The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

A decade ago, Miss Lawlor was a rising star on Broadway. Most recently she's been making "Soundies," cheap musical film shorts made to be shown on coin-operated viewing machines. It's a savage business.

Mr. Alfred D. McKelvy is the founder and president of the company that manufactures the Seaforth line of after-shave lotions, talcum powders, and men's colognes. And right after Jimmy took this photo, Mr. McKelvy handed him a free sample.

Shaky uses after-shave too, but he splatters it all over his clothes.

It just CAWN'T.

If Sally and Alice joined the WACs...

"Don't look at me, lady, I'm not the one that married him."

Back on the saltpeter for you, kid.

Ah, the puppetmaster pulls a string...

Hmph, my show-biz relative just played the drums.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Oh, and...

So I guess "Whit Wyatt Day" is out too?

 

[Fading Fast]

Mr. Alfred D. McKelvy is the founder and president of the company that manufactures the Seaforth line of after-shave lotions, talcum powders, and men's colognes. And right after Jimmy took this photo, Mr. McKelvy handed him a free sample.

That makes sense as, otherwise, his comment was a bit wacky.

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

"'Smelly old dog.' Let me at her; let me at her!"

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

"I've never told a soul except you, but Wilmer never showed me any affection."

One, did she just say what I think she just said? And, two, if she did and if it's true, she has one of the few grounds that existed for an annulment.

 

[LizzieMaine]

I would doubt that Wilmer even knows how to show any affection. Even Senga would have nothing there to work with.

 

[Fading Fast]

I would doubt that Wilmer even knows how to show any affection. Even Senga would have nothing there to work with.

Agree, and she should use that as an out from that marriage.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("So whoozis gal Bink Scanlan?" queries Sally, as she and Alice settle into their seats for the ride to Jersey. "I met 'eh t'ot'eh day, Ma says she's a frienda yez." "Oh," ohs Alice, not expecting to come up with an explanation so soon. "Yeh," she replies noncommitally. "How's she a friend'a yez?" continues Sally. "Neveh hoidja mention nobody name'a Bink Scanlan." "Oh -- umm --- uh..." offers Alice, her mind racing, "she's -- uh -- somebody I know fr'm way back. Yeh. Um, yeh." "Ah," ahs Sally, beginning to suspect that something might be going on. "Way back weh?" she interrogates. "Oh, you know," sweats Alice, with a diffident flip of her hand, "back t'eh, um, when I was -- uh -- at t' home, yeh. Wit' t' sistehs. Yeh. Me'n Bink was like t'at, yeh, befoeh I, you know, run awf." "Ah," nods Sally. She settles back in her seat, and Alice exhales with relief that the matter seems to have dropped. "Howcome t'ey call 'eh 'Bink?'" Sally resumes, as the conductor punches her commuter ticket. "Oh," ohs Alice, passing her own ticket across. "Um, well..." "Wha'sseh right name?" queries Sally, her eyes narrowing. "Nobody's right name is 'Bink." "Oh," ohs Alice. "Well..." "Hey lady," interrupts the conductor. "Whezzya ticket? You gimme a -- whassis, anyway, a pass t' t' RKO Dykeh?" "OH!" blurts Alice, glad for the respite. "Um, sawry, lemme fin' it..." She rummages in her bag while Sally frowns impatiently. "Heeh'tis," Alice continues, thrusting her ticket across her seatmate. The conductor gives her a look, punches, and moves on. "Hey Sal," she fumbles, "y'seen'at pitcheh t'eh? 'A Wing anna Prayeh," wit' Don Ameche? Me'n Siddy wenta see it, we gawt passes 'cause Siddy helped 'em fix'eh berleh one time. Swell pitcheh." "Ah," ahs Sally. "Y'know, it;s funny," she observes. "Y'lookit'at Bink Scanlan you could sweah she ain' no moeh'n twenny-two, twenny-t'ree yeehs ol'." "Really?" squeaks Alice. "I neveh noticed." "Yeh," nods Sally. The train bumps on in silence for a few welcome moments. "Y'know what else is kin'a funny?" resumes Sally. "Um, y'know who I t'ink is funny?" interrupts Alice, her face flushed. "Jerry Colonna, t'at's who. T'at moustache he's gawt.." "What's funny," continues Sally, "izzat din'choo tell me you run away from t'home when you was, what, ten yeehs ol'? T'at woulda been, what, 1917, 1918, somwhez inneh?" "Um," swallows Alice, wiping a trickle of sweat from her forehead. "I bet," harumphs Sally, "she uses 'at Endocreme stuff onneh face. Y'know, I been usin'at junk f' two mont's now, an' *I* don' look no twenny-two yeehs ol'." "It takes a while," exhales Alice. "I guess so," sighs Sally.)

Armored forces of the 3rd White Russian Division swung south of the main rail line to Koenigsberg today in a flanking drive around the East Prussian communications center of Gumbinnen. One column of Soviet forces, meeting stronger resistance as they plunged deeper into the German province, struck within five miles southeast of Gumbinnen in capturing the road junction of Grunweitschen.

("Well, Oi don't knowww," sighs Uncle Frank, gazing down at a paper form on the counter before him. "Whoot's that now?" queries Ma, biting down on a suspicious nickel and tossing it with distaste into the wastebasket after discovering it to be lead. "Oi went doontown," explains Uncle Frank, "ann Oi picked up this farrrrrm." "Declaration oov Intention," reads Ma. "Yaaar serious aboot this citizenship thing, aaar ye?" "Well, Oi dunno," shrugs Uncle Frank. "Tharr's a loota questions ahhn here aboot how laaang I been in this coountry, sooch as that." "Ahhhhhh." ahs Ma, knowingly. "Annnnd a' carrse, me nivver exactly gooin' thru th' proparr channels whin Oi come ovarr here," he continues, "thar moit be a bit oov...." "Oi told'jee," admonishes Ma. "Tharr's soom things best lef' to lyin." "Oi mean, it isn't MOI faalt I nivver stopped at Ellis Oisland," protests Uncle Frank. "They nivver HAD no Ellis Oisland thin. Th' boot took ye oot t'Staten Oislan' whin Oi coom ovar, shoo'd ye to a doctarr, makin' sure ye didn' have noothin' contagious, an', well, me bein' joosta little boy an' aaahl, Oi guess Oi joost slipped away befarr they knew Oi was missin'!" "So ye say," shrugs Ma. "Can ye IMAGINE?" chuckles Uncle Frank. "A mere lad, skoolkin' aroon th' woods'a Staten Oislan'. Took me two weeks t'figyar oot how ta' get ahffa thar!" "Ye was woona the faaartunate woons," snickers Ma. "Tharr's poor sools oot thar yet that dooon't know how!")

("Whassamatteh?" queries Joe. "We been stawpped'eeh f'twenny minutes!" "Truck done run oota gas," grumbles the Corporal. "Boys up frunt sayin' thuh damfool gas line done sprung a leak." "Rub a bawr'a soap awn it," suggests Joe. "Whassat now?" questions the Corporal. "Rub a bawr'a soap awn it," Joe repeats. "I loin'tat fr'm Uncle Frank. He's gawt t'is ol' truck, right, ti's ol' bangeh, an' it's awrways springin' leaks. He keeps'is bawr a soap, yelleh laundry soap, right? He keeps it undeh t'seat, an' when'na tank stawrts leakin', he rubs'at soap onneh, an'nat stawps it cold. Sweahteh gawd." "Laundry soap, huh?" frowns the Corporal. "Yeh," nods Joe. "Do *AH*," the Corporal scowls, indicating his filthy uniform, "look like AH got a bahrra yelluh laundry soap?" "Oh," sighs Joe. "Yelluh laundry soap," fumes the Corporal...)

The Eagle Editorialist gives his reluctant endorsement to the reelection of President Roosevelt for a fourth term over rival Republican Thomas E. Dewey. While acknowledging concerns over the Administration's domestic policy, the EE contends that matters of war and the subsequent peace must take precedent at this time over any such misgivings. While acknowledging that the Eagle endorsed Wendell Willkie in 1940, he declares that "the least dangerous choice is to keep the person who, by his actions and his record, seems to have an overall understanding of America's place in world affairs."

(Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before...)

(Camilli refused to report to the Giants in 1943, so what reason is there to think he would do so in 1945? Unless, perhaps, it was to rub Mr. Rickey's nose in it, which, when you think of it, is not an entirely unappealing idea...)

"Two Ton Tony" Galento may be starring on Broadway before too long, with a fight-themed comedy called "The Kid's Corner" said to be in the course of preparation. News of Tony's shift to the legitmate stage has critics recalling the beer-barrel boxer's venture into vaudeville a few years back, which perplexed audience's at Loew's State with an act consisting of the phrase "G'wan, ya bum ya" repeated 67 times.

(Plastic surgeon, psychiatrist? She must have spent a lot of time hanging around Vienna.)

("Didn't we have a bunch of kids around here for a while? It's all kind of a blur now, like I'm remembering a bad dream. But maybe -- they went in there!")

(CUT! Can we make that line a little more menacing? "You've come here to -- DIE!" Yeah, like that.)

(Ruined her hat, too.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG should leave this stuff to the border collies.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Major Dodge, Corporal Dodge -- can we get a News diagram, please?

"Can I get dressed now? It's OCTOBEH f'gawdsake."

Can this marriage be saved?

SOME HELP YOU ARE

Yeah, well, who was supposed to take that car in for a wash??

There are a lot of uncertainties about the postwar world, but one thing I think we all can agree on is that...


"They call me that because I'm always dropping things. Fly balls, forward passes, depth charges..."

"And YOUAH a chucklehead too!"

"Did you bring the Kirkman's Complexion Soap?" "No, I thought you did."

Nobody ever sleeps thru a night in this house.

 

[Fading Fast]

"...me nivver exactly gooin' thru th' proparr channels whin Oi come ovarr here,"

Frank's asking the word "exactly" to do a lot of heavy lifting here.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("So Oi went ovarr to th' liberry," relates Uncle Frank, with a sip of his two-cents-plain, "and Oi went an' aaasked soom questions at th' refarrence desk. You knoow, thaat's a woondarful thing they gaaht tharr, that refarrence desk. Tell ye anythin' ye waant t'know." "Maybe they caan tell me whaaar that Bink Scanlan is," grumbles Ma. "Oi told'arr Oi waanted harr t'get doon with th' roonds befarr Sally gets heer. Bad enoof they roon into each oothar th' oothar noit." "Ye waaary too mooch," dismisses Uncle Frank. "Next thing, YE'll be th' woon with th' oolcer. In any event, Oi found oot soom things aboot this citizenship application. It seems they gaaaht a law says if ye been in this coountry since befarr 1924, ye can still get'chaar papars, even if ye didn't exactly coom inta th' coontry boi th' books." "Ah," ahs Ma, cocking an eyebrow. "Oi wouldn' knoow aboot that, Oi come here thru th' Oisland. They hoong a tag aroond me neck loike Oi was a piece'a baggage, an' asked me a laaahta bloody fool questions aboot whoy Oi coom here, do I have any relatives heer, an' aahl sooch as that. Oi farrget what Oi told'm, but it wasn't noona thar business anyway." Uncle Frank exhales, and continues. "What Oi've gaaht t'do," he relates, "is foind someone t'testify that Oi'm of sound maaaaral character." "That shouldn't be too difficoolt," snickers Ma. "Oi thaat Oi'd starrt with Doyle," proposes Uncle Frank. "He'll charge ye thru th' neck farr that," warns Ma. "Noo price," declares Uncle Frank, "is too great t'pay f'love a' me adaaapted coontry.")

("Ev'ry time t'ey put t'is list inna papeh," sighs Sally, "I'm 'fraid t'look at it, 'fraid I'm gonna see Joe's name onneh." "He's a cook, Sal," reminds Alice. "Nobody shoots a cook." "I s'pose," Sally concedes, attempting to convince herself of the fact. "Look," continues Alice. "Siddy was inna Awrmy inna las' wawr, an' he up'n tol' me t'at t'LAST t'ing anybody woulda done is shoot at a cook. T'ey'd jus' make 'im eat 'is own cookin'! Ha! Um -- t'at's a joke, Sal." "Nobody's laughin'," grumbles Sally. "I ain' had a letteh t'is week, not since t'em t'ree t'at come awl at once t'eh. Who knows weh'r'ee is?" "He ain' onnat list," notes Alice. "I guess," sighs Sally...)

("Well, after the crash of '29...")

("One section of the Ebbets Field crowd will be large. Kate Smith, a heavy stockholder in the Yankees..." THAT'S JUST MEAN.)

("Hail the Conquering Hero" will win Mr. Sturges both an Oscar nomination, and the boot out of Paramount, so I guess you can call that a mixed reception.)

("Ahh -- would you be so kind, Mrs. Worth, as to hand me that desk lamp? Hold still, Monica, this won't hurt much...")

(I think it's too late.)

(Y'know, if you don't stop saying "Ja," people are likely to catch on...)

(Yes, Mr. Stamm did used to work for Chester Gould.)

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG heads off to put in his name at "Red Ryder.")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Forgetful Frankie Costello."

The 19th A. D. is that section of Bensonhurst where you'll find the Petrauskas-Krause-Ginsburg abode, so even if Alice doesn't actually mark her ballot, the outcome is not in doubt.

Yeah, I suppose you could call Wilmer a soldier, if you squint a bit.

"Colonel, did I ever tell you about the time when Pat Ryan and I parachuted into a Japanese prison to break out a Chinese guerilla leader, and then I ended up running for my life with her assistant, who used to be a hell-driver with an American carnival, and we ended up rescued by a funny little old man who was really a terrorist? And one night in a haystack the hell-driver and I pledged our eternal love?" "You're making that up." "Well, only a little."

If they're lost at sea and have to pick one man to throw overboard...

"OH yeah? How'd you like one right on the chi...oh, never mind."

Something in red, maybe, with a white collar.

"She won't be though, her dad's a major."

"Dope!" "Now, Shaky? You usually wait till after dinner."

ANd everybody knows you hang the sheets facing out so nobody can see the skivvies!

 

[Fading Fast]

I can think of many adjectives for Annie, but flibbertigibbet is definitely not one of them. Somebody has got to rug this old lady.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Well," begins Uncle Frank, crammed into a narrow wooden booth in Toomey's Diner, "it's like this. Oi was havin' some dealin's with -- ah -- soomone recently, an' she -- uh, that is to say, they -- ah -- he -- ah -- well, this parrson made saaaarten imployed threats aboot saaaaarten mattars that could -- ah -- lead t'me havin' t'leave this coontry at -- ah -- soom future toime." "Ahh," snickers Police Sergeant Doyle, sipping his coffee. "I getcha. Ol' lady finally gett'n sicka ya, huh?" "Oi beg ye paaardon!" huffs Uncle Frank. "Noothin' of th' koind. Althoo -- ah -- Nora does figyarr into the equation at a -- aaah -- sartaain point. But be that as it may, th' laaang and th' sharrrt oov it is Oi'm lookin' intarr becoomin' a citizen." "Ah," nods Doyle, beckoning to a disinterested waitress. "Not'eh cup, toots." The waitress shoots him a scowl as she refills his cup and moves on. "Now, Oi won't get into th' darrty details," continues Uncle Frank, "but tharr's saaarten paparwaark Oi need to -- ahh -- deal with, an' it seems Oi need a statement from a -- respected membarr oov th' community, moind ye -- that Oi am of -- ah -- soond moral charactarr." Uncle Frank frowns as Sergeant Doyle erupts into a rich belly laugh that spatters coffee across the table between them. "Sawry," chuckles Doyle, reaching for a napkin. "S'jus' -- ya had me goin'neh f'ra second. Sound mawral charecteh!" "Oi'm serious, Tommy," frowns Uncle Frank. "Oi need ye t'wroite me soch a statement." "Well," sighs Doyle, rubbing his chin, "y'see, t'at's a problem b'cause..." "Oi'll pay ye farr ye toime!" hastens Uncle Frank. "It ain't that," sighs Doyle. "It's that -- well, I don' really t'ink t'at ya --" "Come now, Thomas!" rumbles Uncle Frank. "Let's naaaht be throoin' stones. Let's talk cooold tarrkey here -- a cop on th' take is gaaht noo place cloimin' up on no high harrrse 'bout no bootleggin'..." "It ain't that," protests Doyle. "Look, Frank, lemme tellya straight. Howlawng you been livin' wit' t' ol' lady, huh? Twenny yeehs?" "Oi've been lookin' aaaftar Nora farrr twenty-FOIVE yarrs," declares Uncle Frank. "Boot you know fool well Oi only been livin' with 'arr since Sally left hoom. So, what, seven yarrs." "Seven yeehs," repeats Doyle, a tone of opprobrium in his voice. "Seven yeehs livin' wit' a woman wit'out benefit'a cloigy." "Oi beg ye paaardoon?" huffs Uncle Frank. "You hoid me," reiterates Doyle. "You ain' married legal. An' what kin'a 'zampl' would I be sett'n fa me own kids, me own six kids, growin' up innis terrible woild, if I said you was a man of soun' moral characteh when you was doin'nat." "Hoooo mooch do ye waaant," groans Frank, reaching into his coat for his wallet. "It ain' about t' money," insists Doyle. "It's t' principle'a t't'ing." "Moooothar'a marrcy," exhales Uncle Frank. "I got me scruples," declares Doyle, draining his coffee cup. "You marry t' ol' lady, marry'eh reguleh, an'nen we'll tawk." And for once in his long and loquacious life, Francis X. Leary is left utterly speechless...)

Russian troops, cracking powerful Nazi fortifications in an outflanking drive northwest of devastated Warsaw, captured the Polish fortress of Jablonna-Legionowo yesterday while reports from Berlin stated that the Red Army has opened an offensive in Latvia to clear the last portions of that Soviet-claimed territory of German forces. Capturing Jablonno-Legionowo, ten miles from Warsaw, in a three-day, three mile advance, troops under the command of Marshal Konstantin Rokossovsky also took six other towns and villages and secured control of nine miles of the east bank of the Vistula River northwest of Praga.

("MA??" calls Sally, enterting the store to drop off Leonora before heading to her regular Sunday appointment with Dr. Levine. "Inna back," beckons Bink Scanlan, fiddling with the cash register. Sally pauses, glancing at the door to the back room which stands ajar, but before she can take another step, Ma erupts from the doorway, a hammer in her hand, and pulls the door closed behind her. She shoots a fiery gaze at Bink, who munches her gum and shrugs. "Daaaaaaughter!" Ma smiles, "yaaar aaaaarly! Oi didn' expec' ye..." "Ahhh," sighs Sally, "I figyehed I'd come oveh'rn shoot t'breeze f'ra while. Gimme a Coke, wouldja, an' -- whatcha wawnt, honey?" "Banan'split," orders Leonora, as Sally boosts her onto her stool. "No wawlnuts." "Ah," nods Ma, roughly shoving Bink out of the way and reaching for a glass. "Here," she commands, handing her new employee that glass. "Mix'at oop loike Oi showed ye." Bink frowns, shifts her gum, and complies. "What was ya doin' inna back t'eh wit' a hammeh?" queries Sally. "Y'gawt sump'n busted? I c'n ask Krause t'come oveh'r'n..." "Oh, noo," dismisses Ma, flipping a scoop of ice cream onto the bisected banana splayed out before her on a small dish. "Oi was joost hangin' oop some blackoot carrtains on th' window in tharr, ye know, ye caaan't be too careful." "Ah," ahs Sally, selecting a straw from the dispenser on the counter and plunging it into her glass. "I hoid t'ey was tawkin' 'bout liftin'a blackout." "Ohhhh nooooo," insists Ma. "An' ye should nevarr listen t' noona'thim rumors. Remembarrr, til th' Mayor says it's so, it ain't soo!" "I guess," shrugs Sally, as Ma pumps hot fudge onto the ice cream. "Moeh!" insists Leonora. "Ten cents extra," frowns Ma. "Slommachine!" scowls Leonora. "Buuut," exhales Ma, "naaaaht farr me darrlin' gran'daughter!" "She got some imagination, huh?" chuckles Sally. "Still tawkin' bout t'at monsteh lives in ya back room." "Indeed," rasps Ma, as from the corner of the counter, Bink observes all...)

(Sid Luckman, a Brooklyn boy, an Erasmus grad no less, sticks with the Bears. C'mon, kid, they offered you a hundred bucks to play for Brooklyn! WHERE'S YA LOYALTY!)

The Brooklyn Tigers and the Boston Yanks meet at Ebbets Field this afternoon in a game that will determine who climbs out of the National Footbal League's Eastern Division booby hatch. Neither club has won a game so far this season.

(Never mind the rest of this cowboy nonsense, show the kittens!)

(Really? I always figured a rabbit who wears clean white gloves every day would be rather fastidious.)

("Phil, I don't think we should see each other anymore. And stay away from my shoe closet!")

(I can't speak for the others, but what use would Coolidge have for a telephone?)

(If there's one thing any comic strip character ought to know by now, it's to stay away from railroad tracks...)

(Butch carries? Are we sure that's a good idea???)

("But -- uh -- backless? Isn't that a bit sophisticated for a five-year-old?")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Well, to be fair, I once knew a woman who carried a baby for about ten and a half months, by which time she could hardly walk, and the kid weighed almost twelve pounds when he was born...

It's more action, at least, than we got out of the Dodgers all year...

Yep. Nothing lamer than a wartime "audience participation" show.

Hey kids! SCIENCE IS FUN! Try this keen experiment on Dad's car today!

Honestly, the church I attended as a little girl was EXACTLY like this. And while post-graduate college students are nothing special, Shadow seems to be the world's first post-graduate HIGH SCHOOL student.

Miss Pickles? Hey, whatever became of the Slither Sisters? And poor Bunny is just seconds away from a story no daughter ever wants to hear from her mother.

True history: the modern idea of Halloween was invented out of whole cloth in the 1910s by church and social-uplift groups so as to put an end to just such vandalism sprees as Walt as his fellow young scalawags indulged in. Oh, and the Dennison Manufacturing Company, makers of party decorations, helped too.

Nice work, gooseface, you've ruined the broadcast! SOMEBODY CUE THE STANDBY ORGANIST!

"Class B melodrama? Wait, you mean we're supposed to be in 'Mary Worth'?'"

 

[LizzieMaine]

Oh, and...

"Everybody wants to get into the act!" sniffs Kay. "I ask ya!" agrees Mae.

 

[Fading Fast]

Frank and Doyle's conversation today is freakin' hilarious. They are all insane these people and they are all like the people I grew up with (my Dad's and grandmother's friends, not the kids I grew up with). You have to have known people like this to know, truly know, that there are people like them out there. That there are people like Doyle who has his own crazy value system - on the take, but sincerely offended by out-of-wedlock cohabitation. It's crazy, but true.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Brrrrrrrrr!" shivers Uncle Frank, wrapping his arms about his chest and stomping his feet against the hard chill of the meat locker. "S'matteh, Frank?" snickers Shaughnessy the butcher, as he smacks a counterfeit inspection stamp against a carcass that recently pulled a milk wagon in Brownsville. "Ain't built fawr t'cold?" "Nevarr moind that," dismisses Uncle Frank. "What d'ye say t'me praaahpasition?" "I don' say nut'n," frowns Shaughnessy. "Lemme get t'is straight. You wawn' I should write you a letteh sayin' yeh'r of strawn mawral characteh, when jus' las' week you sol' me ten cawrtons'a phony cigarettes? I had betteh smokes behin' me gran'fawteh's goat bawrn." "Well," scowls Uncle Frank, "they waaarn't no warrse than that brisket ye sent ovarr last moonth. Oi'm s'proised ye didn't ask farr a shoe coupon farr it!" "Now I like t'at," laughs Shaughnessy. "I remembeh when you was sellin'at grain alcohol mixed wit' ice tea, an cawlin' it Scotch." "Look," hustles Uncle Frank. "Let's let bygones be bygones. You'n me been friends farr hoo many years? You know me an' I know you, an' you know I wouldn't ask ye farr a favarr withoot aaafferin' soomthin' retarrn. I got a package oot on th' truck. Five caaaartons oov Camels. Th' real thing, right oot'a Nora's store staaahck." "Huh," replies Shaughnessy. "Howd'ja get t' ol' lady t'go alawng wit'tat?" "Well," dissembles Uncle Frank, "let's joost say it's -- ah -- a loan against th' future." "Innat case," wheedles Shaughnessy, his breath steaming in the icy air, "make it ten cawrtons. An' t'row in some pipe t'bacceh, t'at Prince Albe't. Chris'mas is comin' an' I wanna get me ol' man sump'n nice." "Ten caaaaartons!" explodes Uncle Frank. "T'at's me price," insists Shaughnessy, tossing his stamp from hand to hand. "Y'know what you arre," growls Uncle Frank. "Yaaaar a bum. A farrrteen carat doyed-in-th'-wool bum." "Eh," shrugs Shaughnessy. "Least I'm honest about it!")

Starting with three big Democratic rallies tonight, both major parties plan intensive vote-getting drives in Brooklyn as the campaign season nears its end. The final week of the campaign will be climaxed on Friday as Democrats gather for their traditional rally at the Academy of Music, while in Queens, Ohio Governor John W. Bricker, Republican nominee for Vice President will speak Thursday night at Jamacia High School. Tomorrow and Thursday night, supporters of the President will hold monster rallies at Madison Square Garden, while Republicans will present Governor Dewey there in their own rally on Saturday night. Tonight in Brooklyn, Democratic Senators Robert Wagner and James M. Mead will speak in a series of rallies at Thomas Jefferson High School in East New York, the Knapp Mansion in Williamsburg, and Public School 221 in Crown Heights.

(One more week.)

("I useteh have'n houehglass figyeh," sighs Alice, "but t'sand awl run t't'bottom." "I'm glad I neveh hadda weah one'a t'em cawrsets," muses Sally. "Me'n Mickey was foolin' aroun' downa basemen' one time, an' we got inta Ma's trunk, an' foun' onea t'em t'ings. I neveh seen one, y'know? Mickey tells me it's a hammock, an' I spen' half'n houeh tryin' t'figyeh how t' hang it up. But I dunno 'bout t'is big-hip t'ing, I mean, if t'at's wheh t'cloe's is goin' afteh t'wawr, I guess I'm outeh luck." "Give it a few yeehs," snickers Alice. "What?" "Nut'n." )

(The Eagle publishes two advice columns these days -- our old friend Helen Worth, and newcomer Mary Haworth, not to be confused with either Helen Worth or Mary Worth, both of whom could probably come to the same point with less verbiage.)

(Brooklyn now 0-5. But at least they have nice uniforms!)

(Well, it appears that secret doorway in the Bungles' apartment was a doorway to oblivion, because Mr. Tuthill seems to have retired again, leaving us with -- ah -- what seems to be a cross between Harold Teen and Li'l Abner. Let's watch for a while and see where it goes. And if it doesn't, maybe Sparky Watts will come back...)

("Why -- you're not Monica at all! You're Dale Connor and you used to draw this feature! Guess Hugh Striver didn't work out so well, huh?")

(Point of Order -- would a man with a deep understanding of fine art ever wear that suit?)

(Well, at least there aren't any bees. Gould would have had bees.)

("Guess I shouldv'e spent more time chasing deer with Trix.")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

The Crime Editor is in charge of Page Four today while the Sex and Vice Editor takes the day off.

A brunette? I doubt it. Check her roots.

All right, go ahead, get it all out of your systems right now, and then we'll go on with the story.

"That's better than what we usually see written on the trunks."

Aw, kwitcha whining. The top's a little busy with all those buttons, but the skirt's right in style.

Honestly, she should have married Tops instead. He's an idiot too, but at least she'd have had some fun.

"STOP LOOKIN' AT ME LIKE THAT!" yells the Corporal. "What?" protests Joe. "I ain' lookin' at'choo! I'm lookin'at t'at gravy on ya face!" "Oh," shrugs the Corporal. "Ah was afraid it was mah magnetic pussonality."

Close your mouth, Andy. Please.

"I dunno, Humphrey Bogart is making a lot of sense..."

"NO NO NO!!!" -- that after-shave guy Jimmy Jemail ran into the other day.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Well," scowls Uncle Frank, "they waaarn't no warrse than that brisket ye sent ovarr last moonth. Oi'm s'proised ye didn't ask farr a shoe coupon farr it!" "Now I like t'at," laughs Shaughnessy. "I remembeh when you was sellin'at grain alcohol mixed wit' ice tea, an cawlin' it Scotch."

The beauty of the "who is the bigger crook" conversation.

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

"Why -- you're not Monica at all! You're Dale Connor and you used to draw this feature! Guess Hugh Striver didn't work out so well, huh?"

For a moment I thought it could be Coco Chanel, but then I remembered she was over in Paris collaborating with the Nazis.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Cigarette?" offers Inky Quinlan, extending a monogrammed silver case. "No thank yee," frowns Uncle Frank. "Ye bought thoose, as Oi recall, from me. In any event," he continues, leaning back in his swivel chair, "Oi've gaaaht an assoinment farr yee." "Ah," nods Inky, his immaculate moustache twitching with anticipation. "Oi need," sighs Uncle Frank, "a lettar." "Ahhhh," nods Inky. "A billet-doux, as they say. Perhaps in a light, feminine hand with a dash of, ohh, Nuit de Noel? And who, might I inquire, is to be the -- ahh -- unfortunate recipient?" "Can that Charrles Boyer stoof," frowns Uncle Frank, his face growing sour. "Oi'll coom straight to th' point. Oi need a lettar attestin' to me straang maaaral chaactarr." "Oh my," chuckles Inky, his cigarette nearly falling from his hand. "And, ah -- what, may I inquire," he stammers, "is to be the -- ah -- purpose of this -- ah.." "Nevaaar ye moind that. Ye can make it oot to 'to whom it may consaaarn,'" Uncle Frank growls. "Oi need it to be impressive, and aaaahn whatchecaaahl impressive stationery." "Well, I have my sample case with me here," nods Inky, ever-ready to accomodate a client. "Here are some samples. Perhaps you..." "Th' White Hoose?" reads Uncle Frank, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Don'chee think thaaat's a bit mooch?" "Ah," nods Inky. "As you wish. But I do sign a very convincing Mr. Roosevelt." "Office of the Governor," reads Uncle Frank, examining the next sheet. "I pride myself, you see," declares Inky, flashing a Pepsodent smile, "on being strictly non-partisan in these matters." "Oi doon't think so," shrugs Uncle Frank, dropping the sheet to the back of the stack. "Sally would kill me if she foond out. What else ye gaaaht here? 'City of New Yaaark, Office of the Mayor.' "That one's very popular," injects Inky. "Look behind the bar at the Old Reliable Tavern, you'll see an oustanding sample." Uncle Frank merely scowls and glances at the next sheets. "Office of the Borough President of Brooklyn." He pauses for a moment, shakes his head, and moves on. "Bronx County Democratic Committee, Edward J. Flynn, chairman." "Oh," interrupts Inky. "I -- ah -- have discontinued that particular... ah ..." Uncle Frank shakes his head and continues. "'Brooklyn National League Baseball Club, Inc.'," he reads. "'Branch Rickey, President.' Ye caaan't be serious." Inky merely shrugs. "I am," he acknowledged, "somewhat overstocked on that particular item, and am offering a 20 percent discount." "No, no, no!" rumbles Uncle Frank. "I need soomthin' coonvincin' but not ridiculous! What's this one." He adjusts his glasses for a better view. "F. Leary an' Soons Ploombin' an' Heatin'!??'" "AH," gasps Inky, snatching the sheet away. "I have no idea how that got in there...")

"Hmph," hmphs Sally. "What's wit'tem bums downa Seven'ny Foist? T'oity one p'cent f' Dewey? Y'know, I awrways said t'ey was awl crooks an' bums downeh. You know t'at fish mawrket down'eh, t'at Chawrlie's Fish Mawrket? I hold t'ey sell scrod wit' bones in it, an' chawrge ya full price. Mighta known t'ey be f'Dewey." "Ah," sighs Alice. "Ain'choo sicka politics yet?" "An' NOT ON'Y T'AT!" continues Sally, her face reddening, "Y'know t'at place t'eh, t'at Et'ical Pharmacy? I hoid t'ey sell paregoric t'hopheads!" "Y'don' mean t'say," sighs Alice, her eyes closed. "AN' NOT ON'Y T"AT!" roars Sally. "Y'know t'at canny sto'eh next t't' fish mawrket? T'at one wit' t' green awnin'? I HOID T'EY GOT A BOOKIE WOIKIN' OUT"A T'EH! AN' INNA BACK, SLAWT MACHINES AN' CAWRD GAMES AN' NUMBEHS!" "T'ehr awrta be a lawr," exhales Alice....)

Police raided a Ladies Night at a Brownsville Turkish Bath to break up card games, arresting four women and routing about 90 out of the establishment. The raid followed an investigation which sent two plainclothes policewomen into Shumer's Baths, at 1389 East New York Avenue, where they found women clad only in white bathrobes sitting in the steam room playing stud poker. The operators of the game, Mrs. Eva Mendelson of 19 Herzl Street and Mrs. Celia Alpert of 66 Herzl Street were aid to take a ten cent cut of every pot. The ninety cardplayers were allowed to dress and ordered to leave the establishement while Mrs. Mendelson and Mrs. Alpert, who gave their occupation as 'housewives,' were taken into custody as common gamblers, along with the owner of the baths, Morris Jackson, and the operator of the restaurant concession, Moe Fershleiser, who were charges with operating a place of gambling.

(Y'know, Bogie, you could be running with a better crowd.)

(Is it time for this again already? Where has the year gone?)

(Hey, it isn't Cawthon's fault you couldn't get Luckman.)

(Well, the hepcat patter is interesting. But it'd be better if the goose could talk too.)

("That must be the nightclub where you used to dance!" "Shut up, Bill!")

(Are you heiling the Fuehrer or hailing a cab? It's hard to tell.)

(At least they're not doing this story at Easter time.)

(An unbeatable team. AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG and WORST DAD EVER!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Come now, News. Nothing about Jessel and Bogart? You're slipping.

Oh, and mosquitoes. Don't forget the mosquitoes.

Contract? What contract?

Little known fact: in many jurisdictions, gas station attendants are recognized as agents of law enforcement. I guess.

Guess who else is going to get the rug?

Yeah, but Walt will laugh and laugh.

There's Something About A Sailor.

NOT SO MUCH FUN WHEN IT HAPPENS TO YOU IS IT PLAYBOY?

I don't know a lot about pool but that can't be a legal shot.

"A hot tub? Did you bring the Kirkman's Complexion Soap, so light and fluffy for just a nickel?"