The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Aside from all the rest of the indignities that poor horse has to suffer, he has to end up on Page Four. You can see for yourself how he feels about it...

Oh yeah, Mr. Editor? Tell it to Stalingrad.

You didn't look there FIRST? Not very good at this, are you?

"Wait'll he's done!"

"Well, I''ll have to clear it first with the BRT."

All right, kid. Money where your mouth is.

Step on it!

"Yeah, they call him that because he really likes soda. What? What did you THINK it meant?"

"Oh yeah? You're one to talk." "What?" "Nothin'."

Some people just deserve each other.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

What happens when the publicists haven't actually seen the movie...

 

[Fading Fast]

"But I'm hungry!" argues Alice.

"I hope Red Bawrbeh gawt more'na doughnut," mutters Alice

God luv ya, Alice.

****************************************************************

"Explain this, please. Who is this grinning jackanapes?" "Um," ums Mr. Parrott, pulling at his bow tie, "it's -- um -- Danny Kaye, sir. Leo got it for me. It's - um -- autographed, and.." "Judas Priest," exhales Mr. Rickey....

Perfect, just perfect.

****************************************************************

Step on it!

It would be all but impossible to list all the movies that this exact scene is in.

******************************************************************

"Oh yeah? You're one to talk." "What?" "Nothin'."

Good one, Lizzie.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Heidelboig," muses Sally. "I read sump'n about t'at place oncet, inna National Geographic." "Oh, I seen'at book," replies Alice. "Siddy brung home a bunch'v'm he foun' inna gawrbage can. I neveh knew t'woil' was so big. I neveh done much travelin' y'know, 'cept -- uh -- upstate." "Joe neveh done no travelin' in his whole life," sighs Sally. "We wenta Bawston one time t'see a doubleheadeh, an we laws' bot' games, so we neveh bot'ehed wit' no travelin' afteh t'at. But now, he's in Heidelboig. You know t'ey got t'is big, famous bridge t'eh?" "So d'we," notes Alice. "I can't get too excited 'bout no bridges." "T'ezza castle t'eh too," continue Sally. "An'na univoisity." "Wondeh how t'eh basketbawl team's doin'!" snickers Alice. Sally frowns. "Sawry," shrugs Alice. "Hawrd t'resis'." 'Heidelboig," sighs Sally. "Joe hates t'travel. Awl he done onna train awla way t' Bawston an' back was fidget. I hope he ain' fidgetin' now." "I don' t'ink' 'ey allow fidgetin' inna Awrmy," offers Alice. "Siddy neveh said nut'n 'bout fidgetin' when he was inna Awrmy. Lotta ot'eh stuff he done. Guess he was too busy t'fidget." "I dunno," exhales Sally. "I'd rat'eh have 'im fidget...")

("Hey Pap," queries Willie, enjoying an after-school soda at Schreibstein's. "You eveh seen a elephan'? "Yeh," nods Krause, thru a sip of his own drink. "It don' make no sense," Willie continues. "Howcome t'ey gotta use awlem pails? It don' make no sense. T'at elephan' got t'at long nose t'eh, right? Howcome t'ey don' jus' have a big barrel'a wawrteh, right? An'nen'a elephan' c'n come an stick 'is nose inneh, suck up awla wawrteh he wants. Wouldn'at woik?" Krause considers the idea, and, looking the boy straight in the eye, inserts his own straw up his nose and as Willie gapes in astonishment, takes a deep huff of his beverage. He considers the result, and shakes his head. "Neh!")

(Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick...)

(KIDS TODAY)

("Sir!" gapes Mr. Parrott. "You -- reading "Variety???" "This show business, my boy," declares Mr. Rickey, "is an enterprise worthy of consideration. Perhaps I have been unreasonably hard in discouraging Mr. Durocher's ambtions in that realm. Perhaps there is room to achieve a state of equilibrium between baseball and buskin!" "Ah," ahs Mr. Parrott for want of any other comment. "Do you know," marvels Mr. Rickey, "that there are such men as 'agents' in the show business - men who do not themselves perform but who receive a full ten percent of the proceeds generated by those who do? In exchange, of course, for -- ah -- trifling services rendered? And there is no -- ah -- Commissioner to -- ah -- impose his unreasonable restrictions upon such matters?" "Oh," ohs Mr. Parrott by way of variation." "The possibilities," smiles Mr. Rickey, "extend outward to infinity...")

("What are you looking at? The goatee? You should have seen my mother's!")

(Sure are a lot of idiots around here...)

("Why, you look exactly like the Duchess of Windsor!" **SLAP***)

("Um, isn't it obvious?")

("All right. Plan B. So -- does anybody have one?")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"And I'll NEVER LEAVE HOME AGAIN."

"Coming events..."

I hope he lands in a tree.

Patience.

It's a savage business.

Life is the fiction we create to get ourselves thru each night.

You really have no idea.

Phony silver dollars, hollow inside, and filled with drugs. There, solved it.

Well, no more dangerous than being dragged behind a car over a country road and then set on fire. Which reminds me, do you have any iodine?

Just in case you've forgotten who's the King of the Trolls.

 

[Fading Fast]

"And I'll NEVER LEAVE HOME AGAIN."

That is a neat story that I'm surprised, with all the WWII books and documentaries I've read and seen over the years, I don't remember encountering before. I wonder if there's a book in there today - in her and her two-continent family's story, before, during and after the war.

********************************************************************

You really have no idea.

Annie will win because she is smarter and she is the title character, but Anne has not played this one with her usual brand of smarts.

********************************************************************

I hope he lands in a tree.

Agreed. He is a roaring *ss, the exact type of personality I can't stand, but man do I want him to be okay (and then to leave the storyline for whatever reason).

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Well, that's soomthin' at least," sighs Ma. "Hitlarr?" scoffs Uncle Frank. "Woind in 'is neck? Th' day will nevarr dawn. Oi've known me share a' men loike that, strootin' little poltroons..." "Oi don't mean that," eyerolls Ma. "Oi mean harrse racin'. Soon's Garrrmany's licked, they reoopen th' race tracks an' we can get back doon t'sarrious business." "Postwarr reconvarsion cooms arrly," chuckles Uncle Frank. "Yarr mooth," nods Ma, "t'Gaaahd's earr." The conversation lags off just in time for the jingling door to herald the arrival of Bink Scanlan. "Yaaaar late," observes Ma. "Ye was spoosta be in at eight aaahn th' daaht." "I was out late," mutters Bink, tossing her coat behind the counter and fishing for an apron. "Ye waaar?" queries Uncle Frank, his interest piqued. "Ye was spoosta be warrkin' at the warehoose." "T'at dope Inky Quinlan," fumes Bink. "I jus' pern'ed out ONE mistake. I says "I neveh hoida Jimmie Wawkeh whiskey." He says it's sposta be Johnny Wawkeh. I says 'nen whyzit say JIMMIE Wawkeh. He goes slammin' out t'dooeh like'ee was gonna cry. Aftehr'a while I figyehed, well, HE ain' comin' back. So -- um -- I wen' out wit' -- um -- a frien'.." "Ah," rumbles Uncle Frank, his jaw rippling...)

("It's jus t'at ev'ry time I lookit t'papeh," exhales Sally, "t'ez sump'nabout t' Sevent' Awrmy mixed up in sump'n awrf'l. An' awl I can t'ink of is 'whez Joe? Izzee inna mid'la t'at?" "You do know, though," inserts Dr. Levine, "that there's over 350,000 men in the Seventh Army. And the odds that somebody like Joe is in the middle of every --" "Whassat sposta mean?" snaps Sally. "Somebody like Joe." "Well," fumbles Dr. Levine, "I didn't mean that like it sounded. What I mean is, he's not an infantryman, he's not in front line combat, am I right in saying that? He's a cook, and even though he might be close to the front, he's not --well -- AT the front. Is that a fair statement." "He was close enough t'get shawt," retorts Sally. "An' I'm sicka people sayin' 'nobody shoots at a cook'! Ev'rybody aroun'eeh knows Joe's t'kin'a guy would go aroun' feedin' stray cats an' dawgs an' springin' mouse traps 'cause he didn' like t' t'ink'a what happn'ta mice, an ev'rybody knows he wasn' no good f'nut'n wit' a gun, ev'na AWRMY knows t'at. But none'a t'at mattehs be'cause SOMEHOW he got shawt! An' shot howeveh it happn'ta him ain' no diff'rn'f'rm gett'n shawt right upta front! Ei'teh way, ya been SHOT." "I can't disagree with that," shrugs Dr. Levine. "But you seem -- defensive about it in a way that seems like YOU're taking it personally." I AIN' DEFENSIVE!" yells Sally. "I jus'don' like t'way people ack like Joe ain' no real soljeh! Ya put awnna unifawrm, ya get shawt, T'AT"S SOLJEH ENOUGH F"ME!" "But --" contends Dr. Levine, "DOES anyone actually say that? Or are you trying to convince -- yourself." Sally glares across at the psychiatrist, and looks up at the clock. "I gotta go," she growls. "I think we've covered enough for this week," agrees the doctor.)

(40-year old Leo and 42-year-old Sukey. Think there'll be a lot of stolen bases against the Dodgers this year?)

(AT LEAST HE SAVED THE DOUGHNUTS!)

(This kind of law-parsing suggests Bugs should consider a career in Congress.)

(Accordion pleats?? How did the OPA authorize THAT?)

(Bugs gets much more dignity here than they ever allow him in his own strip!)

(Wait, we're doing another dream story? Can we at least bring back conscience-stricken, introspective Genghis Khan? Now there was a character with potential!)

(Hence the expression, "A cup of Joe.")

(Well well well, now who's Miss Innocent Sweetpants?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Adrenaline can work miracles.

"The 12 O'Clock Floozy." Wasn't that a Broadway musical in 1924?

Tracy missed a trick here. He should have filled the back of the radio with bees.

Does Chili know about Rita??

"Tippey-toe?" I don't think she can do it!

Somebody tell LaGuardia about "Dogface Wallace's Palace and Poker Pastime Club."

CALLED IT

They grow up so fast.

Least they can do is give the kid a commission.

Oh foo, I was hoping it was Singh-Singh. BOM BIDDY BOM!

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"OH YEAH??" -- Geo. Magerkurth.

And finally...

And just like that there were no Nazis at all...

 

[Fading Fast]

"But --" contends Dr. Levine, "DOES anyone actually say that? Or are you trying to convince -- yourself." Sally glares across at the psychiatrist, and looks up at the clock. "I gotta go," she growls. "I think we've covered enough for this week," agrees the doctor.

I forget, who's paying for the good doctor? Oh, and whatever it is, it is not enough.

***********************************************************************

"Tippey-toe?" I don't think she can do it!

If she was successful, that would make person number three dead or missing in her orbit. The police wouldn't miss that.

************************************************************************

Least they can do is give the kid a commission.

No one read Playboy for the articles and no one reads "Smilin' Jack" for the poor man's "Terry and the Pirates" storyline. It's time to bring back the cheesecake.

***********************************************************************

"OH YEAH??" -- Geo. Magerkurth.

Bill Klem's one argument – and in a way, it's not a bad one – is tautological.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Look, Sal," pleads Alice, rounding the corner of 18th and 63rd. "I know t'em screens on ya windehs 'rawl rusty an' fawlin'apawrt. An'' I tol' Siddy like ya said. But it's jus' like he said, y'can't gett'm right now. He says 'es got some broken ones inna berleh room, an' he can cut out some patches an' stitch'm in wit' some ol' wieh, but nobody's gettn' no new screens till afteh t'wawr. T'at's jus' t'way it is." "Ahhh, I know it ain' his fawlt," sighs Sally as they climb the stoop of No. 1762. "Iss jus', ev'ry time I read'na papeh 'bout some kid fawlin' outa windeh I worry 'bout Leonoreh." "She'd neveh climb out no windeh," reassures Alice as they step into the foyer. "Less t'eh was some books out t'eh." "Wait a minute," inserts Sally, fumbling for her mailbox key. "Letteh inneh." Sally withdraws a long buff-colored envelope. "From Joe?" queries Alice. Sally stares at the envelope for a long moment. "No," she reports in a quiet, even voice. "No, it ain't from Joe." She looks up at Alice, an expression of blank terror in her eyes. "It's from t' Wawr Department." "Oh," exhales Alice. "Um, well, look, Sal," she hastens, "if it was sump'n bad t'ey'd sen' a telegram. Wouln'ney? A telegram. Right?" Sally takes a deep breath and slowly peels open the flap. She extracts two sheets, unfolds them, slides her glasses down her nose, and reads the message. "Well?" urges Alice. Sally looks up, her face completely blank. "Joe's gett'n dischawrged," she begins. "A medical dischawrge. T'eh sendin' 'im home." "WHAT?" yelps Alice. "What is?" pipes the voice of Mr. Ginsburg, peeking out his apartment door. "Misteh G!" gasps Alice. "Joe's comin' home!" "Oy gevalt!" gapes Mr. Ginsburg. "Esther!" he calls back into the apartment. "Yussel! Is coming home!" "What?" erupts Mrs. Ginsburg. "How can? How?" But Sally hears none of it, because Sally has collapsed against the newel post, and slumped unconscious to the floor...

("Heh," hehs Uncle Frank. "Th' Blue Hour. Ahhhhl th' beer Oi soold that place in th' oold days. Stoof ye get now joost can't..." He is interrupted in his nostalgic reverie by the here-and-now jingling of the telephone. "Get that," directs Ma, wrestling a jug of syrup into the dispenser. "Ahhh, thim bloody caaackroaches..." Uncle Frank steps to the wall and hoists the receiver. "Lieb's," he answers in a cheery voice, but can get out no further greeting in the onslaught from the other end of the line. "Slooo daown, choild," he replies. "Slooooow---As' ucht de!!! We'll be roit ovarr!!!" He hangs up as the line goes dead, and turns to Ma. "Sally joost gaaaht word.." "Marciful Gaaahd," whispers Ma, all color draining from her face. "No," gasps Uncle Frank. "He's coomin' home." "BARBARA!" yells Ma into the back room. "You cloose oop! We gaaaahta go!" Without bothering to peel off her apron, Ma throws on her coat and she and Uncle Frank make a fast exit, bound for the Prospect Park station. Bink saunters out of the back room, helps herself to a fresh pack of Black Jack, drops a nickel down the phone, and dials a BUckminster number. "Hey Jimmy," she purrs into the mouthpiece. "Whatcha doin' t'night....?)

(Eddie Dowling is the Gentile Eddie Cantor.)

(Once again Mr. Lichty has been peeking in my back yard. That tree is where I empty my vacuum cleaner bag, and then I whack it against the trunk to pound out the dust.)

("Mr. Sukeforth looks very well for a man of his years," smiles Mr. Rickey. "Um," ums Mr. Parrott, "that photo was taken in 1931. The Eagle -- ah -- saves a lot of..." "In the future," frowns Mr. Rickey, "you will see that, when the occasion arises for your paper to display my photograph, that they ALSO use one from 1931. I wish to appear as virile as Mr. Sukeforth." "Um," ums Mr. Parrott. "That will be ALL," frosts Mr. Rickey. "Yes sir," murmurs the retreating Mr. Parrott...)

(Don't laugh, Julian Eltinge made a fortune with this act.)

(Ya do whatcha gotta do.)

("Can I get dressed now? This thing binds!)

("Do you mind if I call you -- Ursula? It's -- uh -- a name I like, that's all.')

(Sometimes you're the sap, and sometimes you're the tree.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

There was a time when being a Vanderbilt meant something in this town! Now it's just the name of the ramp in Penn Station where you can buy Dodger tickets.

"Hey Pap," shouts Willie. "C'n we go'ta coicus?? Elephants 'n tigehs! An' monkeys, t'ey got MONKEYS!" "Yeh!" enthuses Krause, his dark eyes sparkling. "Hey Pap," continues Willie. "D'you heeh sump'n? Upstaiehs? Souns like yellin'!" "Yeh," nods Krause, instantly recognizing the voice and racing for the stairs...

"YIPE?? That's MY line! WELL!" -- Jack Benny.

Eight ten? Poor Nina.

"Hmph," hmphs Hu Shee...

Somebody send for Walter Reuther.

Two silver dollars plus a container? Yeah, nobody would spot that.

Um...this is the best plan you could come up with?

Don't let your mouth write a check...

Mmmm, cellophane...

 

[Fading Fast]

"Mr. Sukeforth looks very well for a man of his years," smiles Mr. Rickey. "Um," ums Mr. Parrott, "that photo was taken in 1931. The Eagle -- ah -- saves a lot of..." "In the future," frowns Mr. Rickey, "you will see that, when the occasion arises for your paper to display my photograph, that they ALSO use one from 1931. I wish to appear as virile as Mr. Sukeforth." "Um," ums Mr. Parrott. "That will be ALL," frosts Mr. Rickey. "Yes sir," murmurs the retreating Mr. Parrott...

My God, couldn't Parrott find a job back on a paper, some paper, any paper, anywhere?

**********************************************************************

"Can I get dressed now? This thing binds!

"Plus, I'm freezing."

"We can see that, honey."

"What? Oh, OH!"

**********************************************************************

Eight ten? Poor Nina.

Poor kid's got Walt's genes.

**********************************************************************

"Hmph," hmphs Hu Shee...

I'm sorry, Hu Shee, I'm on your team, but the fates just don't seem to want to let it happen.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Well, ye shoo me th' lettar," dismisses Ma, "boot Oi still doon't oondarstand it. It's gaaaht noothin' t'do with 'im gett'n shot? Arr doos it?" "I don' know no moeh'n you do," laments Sally. "But t'is heeh -- 'psychoneurosis incoied inna line'a duty.' Don' say nut'n'about gett'n shawt." "That's what thim doctarrs at Bellevue said about you," frowns Ma. "Cept farr th' loine a'duty." "Them doctehs didn' know what t'ey was tawkin'about," scoffs Sally. "It's probly't'same t'ing wit' Joe. I ast'a docteh out t'plant about it, an' awl'ee done was gimme some aspirin. I t'ought maybe Docteh Levine might have sump'n t'say, but awl I got was 'eh answerin' soivice. You know, somebody takes t'message an' gives it to 'eh lateh. I give 'eh t'is numbeh, maybe she'll cawl." "An'ney don' say t'eh," continues Ma, "whin he's coomin' home." "Y'see it y'self t'eh," shrugs Sally. "I will be notified, it says. He don' jus' show up, y'know, t'eh prob'ly gonna send 'im t'some Awrmy hospital heeh, an'nen a sep'ration centeh bef'oeh t'ey let'im come home. Could be weeks, mont's, who knows? An'ney'll probl'y find out t'ey gawt 'is reckids mixed up wit' some loon a'sump'n, an'ee won' come home anyways." "Psy-cho-noo-ro-siss," ponders Ma. 'They nivvar had sooch things when OI was yoong." Sally's response is lost by the jangling of the telephone. "I gawt it," announces Sally, rushing to the wall. "Maybe Docteh Levine. H'lo? What? How t'hell should I know? You gawt t'wrawng -- INgehsawll 2-6683. Yeh. Well, you musta wrote it down wrong. Now hang up, I'm waitin' -- yeh, same tyou!" She slams the phone back on the hook and rolls her eyes. "Some joik," she fumes. "Get t'is, he's askin me what's t' awds awn Pawrmeh voises Pe'lata." "Ah," ahs Ma, her eyes focused on a speck on the grubby tin ceiling. "You awta getcha numbeh changed," sighs Sally. "T'is whole town's fulla bums." "Oi caan't argue," agrees Ma....)

(In a medical unit in Strasbourg, Joe sits on the edge of his cot, pen poised over a blank sheet. He glances at the creased, brown-stained photo of Sally in her Woolworth's uniform on the blanket next to him, writes a few lines, stops, crushes the paper and flings it in frustration to the floor..)

("Hey Siddy!" laughs Alice. "Look'eeh!! Inna papeh! It's t'at - you know what -- I give 'em!" Krause glances the photo and snickers. "What's so funny?" interrupts Willie. "Go play wit'cha dawg," directs Alice. 'Yeh," adds Krause thru a stifled guffaw...)

(All right, this one made me laugh out loud.)

(A catching staff for the ages. The -- ah -- middle ages. Oh, and Mungo's ALWAYS been different.)

(It's bad manners to carry an opened umbrella in the house. Didn't you learn that in charm school?)

(Life's a show and we all must play our roles...)

"Jane Arden, the Foomp Girl."

(Please don't go out in public wearing that dress. Please.)

(If this ends with Worst Dad Ever tied to a chair in a secret basement lair, I'll forgive a whole lot.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

BUT WHAT HAPPENS TO THE HORSE???

Nah, give him to Stalin.

Somebody needs to look at that damper.

Don't worry, LaGuardia made an exemption for this.

You seem well informed.

Awwwwwwwwwww....

"You got lots more hair..." Poor Shadow.

Well, that certainly dulls the moment...

This isn't quite "Annie Being Thrown Into The Sea By Axl," but it's pretty close.

Emmy and my mother have a lot in common.

 

[Fading Fast]

If this ends with Worst Dad Ever tied to a chair in a secret basement lair, I'll forgive a whole lot.

Basement Lairs 'r Us will donate the lair for free.

**************************************************************

With twelve wives, you'd think he'd enjoy being in jail just to get away from it all.

He's 5'2", how could "New York's Picture Newspaper" not have a shot of him and a few of the wives?

***************************************************************

This is one of his cuter jokes.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I just don' get it, Sal," sighs Alice. "You been complainin' f'ra whole yeeh Joe gawt drafted, an' now t'eh sendin' 'im home, y'still ain' happy. He's comin' HOME. Ain'nat whatcha wawn'ed?"" "Nawt like t'is," mutters Sally. "T'eh framin' up awn 'im wit' awlat neuro-whateveh junk. Joe ain' neurotic. He was neveh neurotic a day'n 'is life. I don' know NOBODY in my whole fam'ly's less neurotic t'en Joe." "Y'gawtta pernt," shrugs Alice. "What?" "Nut'n." "What t'ey prob'ly done, see," theorizes Sally, "is t'ey gawt 'is papehwoik mixed up wit' some ot'eh Joe Petrauskas." "Ah," sighs Alice. "Don't ah," insists Sally. "T'ezzano'teh Joe Petrauskas lives oveh'rinna Flatlans. One time we gawt 'is mail by mistake. Buncha magazines 'bout t'ese guys playin' volleybawl onna beach a'sump'n. Prob'ly it's'at guy." "Well, jeeez, Sal," argues Alice. "S'pose ya right. But what about t'at ot'eh Joe Petrauskas's fa'mly? Ain'ney gonna be soeh if some ot'eh Joe Petrauskas comes home steada t'ez? Maybe y'otta write t' t' Wawr D'pawrtmen,' tell 'm t'check it out." Sally blinks at this thought. "Howcome,' she exhaes, "you gotta roon ev'ryt'ing?" "Sawry," sighs Alice...)

(Careful not to miss your exit!

("Look here," announces Uncle Frank, brandishing an official-looking envelope. "Froom th' U-nited States Immigration an' Naaaaturalization Sarrvice. Acknowledgement of me Declaration oof Intention to Seek Naturalization. They have accepted me farrrst paparrs." "Didn't check oop ahhn ye, thin," squints Ma. "Tommy Doyle wroot me that foine lettar, ye recall," replies Uncle Frank. "Tistifoyin' t'me good charactarr. Ahhn ooficial Police Depaaaartment stationery. Oi didn't use noon'a Inky's neitharr, it was th' real stoof." "Well, aint'chee a Yankee Doodle Dandy," scoffs Ma. "But goo ahead, draaaaaw attention t'ye'self, waste ye toime." "I gaaat a two yarr waitin' period farr me second papaars," relates Uncle Frank. "That'll poot me roit aboot 1947, still plenny'a toime t'get in aaahn thim war surploos auctions. Ye knoo, they have thim swaaarin' in ceremoonies at the ballpark." "Maybe they'll soin ye oop," snorts Ma, "t'play faaaarst base...")

(Two in a row for Mr. Lichty, laughed out loud again!)

(Interleague play? The yellow baseballs were one thing, Larry, but INTERLEAGUE PLAY???)

(Can't say I didn't warn ya!)

(It's a living.)

(Look, it's Bette Davis vs. Joan Crawford!)

(SOME INVISIBLE FRIEND YOU ARE!)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG is ready to -- ah -- lick the guy to death?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Heiresses schmeiresses. Whatever happened to that sad horse?

Necessity is the mother of invention.

Lobster thermidor? Come off it, knobhead, that was tuna casserole and you know it.

And there are those who say Harold Gray has no sense of humor.

Emily's got to be past fifty, and gawdonlyknows how old Avery is. The rest of this story will be told on Page Four.

"I do wish he'd send postcards, I always enjoy peeking at postcards." "What?" "Nothing!"

Careful Paprika -- don't tip over!

The Sugar Bowl? A little neighborhood joint? Will the back room be open?

Never invite Kayo over for soup.

"So what's that, half a buck?"

 

[Fading Fast]

Ahhn ooficial Police Depaaaartment stationery. Oi didn't use noon'a Inky's neitharr, it was th' real stoof."

Quite often, the funniest thing about these characters is their complete lack of irony in situations, where, well, umm, there is a decent amount of it.

**************************************************************

It's a living.

Often referred to as the oldest kind. Also, she needs to space her moves out a bit more.

**************************************************************

AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG is ready to -- ah -- lick the guy to death?

Mrs. Miniver gave him milk and bread, talked him to sleep, took his gun, called the cops, and it was all over before the rest of the family woke up.

***************************************************************

Necessity is the mother of invention.

Not just saying it, I had the exact same thought. Man has an incredible will to survive – threaten his livelihood and that will shines through. So Ma must do some of this type of business too, no?

****************************************************************

"So what's that, half a buck?"

On a good day.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Awright," pauses Sally, dropping a letter into the pole box at the corner of 18th and 63rd. "I done like you said. I wrote a letteh t't' Wawr Depawrtmen' tellin'm t'ezzis ot'eh guy name Joe Petrauskas, an' I give'm t'address we gawt awffa t'em magazines an ' I ask'm t'check awn it. I just stuck it downa bawx 'eh, you seen me do it an' I done it. So now we'll see." "Awrways a good idea t'check up awn anyting comes alawng in ya life," observes Alice, as they resume their morning walk to the 18th Avenue BMT station. "I loin't'at a lawng time ago, when I was, you know drivin'a truck f'ya Uncle Frank. Awlem -- um -- plumbin' supplies, you din' wanna get mixed up on any'a t'em owrdehs. T'em people could get awful -- um -- picky. So I figyeh, y'know, like Amos 'n Andy says, check 'n double check. Maybe ya right, maybe it IS t'at ot'eh Joe t'at's s'posta come home onnat -- whatchacawl -- neuritis t'ing, whateveh. So ya doin' a good t'ing f'ris fam'ly t'check awn it." "Yeh," mutters Sally. "Doin' a real good toin, 'at's me." "Uh oh," pauses Alice. "Now what," eyerolls Sally. "I jus' t'ought'a sump'n," Alice continues. "What if it really IS youeh Joe t'at's s'posta come home, an' ya go down'eh station t'meet'im an' ya stan'in' 'eh waitin' but instead who comes awff t'train big as life but t'is OT'EH Joe, t'is, whatja say, t'is volleybawl guy fr'm t' Flatlans. Whatcha gonna do 'bout t'at?" "Why you gotta roon ev'rytin'g," sighs Sally as they vanish into the station....)

(At Stalag VII-B, Moosburg, Germany, Pvt. Michael P. Sweeney of Brooklyn USA gnaws into a hard fragment of dry black bread, and again concludes that no matter what happens, he will never again complain about the Raymond Street Jail...)

("You're the only kind of knowledge, they don't teach in any college...")

("You are certain that you are prepared for this challenge?" demands Mr. Rickey. "Ayuh," exhales Mr. Sukeforth, in his laconic Maine blueberry farmer way. "If you should falter," continues Mr. Rickey, "should you experience difficulties, should you find that you are in any way incapable of carrying out the duties of your assignment, you may rest assured, you may assume with every confidence that I stand ready to don the uniform and carry the load in your stead." "Ayuh," nods Mr. Sukeforth, his eyes twinkling with suppressed amusement. "Yessah!")

("T'at pitcheh was punk," snorts Bink Scanlan as she and her brawny companion exit the RKO Albee. "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn! T'at wasn' ev'na bush. An' who TAWKS like t'em people anyway? A real howleh, ain' I right? Well, ain' I?" Her companion, visibly uncomfortable, makes no response. "Jeeze, Jimmy!" demands Bink. "Be yaself! You wasn' like 'is las' time!" "I ain' Jimmy," replies her escort. "I'm Danny." "G'WAN," challenges Bink. "Y'ain' EIT"EH! Y'shoulda SAID sump'n when I grabbed ya at t'stoeh!" "Wawned t'see t'pitcheh," shrugs Danny. "You ain' Danny!" denies Bink. "You AIN'!" "I'll show ya me woikeh's ID cawrd fr'm t' shipyawrd," declares Danny. "Gawt it right in me wallet. Lemme see -- at's funny, I had it right heeh...")

(So many of our comic strip friends go in for ritual humiliation. An interesting commentary on the times.)

(It's easy if you know how.)

(Hollywood and the newspaper business are a lot alike. Both require plenty of legwork.)

(DONT THEY look like Wally and the Duke??)

(We had an escaped convict loose in the neighborhood when I was about Junior's age, and my mother locked my sister and me in the house to prevent us from being taken hostage. So we never got to see any posses or any of that other interesting junk...)