The Era -- Day By Day

[FOXTROT LAMONT]

And as promised...
This is Leo Durocher's own impeccably tailored 1944 satin road uniform. It was auctioned off some years ago for over $18,000 to someone with exquisite taste in gentlemen's evening attire.

Thursday will have FRI-SAT races capped.
FL pvt message option inoperable this end otherwise would have used.
TVG or any USA book online should work for wager place Maine residence with credit/debit card register.
Send selections Thurs night-Fri morning London time.

 

[FOXTROT LAMONT]

A tunnel collapse rendezvous is a tight squeeze for our hero laddie but he'll undoubtedly
rise to the occasion and come through for Burms' dynamite rescue climax.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I tell ya, Sal," exhales Corporal Solomon J. Pincus from behind a mug of Bickford's coffee, "Joe don' know how lucky he is. Infantry ain' no place f'ra human bein'. 'Specially a human bein' like Joe." He rests his cup on the table, as Sally replies with a sad nod. "I tell ya," he continues, "some'a t't'ings I seen. I guess t'ey figyehed I needed s'm time awff. I was s'posta be rotated out six mont's ago, but somebody someplace misfiled t'papehwoik awr sump'n. Sent some ot'eh Solly PIncus home, I dunno. But t'en las'week t'ey caught up wit' me, an' said, 'Cawrpr'l, repoeht t't'is aiehfield, y'got leave comin'. An' I guess t'ey must'a been tryin' t'make it upta me, t'ey stuck me onnis plane wit'ta buncha t'ese reeh echelon brass hats. On'y enlisted onna whole t'ing, an'na on'y one seen combat. But what'cha say, t'at's t' Awrmy fawr ya." "You gotta lotta ribbons on'neh," observes Sally with a glance at Solly's tunic. "Ahhhh," dismisses Solly with a diffident wave of his coffee cup, "t'ey give t'em t'ings out like pawrty favehs. Don'mean nut'n." "I'm gifted," interrupts Leonora between bites of a powdered donut. "Doc Minkoff sehso." "Izzat a fack!" exclaims Solly. "Why, t'las' time I sawr YOU, you wasn' no biggeh'na peanut!" "I'm gifted," reasserts Leonora, returning to her donut. "Cute kid," chuckles Solly. "An' lookit you. When'd you stawrt wearin'em specs?" "Aw," sighs Sally, "las' yeeh, when I stawrted at Weste'n Electric. Couldn' see awla little wiehs, you know. I'm gett'n old." "An' whassis I heeh'rabout ya brot'eh," continues Solly. "He still innat prison camp?" "Yeh," Sally nods. "An y'know what we foun' out? He had a kid. Wit'tis woman Marie Belasco." Solly erupts in laughter. "You never knew t'at till now?" he marvels. "T'at Mickey, I ask ya." "Ma looked up t'is Marie Belasco," continues Sally, "an' when she found'eh, she ended up dumpin'a kid wit'teh an'nen run awff. Pooeh kid's livin' oveh t'eh t'stoeh, but I guess when school lets out t'eh gonna move'im in wit' t'ese ot'eh people live in my buildin'. You eveh meet Alice Dooley?" "T'at big redhead Mickey useta run aroun' wit'?" snickers Solly, taking another sip of coffee. "Is she outa stir?" "What?" queries Sally. "Neveh min'," backtracks Solly, sizing up the situation. "Well anyways," continues Sally, "Alice is married t' t'is guy Sid Krause, he's t'supeh in oueh buildin'. Poifeck match. He neveh says nut'n an' she neveh shuts up. But anyways, t'eh gonna take t'is kid, Willie's 'is name, an'ee's gonna live wit' t'em f't'summeh. An'nen who knows. Ma's gett'n too old t'take caehr'va kid, did I tell ya she had a stroke a while back?" Solly is about to reply, when the conversation is interrupted. "Sally Petrauskas?" comes a sharp voice. "Zat you?" "Miss Kaplan," sighs Sally. "Nice t'see ya." "Yeh," Miss Kaplan nods, flourishing a cruller. "I come in' grab sump'n, t'ought I'd go sit in Satellite Pawrk f'ra while n' have breakfas'." She glances at Solly and her eyes narrow. "Who's ya frien'?" she inquires, her voice taking on a suspicious tone. "Ah," exhales Sally. "Cawrpr'l Pincus, meet -- uh -- Miss Kaplan. She useta woik wit' Joe upta Sperry's." "How ya do," nods Solly. "Chawrmed," nods back Miss Kaplan, her gaze narrowing into a scowl. "Well, don' let me interrupt yez," she adds. "Enjoy yeh -- breakfas'." Sally shakes her head as Miss Kaplan withdraws. "Cute trick," comments Solly, draining his coffee cup. "Hey -- whe'z Satellite Pawrk again?" "Uh-oh," pipes Leonora, chewing her last morsel of donut.)

Underground leaders in three strategically-vital countries of Western Europe announced last night in a series of special messages smuggled out to the United Press that their forces are prepared to set off "a powder keg of revolt" against Nazi occupation rule when the Allies invade the Continent. The messages were received from resistance leaders in France, Belgium, and Norway. The last of the messages came at 2 this morning European time in the form of a telephone call to UP correspondent John A. Parris, who heard a voice with a heavy accent on the other end of the line declare "it's a seven pound boy." That coded phrase led to a meeting with a Belgian underground contact in London, who explained that preparations for an armed uprising against the Nazis are ready for implementation, and he stressed that the attacks on the Germans and their local collaborators will be without mercy. "People who are hungry," he noted, "know how to hate -- and kill." He further noted that the underground has already organized special death squads who will "take care of all German officers --and traitors."

The Federal Bureau of Investigation acknowledged today that it has begun a probe into claims of threatening letters received by a number of Brooklyn Heights residents who have been "outspoken in their opposition" to the hostel for relocated Japanese-American workers that opened last week on Clinton Street. The wife of one prominent opponent of the hostel stated yesterday that her husband has received three or four critical letters a day for the past week, but she acknowledged that only a few of those letters could be considered "obnoxious," and that none were actually threatening. The worst of the letters, she said, called her husband a Fascist and a "friend of Hitler" because of his vocal opposition to the presence of Japanese-Americans in the neighborhood.

(And Mickey Owen is now 1-A. Hope they don't put him in the artillery, you wouldn't want him dropping any of those shells...)

Window shoppers visiting Loeser's Fulton Street emporium should prepare to be dazzled by a display of the Dodgers' gleaming new satin uniforms. The home suits, to be togged out on mannequins in Loeser's windows starting tomorrow, are not quite so colorful as the baby-blue road uniforms, but they nevertheless will impress. The uniforms, to be worn only night, are made from fine bridal-white satin, trimmed with silken stripes of deep midnight blue down the shoulders and around the sleeves, and also forming the belt loops of the pants. Silken blue lettering adorns the front of the shirt, which closes with a zipper, and silken numerals shine across the back.

(Erasmus pride!)

Eighteen thousand motion picture theatres all over the country will celebate the second anniversary of the formation of the Women's Army Corps next week by observing WAC Recruiting Week. A special trailer featuring Lionel Barrymore explaining the Corps and its function will be shown in all theatres, and other special short subjects showing the many activities of WACs will be screened as well. Information on how to enlist will be available in all theatre lobbies.

(What, you never heard of a sea-horse?)

(Would you rather be alone in the woods with a rabbit or a bear?)

(Our only bald president? General Eisenhower says "hm, that's not fair.)

(I think I might actually have the women's fitness book that Ernie used to trace these poses. But I won't tell if you don't.)

(Never mind these bums, go help the Dodgers!)

(I always had the impression that Hirohito was, well, kind of a schmuck.)

(Yeah, yeah, the gnomes. Get to the part with the giant octopus-faced entity!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

A brooch made from the Plexiglass from a wrecked B-26. You won't find that at Woolworths.

Everybody knows a brisket is funnier than chops.

Guess who just found a 27-year-old sketchbook in his bottom desk drawer?

Not with a bang, but with a -- gurgle?

No, 'tis skunk cabbage.

Well, there IS a WAC recruiting drive. Just sayin'. And c'mon, Cindy went thru all that and her hair didn't lose its set?

"The old dude." Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before...

Really Walt, a rooftop aerial? How's your Neutrodyne?

If man were meant to live under the sea, he'd be a giant mollusk.

Really Terry? How do know so much about ladies' underwear?

 

[Fading Fast]

"Is she outa stir?" ROTFLOL

Any idea what percentage of the troops got leave back to the US? That had to be insanely expensive and a logistical nightmare for the army.

Nice to see 1944 get a little dose of Triple Crown fever.

 

[LizzieMaine]

The Army started using a rotation system for combat troops in 1943, with an emphasis on combat troops who had been deployed for a long time and whose "morale had deteriorated." Clearly Solly would fit that category -- he's been wounded, he's been sent from one combat situation to another, he has no actual family to offer support, and from the way he's talking to Sally, he hasn't easily brushed off some of the things he's experienced. The number who got to go home on leave by early 1944 it was averaging about 1 percent of men a month. They usually got two to six weeks, but I have a feeling, given where we are in the timestream, that Solly is going to get the shorter end of that.

 

[FOXTROT LAMONT]

Nice to see 1944 get a little dose of Triple Crown fever.

Preakness post positions were drawn including Derby champion Mystik Dan; however his actual Churchill Downs speed calculated feet per second along rail by Hernandez' expert rein rate lower fractional. Splendid saddle quite but tad behind Sierre Leone and other horse whose name slips memory.

Perhaps Terrence saddled the mare after all. Lad seems fluent with foundation...

 

[LizzieMaine]

("It's shameful!" fumes Miss Kaplan thru a mouthful of egg salad sandwich. "I'm tellin' ya, it's absolutely SHAMEFUL! Joe awf soivin' 'is country, an'neh she sits, big as brass, havin' BREAKFAS' wit' t'is hot shot cawrpr'l! BREAKFAS'! YOU KOW WHAT T'AT MEANS! I awrways knew she was a tramp, awlem Erasmus goils is tramps." Mozelewski looks up from jotting notes in the margin of a copy of "Women's Wear Daily," shakes his head, and returns to his study. "Ohhhhhh, you should'a see'n'is guy!" rants Miss Kaplan. "Sitt'n'eh, leanin' back wit' a cig'rette in one han', cuppa cawfee in'na ot'eh, big grin on'is face like he t'inks 'es Robe't Tayleh. An' you shoulda seen'a medals he had awn, spread acrawst 'is ches' like a billbawrd! 'Hey lookit me, I'm a wawr hero!' Awl'ee needed was a poil handle gun anya couldn'a told 'im apawrt fr'm Patton! An'NEH SHE SITS, gazin' oveh t'table at'im like a los' lamb, an'nat pooeh lit'l Leonoreh sitt'n right t'eh seein' 'eh own mot'eh actin' like a Time Squaeh floozy! SHAMEFUL!" Mozelewski turns the page of his paper in a marked manner, and exhales pointedly, but says nothing. "Y'know what else? Y'know what's even WOISE?," Miss Kaplan continues. "I was sittin' inna pawrk, t'inkin' it awl oveh, an'nis cawpr'l shows up, tries t'strike up a convehsation! An' ya know what I says? I says 'I neveh tawk t'men t'at run' aroun' on' t'married women t'eh runnin' aroun' wit'! An' I got up an' left'im stannin'neh wit'tis mout' open!" Mozelewski again shakes his head. "Y'know we gotta do, don'cha?" demands Miss Kaplan, her eyes flaming. "Joe's our pal. We gotta let'tim know what's goin' awn, ain't we? He DESOIVES T'KNOW." Mozelewski looks up again, seems about to reply, but only shakes his head. "Well YOU wouldn' unnehstan' anyway," snaps Miss Kaplan, "you ain' a married man." Mozelewski looks up again, flares his eyes, and mutters something unintelligble under his breath. "You confoimed bachelehs is awla same," growls Miss Kaplan. "Well, you set t'eh like a six-toed fathead an' let ya pal Joe get t'hawrns drawn onnim by t'is Cawrpr'l Giggilo, but I ain' gonna stan' fawr it. I'm gonna write 'im a letteh t'night. No -- not a letteh. I'm gonna send'im a wieh! We'lll see who's t' wawr hero!")

American fighter planes and dive bombers using a new type of rocket gun in the Pacific for the first time, destroyed 40 Japanese barges moored at Raubal, New Britain, to shatter a possible enemy attempt to evacuate men or bring in supplies to the isolated base, it was announced today. Although the details of the rocket weapon were not revealed, it is believed that the guns, resembling Bazookas, were mounted in groups of three under the wings of each plane.

Brooklyn's first Japanese-American evacuees were warmly welcomed yesterday by the members of the First Presbyterian Church, 124 Henry Street, at yesterday's service. Although none of the congregation, including the pastor, knew they were there until after the service, Matsunosuki Satoni, his son Motoi and his daughter Midori were noticed on the church steps as they left, and surrounded by a crowd of congregation members offering greetings. Church member Albert Walker of 66 Orange Street represented the sentiments of the congregation when he declared "It's a fine thing that they're here. I like to see them given a chance, and as far as I am concerned they have been proven loyal." The pastor of the church, Rev. Dr. Phillips Packer Exeter, expressed the hope that the Satonis will continue to attend the church. Few passersby noted the new congregants, but one, a uniformed SPAR, expressed her opposition to the Clinton Street hostel. She did, however, acknowledge that it was a good idea for the evacuees to attend church, adding "I ought to try it myself sometime."

Thousands of Catholics attending a Holy Name rally at Ebbets Field yesterday heard New York Secretary of State Thomas J. Curran warn them of "camouflaged liberals" who use "political tricks and false propaganda" to confuse the people of the United States. "We are not living in an intelligent age," asserted Curran. "This is an age of catchwords and phrases propelled by cunning propaganda that seek to make the false opinions of the few the firm convictions of the many." HIgh officials of the Catholic Church also took part in the rally, sponsored by the Holy Name Societies of the Brooklyn Dioscean Union.

("Looooooan sharks," fumes Uncle Frank. "That's a tarrible thing t'say aboot an INDEPENDENT BUSINESSMAN.")

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

("Plenny'a chawrm.")

(S I G H H H H H H H H)

Rumors are rampant that Branch Rickey is en route to Chicago in hopes of prying second baseman Ed Stanky away from the Cubs. Stanky is out of favor with new Cubs manager Charlie Grimm, who had managed him at Milwaukee, and has not been playing regularly. Stanky is a confirmed 4-F, having tried and failed to join the Army, Navy, and Marines. The drawback for such a deal would be the fact that the Dodgers as now constituted have nothing of value to offer Mr. Wrigley in return.

(Because if there's one thing we've seen from the current literary scene, it's that there's a big pent-up demand for weird monster fiction.)

("She Had To Go And Lose It At The Astor.")

(When all else fails, turn it over to the comedy relief.)

(Yeah, if there's one thing everybody knows it's that Chicago is full of punks.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG always cooperates with the Office of War Information.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

A guitar player from the Village? WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?

Everybody's a critic.

"Hey Siddy," queries Alice. "How ol' was you when you wen' inna Awrmy? Sixteen?" "Yeh," nods Krause, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. "You was bawlheaded at fifteen, huh?" "Yeh."

All in a day's work.

Maybe there'll be a car theft scene, and you can get some pointers.

"Well, actually my name's Herschel Schermerhorn, but you know -- Hollywood."

Mr. King has entirely revised the way he draws Rachel compared to how he drew her twenty years ago. There is, indeed, a new world coming.

Ah, famous Raymond Street hospitality.

"Great. Don't forget to send me my percentage."

Ouch.

 

[FOXTROT LAMONT]

Mrs Blank looks fortunate to live after her assault. Catch that beast please.

The Miller incident might plausibly avail passion as defense, since the deceased and Mrs Miller were together inside vehicle when the physician homicide occurred by her husband's
hand. However Miller's second pistol drop largely negates passion by evidence of deliberate
intentioned premeditation to credit a more plausible psychiatric frame which allows both
passion and reason. Jealous rage only stretches so far. And, it will be noted that spousal age
span will be spake prosecution for coinage flip as jealousy as defense is frankly more valid immediate upon chance than locus protract plan. I call it a cold calculated murder.

Back in Mother India. Mr Caniff plays heartstrings within dialogue. Burms is ready for sleep.
Terrence gallant lad looking spiff in his Aero leather flight smiling bright. Tiger smile.
Though Caniff will pace this out and about usage indirection with misdirection, a little betwixt
line read is quite the play here.

 

[Fading Fast]

"I'm a tired chick."

Burma's most sincere line ever.

 

[FOXTROT LAMONT]

Burma's most sincere line ever.

Her cell utterance, ''He's young but there is a war on.'' Really hits the mark.
Cupid himself stands in awe. And bet that devil archer pissed his diaper too.

 

[LizzieMaine]

( PVT J PETRAUSKAS = FT MEADE MARYLAND = 12 37 AM = MAY 16 1944

URGENT YOU CONTACT AT ONCE. SEEN WIFE AND CORPL HOMEWRECK CARRY ON. HIT ALL HOT SPOTS. KID KNOWS ALL. WHOLE TOWN TALKING. DON'T BE CHUMP.

KAPLAN.

"What --" stammers Joe, rousted from his bunk and squinting thru glazed eyes at the yellow sheet, "t' HELL?")

The coming Presidential election could be the closest contest since 1916, when California's 22 electoral votes put Woodrow Wilson in the White House over Charles Evans Hughes. There has not been a Presidential contest since then where the result was not fairly obvious some time before Election Day, but even assuming that President Roosevelt is again nominated to head the Democratic ticket, there are danger signals evident for the Democratic Party based on current public opinion polls. A poll of 100 top-ranking business executives conducted by Fortune magazine showed less than 9 percent favoring Mr. Roosevelt's re-election, with the overwhelming majority preferring Governor Dewey. In a Gallup poll assuming that the European phase of the war is still continuing in November, leaders of business and professional groups endorsed Dewey over the President by a total of 58 percent to 42 percent. Of greatest concern however to the Democratic leadership is a Gallup survey of farmers. Four years ago 51 percent of farmers outside the South favored Roosevelt, but by last year that figure had shrunk to 39 percent. Now, with less than six months before the election, only 35 percent of non-Southern farmers support the President.

The most extensive veterans' benefits bill ever to come before Congress moved toward action in the House today as members examined the $6,515,000,000 "G. I. Bill of Rights" for possible amendments. At least one section of the bill -- the educational provisions -- promises to produce a vigorous fight, with Southern Congressmen opposing that section on the bases of "states' rights."

("Langwidges is innehrestin'," comments Alice, as she and Sally climb the steps of the 18th Avenue BMT exit. "I been pickin' up a lot f'm t' Ginsboigs, y'know. Y'know what hootz-pah is? Misteh Ginsboig says I got plenny of it. Means -- well -- ya got hootz-pah. Yeh, I got hootz-pah." "Y'do," nods Sally, seeing no cause for argument. "I might even study langwidges. I wen' oveh t' New Utrick like ya said," Alice continues, "an' I got a buncha t'ese pamphlets 'bout night school. It's too late f'me t'sign up f't'spring toim, but I can get inta t'fawl class, if I take t'ese tests foist t'see how much I awready know. I'm gonna study up, me'n Siddy bot'. He wawnts t'do it too. Two of us is gonna be like Henry Boot' Luce an' Claire." "Maybe y'c'n get on Infehmation Please," chuckles Sally as the two turn the corner onto 63rd Street. "Get inna awrgument wit' Osceh Levant." "I'd moidehr'im," grins Alice. "Why..." But her thought goes uncompleted as the two are accosted by a stringbean teenage boy in a beanie and a dirty sweatshirt. "Missis P," he huffs, panting from his run. "Y'gotta phone cawl oveh t'Schreibstein's. T'eh holdin' it fawr ya, y'betteh hurry. It's ya husban'. He awredy cawled t'is mawrnin', but ya'd left f'woik. C'mon, le's go -- he says it's oigent." "What," puzzles Sally, "t' HELL?")

City Council Minority Leader Genevieve Earle, whose political record has never been tainted by any hint of discrimination is today, paradoxically, on record in opposition to an anti-discrimination bill. Mrs. Earle was one of two Council members taking sides against the local law adopted yesterday that will withhold tax exemption from any private housing project that discriminates against tenants on the basis of race, creed, or color. The new law is believed to be the first of its kind enacted anywhere in the United States, but Mrs. Earle, a Brooklyn Fusionist, declared that she could not vote for it because it might block the development of new projects that could provide "decent, sanitary, and civilized living conditions" for thousands of people. Instead, Mrs. Earle called for the formation of a committee consisting of city officials, banks, and insurance companies to work out conclusions "acceptable to all parties." The bill was proposed by Republican councilman Stanley Isaacs and Communist councilman Ben Davis Jr. after it was revealed that the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company barred Negro tenants from its $55,500,000 Stuyvesant Town project.

("Y'know, Sally's roit," comments Uncle Frank. "Joe really doos look loike Jaaaahn Garfield. What d'ye think, Nora, let's go see thaat pictcharr t'noit." "Hmph," hmphs Ma. "That's noo pictcharr f'children. An' besoides, Sally still hasn't picked oop Leonora yet. Aaahlmost eight tharrty, an' naaaht a waard fr'm harr. She's nevarr...." But whatever Sally is never will not be known, as the sharp ring of the telephone interrupts Ma's thought. "Lieb's," she answers. "Daughter? Yaaaaaar WHAAAAT? Whoot happened? Well whoi waaar ye troin' t'do thaaaaat? I -- staaahp haaalerin, choild, Oi can't oonderstand ye. Well wait now, who's Kaplan? Well WHY DID YE WANT T'DO -- Oi said STAAAAHP HALLERIN'! -- Ahhhl roit, aaahl roit. Where's this now? Ahhhl roit, sit toit, Francis an' Oi will be ovar as soon as we c'n get one of th' boys in t' look aaahfter th' children -- STAAAAHP HALLERIN'! We'll get tharrr as soon as we -- hello? HELLO?" Ma gazes at the receiver in bafflement, and slowly hangs up. "Whaaat's ahhhl this?" queries Uncle Frank. "Get ahhhn th' phone," Ma commands, "caaahl Jimmy or Danny, get'm ovarr here t'babysit th' children. We're gooooin' t' Manhattan. Sally's been arrested boi th' F. B. I." "Th' F. B. I.!' thunders Uncle Frank. "That's roit," exhales Ma with surprising calmness. "It seems she troied t'climb a security fence at th' Sperry plant at Boosh Tarrminal, an' th' guards had t'pull harr off. They taaaaarned her ovaaar t'th' F. B. I. on suspicion a' sabotage." Uncle Frank gapes, the toothpick falling from his lips as he exhales a short but forceful exclamation. "Get y'hat," sighs Ma. "It's gaaaahna be a laaahng noit.")

(The Circle of Life.)

Charles H. Ebbets Jr., son of the longtime Dodger owner and builder of Ebbets Field, and himself the former secretary of the ball club his father built, has died of heart failure at his Manhattan apartment at the age of 65. The younger Ebbets, who has been in poor health in recent years. has been employed in recent years by the Simplex Ticket and Printing Company, a job he took in 1933 after losing the $2000 per year income provided under a trust fund established in his late father's 1925 will. The Depression halted all payments provided under the Ebbets family trust. The value of that trust was based almost entirely on the value of stock in the ball club and in the Ebbets-McKeever Exhibition Company, which owns and operates Ebbets Field, and the ownership of that stock by various factions of the Ebbets and McKeever families has been tied up in litigation for many years. The younger Ebbets, despite the ownership struggle, had always held the Dodgers themselves in high esteem, and last visited his father's ballpark just two weeks ago.

(If ever there was a player born to play in Brooklyn for Leo Durocher, it's Ed Stanky. I don't care what it takes, MAKE THE DEAL.)

The box score shows a unique achievement for Dodger outfielder Augie Galan. During yesterday's Dodger win in Chicago, Augie played all three outfield positions. Not, of course, at the same time.

(Wheels within wheels....)

("Partly in fun, of course...")

(There's enough there for TWO Sinatras.)

(Why not just look in the Classified Directory under "Punks.")

(Tomorrow: Kitty opens a second front.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Page Four is getting kinda repetitious, don't you think?

"Would Your Rather Be A Colonel With An Eagle On Your Shoulder Or A Private With A Chicken On Your Knee?" is a World War I novelty song. It's -- ah -- not about poultry.

A rusty spike? Maybe he DIDN'T drown! Maybe we can spend the next two months watching him die of MASSIVE INFECTION! Just like Laffy!

"Honestly, though, I think he really just likes the smell of the glue."

"Well, it all started nine years ago, when I met this guy named Judas. You know, like in the Bible..."

Hey Annie, just how old were YOU in 1927?

"Tell the truth, you were actually kind of a brat."

Uh, no.

I really do wonder what Mr. Willard's marriage is like.

"Is that ALL?"

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

All right, Kay, come clean. Where'd you get the stockings?

 

[Fading Fast]

Tech-nic-nee, isn't it "Hebrew" or "Yiddish," not "Jewish?"


Sally's been arrested boi th' F. B. I." "Th' F. B. I.!' thunders Uncle Frank. "That's roit," exhales Ma with surprising calmness. "It seems she troied t'climb a security fence at th' Sperry plant at Boosh Tarrminal, an' th' guards had t'pull harr off. They taaaaarned her ovaaar t'th' F. B. I. on suspicion a' sabotage."

 

[FOXTROT LAMONT]

Tech-nic-nee, isn't it "Hebrew" or "Yiddish," not "Jewish?"

Hebrew or Yiddish.

Yes, Caniff has started the detour alright spot. Just out the coal shute when this Oxford bugger shows up to kill the moment with menage a trois sans menage interrogatory tosh.
Terrence needs to sweep Burms away to hot bath, dinner, massaage, followed brief nap.
And some adult converse. Geshlecht konverse.

 

[FOXTROT LAMONT]

PREAKNESS
18 May 2024 Pimlico Race #13

#9 Imagination
#8 Tuscan Gold
#5 Mystick Dan
#3 Catching Freedom
#2 Uncle Henry

Track notes: Muth's scratch upended race tactics and Saturday rain forecast might skewer
reasoned finish order; although this line is solid today.
Bet the Superfecta or Super Five wager to maximize winnings.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Well, it AIN' MY FAULT Joe is married t'wa NUT," snaps Miss Kaplan into Mozelewski's disapproving frown. "I can't help it she oughta be in Bellevue!" "Y'got no business gett'n mixed up inneh poissonal business," retorts Mozelewski. "What was ya T'INKIN' se'nin' Joe t'at wieh? Whaddid ya t'ink was gonna HAPP'N?" "I was jus' tryin' t'HELP," shouts Miss Kaplan, as heads in the lunchroom turn to take in the latest phase of the drama. Miss Kaplan, flushing red under the sensed disapproval, grits her teeth. "G'WAN MINE AWLAYA OWN BUSINESS!" she shouts, as the heads, many of them shaking, turn away. Mozelewski gazes intently at Miss Kaplan, as she rubs at her eyes with a paper napkin, and a sudden realization dawns. "You," he declares, leaning forward in his seat, "awr in love wit' Joe." Miss Kaplan freezes, her eyes widening. "I AM NOT," she snaps. "You," repeats Mozelewski, "awr in love wit' Joe." "I AM NOT," she retorts, her face flushed. "T'at's RIDICULOUS you even T'INK t'at! Me -- in love wit't'at dumb bohunk? Don' make me laugh!" Mozelewski nods, and a smile creases his features as all of his suspicions come into focus. "YOU," he repeats firmly, "awr in LOVE wit' JOE." Miss Kaplan glares back, breathing deeply, but offers no further reply...)

Both President Roosevelt and Governor Dewey gained additional delegates to the upcoming national political conventions, coming away the clear winners in yesterday's New Jersey primaries. The President, unopposed in the Democratic primary picked up another 34 delegate votes, while Governor Dewey gathered 35 potential votes, although State Republican Chairman Walter Edge expressed the preference that the New Jersey delegates go to the convention officially uninstructed.

In additional primary voting yesterday, President Roosevelt was unopposed in the California Democratic primary, picking up 52 delegate votes, while the state's 50 Republican delegates went to unopposed "favorite son" candidate Gov. Earl Warren.

At present, the President's delegate count now stands at 766 -- 199 more than needed to secure the Democratic nomination, while Governor Dewey now has a possible 529 delegates, just one shy of the number required to earn the Republican nomination.

("Fun-da-men'alists," sounds out Alice, "put no pre-mium awn fun. Huh. I won'eh what t'at's s'posta mean. Hey Sal..." "Leemee 'lone," growls Sally, looking very much the worse for wear as the train rumbles toward home. "Aw, c'mon," coaxes Alice. "Y'otta be happy. T'ey dropped t'em chawrges afteh y''splained what was goin' awn, an'ney letcha go. Whatcha got t'worry about?" "It was humiliatin," Sally mutters, twisting a handkerchief for emphasis. "Awlem G-Men, LAUGHIN' at me. Ma an' Uncle Frank gett'n in'neh two cents. An'nen t'ey picked up SOLLY PINCUS an' ast HIM a buncha questions 'bout me. An' I gotta sit right t'eh lissen'in t'wit awl. You know t'ey come up wit'awl kin'sa stuff. What happen't durin'a strike at Woolwoit's. T'at t'ime t'ey banned me outa Loew's Orien'al f't'rowin'at brick at t' Hoist newsreel. T'at t'ime at Ebbets Feel when I was yellin' 'bout'tem tradin' Petey. EVERYBODY yelled 'bout t'at, you don' see no G-Men goin' afteh Hilda, awr t'at Cookie balloon guy. No, but t'ey go afteh ME. An'nen Solly says how Joe use'ta tell 'im 'bout me t'rowin'a radio out t'windeh. An'nat's when'nem guys REALLY stawrted laughin'." "Well," snickers Alice, 'y'gotta admit..." "At leas' t'ey didn' bring up Rudy Vallee," sighs Sally. "Ah," nods Alice, stifling a grin. "But onna way home," groans Sally, "Ma soitenly did!" "It ain' so bad," offers Alice. "T'ink of awla stories y''can tell Leonoreh when y'get old." Sally frowns. "I c'n hawrdly wait...")

A 60-year-old Brooklyn widow has filed a $250,000 libel suit against Betty Smith, author of the bestselling novel "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn," and against the book's publisher Harper and Brothers. The suit alleges that the Aunt Sissie character in the book, who is described as having had three husbands and eight stillborn children before the age of 24, and is said to "run after men but they somehow meet her half way," is based on Mrs. Sadie Grandner of 629 Wilson Avenue. Mrs. Grandner, who is Miss Smith's cousin, asserts in her suit that her own nickname is "Sissie," and that various details of her own past marriages match details given for the "Sissie" character in the book, thus exposing her to public "ridicule and contempt." Miss Smith is presently in Phoebus, Virginia, and was not available for comment.

(That's Joel McCrea? I thought it was an ad for Dutch Masters.)

(Everyone has a part to play!)

("Did you convey to Mr. Vaughan my latest proposition, my latest fair and equitable offer?" queries Mr. Rickey. "Yes sir," nods Mr. Parrott. "We told him if he comes back he will be allowed to punch Durocher once in the face." "Ah," nods Mr. Rickey, his features unfurling a broad grin. "And no doubt Mr. Durocher is willing to cooperate." "Not exactly," sighs Mr. Parrott, pointing to his own discolored eye. "Ah," sighs Mr. Rickey, leaning back in his char and gazing out over steepled fingers into the bustle of Borough Hall Plaza. "I have it!." he declares, bolting upright in his seat. "Advise Mr. Durocher that if he agrees with this proposition, he himself will be allotted one free blow at Mr. Walker." "Ah," nods Mr. Parrott. "But what if Dixie doesn't go along?" Mr. Rickey's machine-like brain whirs. "Offer him one weekend off a month for square dancing." "I can see," nods Mr. Parrott," why they call you a genius." "Indeed," nods Mr. Rickey, puffing a perfect smoke ring.)

("Excuse me, that's DOCTOR Highnose to you!")

(That Andy Gump will steal material from anybody.)

(You can't dance if you don't understand the music.)

(Leon Errol's lawyers will be in touch.)

(Kitty is AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE EXPOSER OF RANK HYPOCRISY.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

You know, it's really hard to get binoculars right now.

Um.

They have other names, you know. Uh, don't they?

"Yeah, that works. Doesn't that work?"

Gootch was Skeez's best friend back in the innocent days of childhood capers, and he could never understand what Skeez saw in Trixie.

Hmph. For a guy we saw BURN A MAN ALIVE, don't you think Mr. Gould let him off easy?

Trish -- that jaw! Maybe we should try another angle.

"Just be thankful that for the first time in his life, HE knows where he's going!"

"Pffft. I AM -- I'm in the OSS!"

Why does everybody in this family always look so sad?