followed by shooting pains in my spine. At first I thought it was a freak, one time thing. But it happens constantly. What's wrong with me?


Jerry Leonard

Staten Island, NY

Dear Jerry,

You are dying.

But let me qualify that. I am a journalist, award winning to be more precise.
I consulted world famous Sports Spineologist Tomas Alexopolous about your condition. He took some time, but returned a diagnosis of a rare condition called "Vado Phucko vestri matris".

As the condition is triggered by this gentleman on the sidelines, the cure is to either not look at him, or to adorn him with costumery. I have contacted Mr. Thomas personally and he agreed to help. From now on, he will be dressed as Florida Evans, the beloved main character of the 1970's situation comedy "Good Times". This new agreement will be aided by award winning costume Designer, Molly McGinnis. You will never see Isiah Thomas again, and subsequently the throbbing sensation will be limited to your empty head.

Now, move along - the world is waiting for your next brilliant observation.

With All Due Sincerity,

Hey Andy - Do the Georgia Bulldogs dream in black and white? Thanks loads,

Carl Kniffin

Clarksville, TN

My Dearest Carl....

Yours is the finest question I have received to date. You have touched on a 115 year old mystery of football lore, archetypal symbolism and hairy-palmed color blindness.

Part of your question holds water. Pre-1954 Bulldog players - owing to the absence of color in the world, you know, BEFORE color television - surely dreamt in black and white. We all did. Ours was a colorless world.
But with the first known appearance of color on earth - January 1, 1954's introduction of the RCA color TV - came a world dreaming in this new rainbow of colors. Now there are all manner of color dreams, according to preeminent dream color analyst Roy G. Biv. So when we separate out the metaphysical, psychological and the mythological elements of your inquisitive interrogative, we discover the root of your question, and, as expected, it is mired in pedantic idiocy.

You know what Carl? I was going to give you a full treatise on complimentary color-swatch lucid dreams, but I've grown tired of wasting my sophistication on you. I'm fatigued - weighted down by the cavalry of simpletons marching toward my inbox every week. I'd dismiss you with a wave of my hand, but my lateral tricepular musculature is not working as I'd like.

So - no - they don't dream as you suggest. They dream of you being gang-raped and dumped in a river as a consequence of your ridiculousness.

With All Due Sincerity,

Dear Andre - I've joined a cult and am therefore getting rid of all my material goods, as we all live in a commune, have no need for money, and share the same toothbrush. I want you to have my treasured sports memorabilia collection, with the exception of my autographed Ken Holtzman baseball glove. Where do I send it? Sincerely,

X.Z. Force

Penobscot Knob, PA

Dear X,

Please send it to my 15th ex-wife. She deserves it. She really likes baseball.
I am more interested in your cult. Specifically, the brand of toothbrush you use, as my son (from the 6th marriage) sells Oral-B supplies and could use the clientele.

By the way, Ken Holtzman confided in me years ago that he was working on a new pitch - the Matzoh Ball - when Charlie Finley punched him in the throat and told him that he wouldn't tolerate anything remotely "Jewish".

I'm so tired X, so tired. Just kidding - I wanted to see if I could get you to lie down in your brown bed with your Nikes and go to sleep, if you know what I mean.

With All Due Sincerity,

Dear Andre,

In baseball, say I'm sitting in the first row on the third base side. The batter pops a foul ball in my direction, and Mets' third baseman David Wright leaps into the stands to catch the ball. He misses it, but winds up in my lap. Do I get to keep him?

Thank you, Sandra Kalminovich Glen Lyon, PA

Dear Sandra,

What a precious question. You must be from the coal regions of Pennsylvania. That's the only explanation for the mind-numbing stupidity of your question. But, let me go ahead and attempt an answer, or I might simply implode from the weight of your dazzling muttonheadedness.

Let's assume you stole the tickets, or you slept with someone rich to get that seating choice. OK, and let's say you get to New York, or someplace that fields a Major League team. As an aside, can you point to New York on a map? Can you point to a map? Can you point to your fingers? Moving on, if we allow the cartoon-like charade of events to play out as they do in your fantastic question, David Wright will land in your lap.

And, no, you can't keep him.

You see, he belongs to the next person to sit in that seat, as a consequence of your complete impudence for the social order. And the next person to sit there - according to Mets' official records - will be smarter than, wealthier than, and - of course - more attractive than you. And I bought her those tickets.

Now move along, the 1950's are coming soon to your part of the world. You're going to want to freshen up for that.

With All Due Sincerity,

Dearest Jagoff,

You're a turd in a punch bowl. So, how about I come down there and rip that cheesy mustache off your face -- would you like that?

A Dissatisfied Customer, Crystal City, VA

Dear Anonymous Dissatisfied Person,

It's so sweet that you refer to yourself as a customer. If you don't mind my asking, what did you purchase that has you so unsatisfied? Could it be that trannie magazine your mother is in? Or perhaps your NAMBLA Year in Review journal that failed to mention you in any of the award categories that you were nominated in? Either way, it's cute. I like to pay attention to those little details.

Oh yeah, one more little detail - I would love for you to come down here for a zesty episode of mustache ripping. Problem is, I would hate to see the Sportsman Daily's readership decline - if by only one obtuse ninny much like yourself.

So why don't we do this. You come here, as you suggest, all puffed up - bring your posse if you like. I will snap your spindly white neck - as well as the spindly white necks of your vastly overrated compadres - to the point of near-death. I will then allow you to languish in your agony for as long as needed, peppering you with fresh beatings on an as-needed basis. This can go on as long as you like. I am a journalist, and can make as much or as little time as needed.

Who's the turd now, you impertinent sot? Move along, I have important questions to answer from those who use their entire respiratory system, not just their mouths.

With All Due Sincerity,

Dear Mr. Morrelenbaum,

My name is Timmy and I'm nine years old. My daddy says you don't exist. I think you do. So when you slide down the chimney this Christmas, will you please bring the Madden '08 I asked you for?

Thanks, Timmy Graham

Lawrence, Kansas

Dear Timmy,

You're a good boy, living there in Kansas - Timmy - believing in chimneys, and hoping for video games. That's very sweet, endearing and - well - special. You're a special boy Timmy, with a special daddy.

I have a question for YOU, special Timmy: does your daddy do certain things to you? Because with the intellect that you display in your simplistic note, I am certain that you will one day come to terms with another special friend - "repression".

As for the workings in your tiny little pea-sized brain that might cause you to mistake me for jolly old Saint Nick, I have no idea. But let me just invite you to lay out a little blue blanky and a little puffy pillow at the base of your chimney that you are unnaturally attached to and sleep the sleep of innocence waiting for me to wriggle down into your kerosene-heated trailer living room (do double wides even have chimneys?). It'll be a long nap my boy.

Now move along Timmy, as an award-winning journalist, I have questions to answer from bipeds.

With All Due Sincerity,


Yo Andre,

When properly adminsitering a a swift kick to the balls of your opponent while playing doubles in tennis, is it customary to also taunt him mercilessly or quielty wait until the unrelenting pain subsides?

Your Serve,

Jack Sanders

Riverside, CA

Dear Jack (or may I call you Hack?),

If you follow the game of tennis - and there are ample opportunities to do so, what with Wimbledon and the US Open available for your viewing pleasure on the television - you'll recognize a lack of ball kicking by either player on a team of doubles.

However, if you are referring to the good swift ball-kicking that my associate is going to administer to YOU as a result of this inane and vacuous question, it is customary to sucker punch you first, have my OTHER two associates hold your arms back, and have my lithe and
muscular friend steel-boot your sack until you are done puking your last cc of bile.

Let's get this straight, good sir. I really did not like your question. You have smited tennis, and smited my good reputation as an award winning journalist. And by my even addressing your question, I have made all of us - as a nation - a tiny bit stupider.

So, Jack from Riverside, stay inside your little ticky-tacky house, watch as much Extreme Super House Makeover on TV as you possibly can, and never go outside again. Ever.

Stay Dumb.

With All Due Sincerity,


Ask Andre Here

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