M. SCOTT MORRIS I was on a rampage. It was a spur-of-the-moment tempest in a teapot. Someone on his high horse dropped a fly in my ointment. I was foaming at the mouth, if you know what I mean. In the twinkling of an eye, the thorn in my side flew the coop, taking the words right out of my mouth and making me feel like the crowned prince of cloud-cuckoo land. All of the sudden, another fellow came into the picture.