The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

("C'MAWN, KRAUSE!" bellows Sally, clanging a pipe wrench against the bedroom radiator. "GIVE OUT!" "Don' holleh," admonishes Leonora, her palm clutched to her right ear. "It hoits, Ma. It hoits." "Lemme see, " sighs Sally, tossing the wrench onto the bed, where Stella the Cat looks up just long enough to regard the entire situation with distaste. Sally examines her daughter's aching ear and notices the anticipated swelling of another infection. "S'awright, honey," she exhales, making for the bathroom for a warm washcloth. "Every damn yeeh," she growls under her breath as a knock sounds at the door. "Heeh now," she instructs Leonora, pressing the compress to the side of her head. "You jus' hold it t'eh now, an' I'll be right back." She rushes into the kitchen to answer the door, to find Alice looming in the hallway, in a boudoir cap, chenille bathrobe, and carpet slippers. "We hoid ya awready," she growls, as Sally beckons her inside. "Siddy's doin'a best 'e can wit't'at berleh, but..." "Well tell 'im t' cawl Uncle Frank," snaps Sally. "Y't'ink he ain' tried?" retorts Alice. "He was inta Schreibstein's till'ey closed up f't'night, try'n'ta cawl oveh teh. Phone jus' rung an' rung." "You try Ma's place?" challenges Sally. "Maybe he was oveh t'eh f'dinneh'ra sump'n." "No answeh t'eh neit'eh," shrugs Alice. "T'at ain' like him," ponders Sally. "He's gotta lawt awn'is min' t'ese days," exhales Alice. "He's whatchacawl distracted." "Ma ain' distract'ed t'ough," rejoinds Sally. "I dunno why SHE don' ans'eh t'phone." "No," replies Alice, thru narrowed eyes, "t'at ain' like 'eh." She flicks a glance at the electric clock buzzing on the kitchen wall. "It's two a'clock inna mawrnin'. Look, you stay 'eeh. I'm gonna -- well, you stay 'eeh. I'm gonna --" "Jus' tell ya husban' I need heat," hastens Sally. "I gotta lit'l goil inn'eh wit'eh eeh swelled out t'heeh." "Sit tight," admonishes Alice. "I'll be back.")

Canadian Prime Minister Mackenzie King called today for a full debate in Parliament on all angles of his order-in-council to conscript Canadian youth for overseas military service. Rejecting a suggestion that the House of Commons debate on the issue be curtailed to hasten a vote of confidence in his government, King stated that he will not attempt to "infringe" the parliamentary rights of members. Dozens of French-speaking liberals were expected to go on record today in opposition to the conscription order, but are also expected to endorse King's leadership even though a formal vote of confidence may be delayed.

The first-ever revolt of a major motion picture studio against the so-called "Hays Office" has broken out in Hollywood, with Warner Bros. Pictures, Inc. announcing its withdrawal from the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors Association of America. The decision to pull out of the MPPDA follows months of dispute between the studio and the association over matters of labor negotiation, and what the studio deemed disagreement over what constitutes "good taste" when it comes to Warners' roster of "sweater girls." A studio spokesman indicated that Warners' will now handle both labor issues and questions of taste on its own.


("These books?" wonders Mrs. Ginsburg, indicating a small stack of volumes on her parlor table. "For Leonora," nods Mr. Ginsburg. "Hmm," hmms Mrs G. "'The Story of Philosophy by Will Durant.' A bit advanced." "Dr. Minkoff tells me," enthuses Mr. G., "he found her off in a corner at the clinic. Reading 'Psychology of the Child." "Dr. Minkoff, the comedian," chuckles Mrs. G. "Three years old she is." "She is," nods Mr. G. "And so I thought perhaps, a book for beginners." "Don't you think," suggests Mrs. G., "perhaps a toy instead? A doll?" "A toy you break and it's forgotten," observes Mr. G. "An idea," he continues, tapping the side of his head, "you have with you forever." "Mmm," concedes Mrs. G. "But perhaps, a few things you NEED to forget, to have room for all the others." "Ah," nods Mr. G, lighting his pipe and taking a contemplative puff. "Perhaps, then, also, a doll.")

("Noel Cowehd?" sputters Joe, looking up from a wrinkled copy of "Stars and Stripes." "Who caehs what Noel Cowehd says about anyt'ing." "Nevuh huhd'v 'im," scoffs the Corporal firing a jet of tobacco juice into a snowbank. "Ain' missin' nut'n," adds Joe, expertly crossing the Corporal's brown streak with one of his own. "Gimme Olsen 'n Johnson." "Nevuh huhda them neithuh," shrugs the Corporal. "Ahhhh," sighs Joe, relishing the memory. "Hellzapoppin'. Me'n Sal went t'see t'at up at t' Winteh Gawrden one time. Te'zzis guy wawkin' back'n foet' wit' a plant. An' ev'ry time y'see 'im t'plant's biggeh till afteh t'show he's sittin' inna tree out'na lawbby." The Corporal cocks a skeptical eye. "New Yo'k," he sighs, shaking his head...)

(Peace on earth, eventually.)

(Beans Reardon is right up there with Jocko Conlan and Ziggy Sears for the title of Best Umpire Name of 1944. Sorry, George "Meathead" Magerkurth.)

(Also, no fair doing aerials with a bird.)

(Hey, you made your bed -- now lie about it.)

("Chere Tingle?" Somebody's having too much fun with this story.)

(Yeahhhhh, pretty sure she'll never see any of them again.)

(Yes, by all means, and then we can move on to something else.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

I don't know what he's so worked up about, it wasn't much of a nose to begin with.

I dunno, but it *would* make a hell of a storyline.

"What nerve!" fumes Lionel Barrymore. "You know, he really was like that," sighs Ethel.

"Hmph!" -- Stella the Cat.

"Zat so? I got four of 'em. But you never asked me, did you?"

"But now I won't do it. Instead, I'm running for Congress!"

"Really? Gee, I wish the Asp was here."

Regulations state that it should be worn precisely one finger's width above the eyebrow. Better start plucking, son.

Anyway, they'd be more likely to steal the pig.

"Dracula's doll!!"

 

[Fading Fast]

"She is," nods Mr. G. "And so I thought perhaps, a book for beginners." "Don't you think," suggests Mrs. G., "perhaps a toy instead? A doll?" "A toy you break and it's forgotten," observes Mr. G. "An idea," he continues, tapping the side of his head, "you have with you forever." "Mmm," concedes Mrs. G. "But perhaps, a few things you NEED to forget, to have room for all the others." "Ah," nods Mr. G, lighting his pipe and taking a contemplative puff. "Perhaps, then, also, a doll.")

The Aristotelian balance in child rearing.

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

Yes, by all means, and then we can move on to something else.

I'll say it again, Bo deserves a better comicstrip around him. I'll also deny I ever said it, but Sandy wouldn't be Sandy without the Orphan Annie world around him.

"What's that?"
"Nothing, buddy."

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

 

[LizzieMaine]

("You betteh tell me what's goin' awn," threatens Sally. "Ma was s'posta take Leonoreh t'is mawrnin', an' she neveh showed up, an' I hadda leave 'eh wit' t' neighbehs. An'nen t'night I come oveh'r'eeh an' fin' YOU." "I dunno," shrugs Bink Scanlan, arrayed in Ma's apron, and looking up from the confession magazine spread before her on the counter. "She tol' me she was goin' away f'ra coupl'a days. She gimme ten bucks an' says t' wawtch t'stoeh till she gets back. Ten bucks she gimme. T'at's money. Ten bucks." "She musta tol'ya we'h she went," demands Sally. "She did'n," insists Bink. She was in'eeh woikin' an' she gawt a phone cawl, an' got awl woiked up 'bout sump'n, wrote sump'n down onna coveh'ra t'phone book t'eh, an'nen runs upstaiehs, runs back down carryin' a grip, t'rows t'en bucks at me, an'nat'sa last I seen'v'eh." "Gimme t'at phone book," commands Sally. "Shove it 'eeh." She squints at the stained cover, scrawled with assorted doodles, and her gazes fixes on a single word. "Peekskill," she reads. "Did she go t' PEEKSKILL?" "I dunno," shrugs Bink, with a definitive crack of her gum. "Why," soliloquizes Sally, "would Ma go t'Peekskill. Why would ANYBODY go to Peekskill?" "Change 'a scenery?" offers Bink. Sally's eyes narrow as she turns over the matter in her mind...)

("Hmph!" hmphs Alice. "T'ey neveh carry awn like t'at at t' Ol' Reliable!" "Heh," hehs Krause,recalling occasions when they did.)

Barring a Congressional investigation, years may elapse before the public learns all the names of those responsible for the disaster at Pearl Harbor, and the reason why Admiral James O. Richardson had, prior to the Japanese attack three years ago, been summarily relieved of command. The War and Navy Departments have practically closed the book on the matter by announcing that the results of service investigations and the conclusions of theSecretaries of War and Navy showed that no further action should be taken against either Maj. Gen. Walter C. Short or Rear Admiral Husband E. Kimmel. From Dallas, Short issued a statement declaring that when the full story is made known, he is certain of "complete vindiction before the American people. An attorney representing Admiral Kimmel stated that the government findings mean that his client "has been cleared."

("I don't know, but either way they'd better have their ration book!")

(And the winner takes on Germany.)

("Jivin' With His Goose" sounds much dirtier than it probably is.)

("Well, wear a coat at least, it's December.")

(Wait, didn't we see this once in a Charlie Chan picture?)

("Good thing I keep the Sears catalog right here next to the bed!")

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG hopes this isn't another racetrack story.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Pat Teased Him With Her Hula -- Then Dorsey Raged, Hall Claims." Hey, it scans!

"I t'ought we was stayin' put f'ra while," fumes Joe. "An'now we'eh movin' out again? AWREADY?" "Fahn bah me," shrugs the Corporal. "Ah nevuh did lahk t'stay in one place ennuh too lawng. B'sides, yo' th' one complainin' how it's cold. Keepin' movin'll keep yuh wawrm." "Ya complainin' too," growls Joe. "Ah'm allowed to complain," scowls the Corporal, pointing to the lack of a "T" under the chevrons on his overcoat sleeve. "But'chew, yo' jus' heeuh t'wuhk." Joe ejects a stream of brown juice in response. "Ah'll ovuhlook that breach uh discipline," huffs the Corporal, "if yuh gimme anothuh chaw offuh that plug." Joe scowls and hands over the tobacco. "Rank," nods the Corporal, tearing off a chunk, "has its priv'lujj'es."

WAC regulations also state that the cap is to be worn centered on the head. Whattayou think, you're in the RAF?

Skeez doesn't want a girl because he's still upset Trixie beat him at wrestling when they were twelve.

Nah, it's just a really big fly.

The ritual continues.

Oh, lets!

She'll have him sworn into the Junior Commandos in no time.

"Of course, I did it on a mule."

Good move, DICK.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Well, wear a coat at least, it's December."

Kudos to her for making the architecture of that dress even work.

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

Wait, didn't we see this once in a Charlie Chan picture?

"Jane Arden" and B movies have a lot in common.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Oh, ah," smiles Inky Quinlan, closing the door gently behind him as he steps into the store, and notices the crowd already gathered around the counter. "I anticipated that this would be a -- how shall I say -- private conference..." "So did I," frowns Police Sgt. Tommy Doyle, holding up a folded yellow sheet. "Got t'is wieh an' I come right oveh, but.." "Yeh," nods Alice, glancing over at Krause and Willie eyeing the magazine rack. "An' I guess we awl got t'same wieh." "Indeed?" queries Inky, holding up his own telegram. "BE AT STORE SUNDAY NOON. WILL EXPLAIN ALL. FXL." "Hey!" interrupts Bink Scanlan, as Inky's fingers close around a Milky Way. "T'at's a nickel t'you, slick!" "Awright," comes a sharp voice from the doorway as Sally enters, leading Leonora by the hand, closely followed by the Ginsburgs. "Whassisawalabout?" "We all seem to have been summoned here," smiles Inky. "I don't believe we've met. Ignatius Quinlan, at your service." "Yeh," ignores Sally. "Whateveh. Alice! What's goin' awn, whassawlese people doin' in'eeh? I get t'is wieh f'rm Uncle Frank -- sent from PEEKSKILL, yet -- an' come t'fine out Mr. an' Mrs. G got t'same wieh!" "We all came together," nods Mr. Ginsburg. "Anything we can do, we do," adds Mrs. G. "We awl gawttit," puzzles Alice. "'Cep' f't'goil at t'coun'eh t'eh, I dunno what'eh game is." "I tol' ye befaaaar," comes a bellow at the door, "Ye caaan't get nooo roasts when tharrr's noo roasts t'be gaaht, an' sindin me a wire..." Shaughnessy the butcher trails off as he sees all eyes flick in his direction. "Outta t'way, bud," comes a rough voice in the doorway. "Comin' t'ru," adds another, as the Leary twins push into the looming crowd. "AWRIGHT!" bellows Sally. "Shaddup awlayez! Does ANYBODY heeh know what's goin' awn? We'hs my mot'eh?? What'sis awlabout???" Heads shake, shoulders shrug, as suddenly a rattling from the backroom announces that someone else has entered the store thru the rear. The murmur of anxious voices fades to silence, as the back room door unlatches and swings open. "Thank ye aaahl far coomin'" grins Uncle Frank, a fresh carnation blooming from his lapel. He doffs his derby, and nods at Ma, whose face bears an unaccustomed glow behind a light skim of powder. Uncle Frank inhales dramatically. "Family, friends, an' neighbarrrs -- we staaand befarrr ye this aftarnoon -- as Mr. and Mrs. Francis X. Leary." There is a collective gulp as though the entire room has inhaled simultaneously. The cigarette drops from Jimmy Leary's lips and into the cuff of his trousers. The room is completely silent save the buzz of the ice cream freezer. Outside, the red bulk of the Crown Heights trolley rumbles northward up Rogers Avenue. A blush deepens across Ma's cheeks. Sally is the first to find her voice. "W-w-w-what????" she stammers. Ma begins to speak, but she is cut off by a sudden clamor at the back of the crowd. "OW!" yelps Jimmy as smoke rises from his smoldering pants...)

Heavy tropical rains have forced another halt in the American drive down the Ormoc Corridor of Leyte but U. S. warplanes sank or damaged three enemy ships and destroyed at least five other planes in widespread attacks over the Philippines and Netherlands East Indies. Dispatches from the front indicated that troops of the US 32nd Division, fighting thru knee-deep mud, had pressed to within one mile of a junction in a two-pronged drive down both sides of the Upper Ormoc Corridor road about 17 2/3 miles north of Ormoc.

(Yeah, I'm sure. "For fun.")

In Moscow, General Charles deGaulle has arrived aboard a special train flying the French and Soviet flags for an historic conference with Marshal Stalin and other high-ranking Soviet officials. The General was greeted by representatives of the Soviet High Command, the diplomatic corps, and the Russian press as he stepped off the train at the Kursky railroad station. The occasion marked the first time that all chiefs of missions and diplomatic corps turned out to greet the visiting head of an Allied government. Speaking thru a microphone set up on the rail platform, Gen. de Gaulle greeted the Soviet people on behalf of France, and delivered "the homage of France to her Soviet ally for the victory and peace which must be a blessing upon mankind."

("Future Major is still a MInor." Well, if he lives long enough.)

(It's nice to see Chester Conklin still getting work, even if it IS in a second-rate cowboy comic.)

(VICTORY THRU HARE POWER.)

(Fitz's kneecap should have gotten an assist too.)

(There's nothing quite like the durability of cast iron.)

(Most anticlimactic ending ever.)

(I never realized Doug Jr. looked so much like his old man. And Mr. J. Howard Bluett can expect a wire from the Society For The Prevention of Disparaging Remarks About Brooklyn in the morning.)

(You know, for a worldly cafe-society type, you really have no idea how to do any of this at all, do you?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"D'you," queries Joe, as he and the Corporal wrestle the gasoline stove off the back of the truck, "believe in whatcacawl premonitions?" "Whussat?" replies the Corporal, negotiating a lumpy path thru the snow. "Y'know," Joe continues. "Like y'gawtta feelin'. Like -- well, I tol' ya 'bout how me'n Sal wenta t'Woil' Series one time, right? An' you know how Mickey Owen drawpt'at bawl, right?" "Seems ah huh'd some 'bout that," shrugs the Corporal, easing the stove into position. "Ah seen in thuh Movietone News. Ball done rolled raht away'fum'im. Ah was glad thuh Caw'dnuls got ridd'v'im." "Neveh min'at," interrupts Joe. "T' pernt is, we was sitt'n'eh, an' Casey was windin' up, right? An' awluvva sudd'n I got t'is -- I dunno, a chill onna back'a me neck. An' I haddis feelin' sump'n was gonna happn. An' nen -- it did!" "Well, yo' don' gottuh worry none 'bout t'at," snickers the Corporal, firing a jet of tobacco juice into the snow as they head back to the truck for another load. "Dod'guhs ain' gettin' in no Wuld Series annuh tahm soon." "I don' mean'nat," argues Joe. "I gawt'tat feelin' again right now, t'at col' feelin' upta back'a me neck. Like sump'ns gonna happ'n. Jeez, I hope ev'ryt'ings awright back home." "Ah'll tell yuh what's gon' happ'n," admonishes the Corporal. "Yo' don' pull down them eeuhflaps on yo' cap theeyuh, yo' gon' freeze yo' eehs awff." "Hmph," hmphs Joe, ejecting a stream of his own...

Huh, I thought Al Smith died. No, wait...

Careful, soldier. Seconds at a church supper may not make a frontal attack, but they can certainly assault from the rear.

Well, in a minute he'll be under the table.

I may be wrong, but I get the sense that Mr. Gray is about to go off on another filibuster. And sorry Shadow, no pantywaists allowed.

So much for the cute little pig. And it's nice to see Burma getting a role she can really sink her teeth into.

"Judy Snubnose?" Yeah, a regular .38 Special.

"Oh don't throw me into the volcano! Not in these shoes!"

Hotshot Charlie, man of action? That's something new.

 

[Fading Fast]

"I don't believe we've met. Ignatius Quinlan, at your service." "Yeh," ignores Sally.



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

You know, for a worldly cafe-society type, you really have no idea how to do any of this at all, do you?

He's an idiot. You don't walk away from this woman, you run.

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

Hotshot Charlie, man of action? That's something new.

I loathe him ever so slightly less right now.

 

[Farace]

I felt compelled by the article on the Foxhole Surgeon to search and try to find if he actually did go to medical school.

https://encyclopedia.adventist.org/article?id=BJMJ

An Arkie’s Faith: The Foxhole Surgeon | My Pulse News

By Richie Lawry It was a cold, murky, November day, and nineteen-year-old Duane was knee-deep in the mud of a French beet field. He was bandaging men and dodging bullets as the only medic with a machine-gun platoon of Patton’s Third Army. Machine-gun rounds and intense mortar fire filled the...

mypulsenews.com

And there’s more out there.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Heh," hehs Alice. "T'at Noel Cowehd musta gawt y'wieh." "Yeh, whatever," dismisses Sally. "Don' change t' subjec'. I mean, how could Ma jus' up'n do t'at wit'out tellin' nobody?? Run awff an' get married like t'at -- t' PEEKSKILL yet! Why'd she hafta go t' PEEKSKILLL?" "I heeh t'ey on'y gotta one-day wait'n period," shrugs Alice. "T'ree days inna city, but up t'eh y'on'y gotta wait one." "Why's she in such a hurry t'en??" demands Sally. "Hey, you don' s'pose..." "Nah," dismisses Alice. "Ain' you neveh seen'a big bot'la Lydia Pinkham she's got inna bat'room t'eh?" "Well, I still don' like it," frowns Sally. "Runnin' awf'n gett'n married like she's -- she's a characteh in Harold Teen a' sump'n." "Din'choo'n Joe do t'same t'ing?" interjects Alice. "We did NOT," insists Sally. "We neveh went t'Peekskill, we wenta Borra Hawl, durin' lunch break. An' Ma didn' like we done it like t'at, neit'eh. So wheh's she get awff runnin' awfta Peekskill." "Ahhhhh," dismisses Alice, "ya makin' too much'v it. Y'otta be happy fawr'eh." "I dunno," ponders Sally. "She's known Uncle Frank a lawng time. But t' MARRY 'im, I mean, t'actually LIVE witt'im -- t'at's a whole diff'nt bawla string." "I t'ink," snickers Alice, "she'll prawbly a'just." "T'ez gonna be a LAWTA 'jus'm'nt," sighs Sally. "When me'n Joe gawt married, I mean, I ain' gonna say we didn' -- um -- know each ot'eh pretty well, but t'eh was some t'ings I wasn' 'spectin'. Fois' time I see 'im sitt'n inna kitchen'neh, read'n'a papeh in 'is undehshoit wit' 'is feet inna oven, I t'ought, mygawd, what'v I gawt myself inteh." "I bet you done t'ings," ventures Alice, "t'at drove Joe crazy too." Sally is quiet for a moment, reviewing her memory. "Nah," she asserts. "Nawt me. Well, maybe t'at t'ing wit' t'rowin' radios out'a windeh, but I didn't stawrt doin'nat till I was, you know, carryin'a baby. An' Joe didn' min' awlat much, c'ept when he wawned t' lissen t' Amos 'n' Andy anna radio was downa alley. But he gawt oveh'rit." "Marrriage changes a poisson," ventures Alice. "I ain' t'rown a pot roast since I married Siddy." "I still don' like it," sighs Sally. "Upta now, Ma awrways tol' me evr'yt'ing." "Ah," nods Alice. "What?" "Nut'n....")

A thundering battle that German strategists predicted would seal the fate of Austria was joined along the easter shores of Lake Balaton today as Cossack flying columns smashed head-on into a powerful Nazi defensive screen thrown across the invasion gate barely fifty miles from Austrian soil. The German DNB news agency said "major Soviet tank forces" broke thru to the northwestern rim of the lake, but asserted that German reserves were attacking them on both flanks and that the penetration has been sealed off.

Assistant Kings County District Attorneys Solomon A. Klein and Fred Loughran are in Washington today to fight an appeal to the U. S. Supreme Court seeking to reverse the conviction of two men found guilty of the 1941 murder of a Coney Island patrolman during a botched payroll robbery at a motion picture theatre. Morris Malinsky of Brooklyn and Sidney Rudisch of Manhattan were two of the three defendants convicted in the death of Patrolman Leon Fox, who on February 15, 1941 was shot and killed while foling the stickup at Loew's Coney Island Theatre on Surf Avenue. Malinsky and Rudisch are in the death house at Sing Sing Prison awaiting execution. The third defendant in the case, Joseph Individo of Brooklyn, was sentenced to life on a recommendation of clemency, and also has an appeal pending before the Brooklyn Appellate Division of the State Supreme Court. It is argued that Malinksy's alleged confession to the crime, which also implicated Rudisch, was obtained "under duress."

("He had one, but he lost it in a crap game.")

("Heh," snickers Ma. "Amatchoors." "We hadda lotta action 'eeh while you was away," notes Bink Scanlan. "T'at Awrmy-Navy game was hawt stuff." "Figyarrs," frowns Ma, "yee'd knoo a lotta 'bout footbaahl. Use'ta play, didjee?" "Huh?" huhs Bink, snapping her gum. "Hey, t'at's a pretty swell ring Fatty give ya. Leemee look." With a scowl, Ma extends her left hand. "Yeh," nods Bink. "Y'know, I was downtown'eh las' week, I seen one jus' like t'at inna windeh at Koski's." "Oi doon't knoo which jewlarr he got it froom," sighs Ma. "Oi don't ask sooch questions. An' what, Oi moit ask, was YOU doin' in sooch a place." "Oh, jus' hockin' some stuff I -- had," replies Bink with a toss of her hair. "Lateh, gateh!" She flits to the door as Ma glowers after...)

("I think," declares Inky Quinlan, "that you should find these specimens to your satisfaction. Uncle Frank holds a proof print of a Christmas-decorated Camel carton under the overhead light and squints carefully at the line work. "Whoo's that s'poosta be," he frowns. "That," declares Inky, "is Santa Claus." "It doon't LOOK loike Santy Claaahs." "Well," shrugs Inky, "I had no -- ah -- model to work from, so I found it necessary to resort to memory." "Heh!" snickers Danny, leaning over his father's shoulder. "What's YAWR pitcheh doin' onneh?" Uncle Frank squints, and realization dawns. "Well," shrugs Inky, "you do have the necessary -- ah -- ruddy cheeks and jolly demeanor. I was forced, however, to improvise the whiskers." "Oi seen bettar whiskarrs," frowns Uncle Frank, "aaahn soobway poostars." "Oh dear," sighs Inky, treading lightly. "Forgive me for saying so, but you seem a bit -- irritable this evening." "Honeymoon's oveh," snickers Jimmy from the corner of the room. "SHOOT OOP!" growls Uncle Frank....)

("...blowing their tenth straight game, 34-0." Yes, I suppose you could put it that way.)

(Clamaroo!!)

(Yes, there is nothing wrong with this line of reasoning at all.)

("Oh yes, I learned this trick from Ellery Queen.")

("Oh yes of course, creepy old man with your greasy hair and chin stubble who loiters late at night in building lobbies, I'd be glad to go off alone with you.")

(It's always nice to meet a horse with a sense of humor.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"A potsy" as used here is a policeman's badge, taken from its resemblance to the flattened tin can used by little girls as a marker when playing potsy. The "bend over" is a coat lapel, and the "benny" is an overcoat, likely because there were many tailors on early 20th Century New York by the name of Benjamin. The "old gaff," I imagine, is self-explanatory.

"It's nice, but I was actually hoping for something in flannel..."

WHAT A COINCIDENCE

Look, kid, I don't see what's so hard about this. Toss the little twerp to the mob and run!

Yep, guess she did reproduce.

Busted for wearing summer whites in December!

When did "The Gumps" turn into "Mary Worth," and what can we do about it?

"No Good Conduct though."

Gotta get home in one piece first, kid.

"Tell me -- ah -- do you like pig's feet?"

 

[Fading Fast]

"Upta now, Ma awrways tol' me evr'yt'ing." "Ah," nods Alice. "What?" "Nut'n...."

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

"Well," shrugs Inky, "I had no -- ah -- model to work from, so I found it necessary to resort to memory."

Seriously, Inky, there aren't enough images of Santa for you to work from?

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

Yep, guess she did reproduce.

Must you put that thought in my head?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Strasboig," sighs Sally. "I wondeh if t'at's close t' weh Joe is." "Ye got noo way'a knoo'in, choild," shrugs Ma. "Boot if 'e is tharr, Oi'm sure he's foine. What c'n happ'n to a cook?" "I guess," Sally exhales. "I sen' awf't'at boxa t'bacceh y'gimme. Hope 'e gets it." At this, Uncle Frank's eyes snap up from the newspaper and make contact with Ma's, and she gives a barely-perceptible headshake to warn him off the topic. "Yeh," she nods, in a voice with just enough an edge to convey the point, "OI had that oold stoof in stock here far yeers. Noo good to anyboody, I hope he can trade it farr soomthin' 'e can use." Uncle Frank gives a tiny nod in acknowledgement, and settles back on his stool. "Anyways," continues Sally, turning to Uncle Frank, "I wawned t' ask ya 'bout t' berleh oveh t' oueh place, Krause's been tryin' to keep up t' steam, but.." "Ahhh, Oi know," sighs Uncle Frank. "Oi'll get roit ovarr there as soon's Oi can, but, you know, things are soo busy." "Yeh," acknowledges Sally, "an' on toppa t'at ya movin'..." "Oi am?" puzzles Uncle Frank. "OH. Oh, yes, indeed. Varry busy wit' moovin', got t'get settled in with married loife 'n ahhl." "Well lissen," suggests Sally. "What if me'n Alice an' Krause help out? Maybe afteh woik t'marra night we c'n come oveh to ya place an' help load up ya truck, y'know, get t'resta ya stuff moved oveh heeh." "Ah," sweats Uncle Frank, freezing in a sudden glare from Ma. "Yeh, we'll be right oveh afteh woik," nods Sally. "Um -- huh, ain'at funny, I don' even know wheh ya been livin'. Back room a' ya shawp, up t'eh awn Bedf'ed? I know weh t'at is, should we come aroun'a back?" "Ah--ah--ah--ah---" stammers Uncle Frank. "He's aaaahl mooved in," interrupts Ma. "He joost -- faaaargot, that's aaahl. Isn't that roit, Francis. Ye joost faaaargot." "Oh yes," gulps Uncle Frank. "Soo mooch aahn me moind, y'unnarstan'.." "Huh," huhs Sally. "You mus' not have a lotta stuff, I don' see no boxes a' nut'n...""Oooooh no, Oi travel loit," hastens Uncle Frank. ""S'funny," chuckles Sally, "awrmos' like ya been heeh awlalawng.." "Oh, ah," flushes Ma...)

Crack Chinese reserves were reported rushing down from the Communist border area of northwestern China to help stave off the Japanese threat to Kunming and Chungking today in a move that observers in the capital predicted would have far reaching military and political implications. Coming on the heels of Generalissimo Chiang Kai-Shek's second government shakeup, the shifting of the northern troops was interpreted as evidence of Chungking's determination to check the Japanese invaders and at the same time to improve relations with the Chinese Communists.

In Hollywood, director Cecil B. DeMille declared that he would give up his $5000-a-week job as host of the Monday night Radio Theatre broadcast rather than pay a $1 assessment to the American Federation of Radio Artists. The AFRA assessed its members in order to raise a fund to oppose Proposition No. 12 on an upcoming California ballot to ban the closed shop in that state. DeMille indicated that he disagreed with the union position on that issue, and would not pay the assessment. In return, the union notified him that he would, under AFRA's closed-shop contract with the radio networks, be barred from the air as of next Monday unless he complies with the assessment.

("And don't forget to pick up our free calendar for 1945!")

(Someday he'll have an entire staff of flacks to deal with this.)

(Let's see, I wonder what will be on Page Four today...)

(Um, yeah, Dix played for the Yankees ten years ago, but surely you have a more recent photograph?)

("The Father of Jive? Hmph!" -- Cab Calloway.)

(Many quinine drinkers find that cutting it with gin makes the ringing stop.)

(You people better wrap this up, the tide's coming in.)

(You really have no sense at all, do you?)

("Still, there's no reason to use such language.")

 

[LizzieMaine]

Well, that's a little more, but I guess Screwball Tommy Dorsey Antics do have to get the prime play.

(Coming Events...)

Look, hon, it's all relative. Remember, you used to be married to Bumley Gump.

The coincidences just abound!

Well, they'll get along just fine.

"And then you do it three times, count the number of times it swings, and play that number. And be sure to combinate!"

Shift change at the Kearny Works.

OUR DISGUISES ARE IMPENETRABLE.

Exactly what my mother would have said.

You want jive, you'll get jive!

 

[PrivateEye]

(Many quinine drinkers find that cutting it with gin makes the ringing stop.)

Until the following morning...

 

[LizzieMaine]

("A thoosand a poond far a salami," sighs Uncle Frank, gazing down with disappointment at the Toomey's Diner grilled cheese sandwich on the table before him, "Ahhh, there was a toime, Tommy me boy, whin Oi could joost say th' warrd an' have ahhl th' salami a man could evarr want." "T'em days is gawn f'reveh," nods Sergeant Doyle. "Lissen, Frank," he continues. "I gotta hand it to ya. I neveh t'ought y'd go t'ru wit' it." "Hmm?" hmms Uncle Frank, resigning himself to his lunch. "Marryin'a ol' lady," replies Doyle. "I neveh t'ought you'd do it." Uncle Frank offers his lunch companion a serious gaze. "Thomas," he exhales, "tharr cooms a toime in a man's loife when 'e has to take a reckonin'. Ye get oold, ye woondar if ye moita doon some things diff'r'nt. An' ye woondar what'charr goin' t' do with th' toime ye gaaht left -- an' whoo yar goin' to do it with." "Yeh," nods Doyle, figuring that to be as good a response as any. "Anyways, you held up yeh side'a t'bawrgain, so I'll hold up mine. I'll writecha letteh fawr yeh." "Lettar?" queries Uncle Frank thru a mouthful of sandwich. "You know," continues Doyle. "T'at letteh sayin' yeh'ra good characteh, you know, f'ya citizenship." "Oh," nods Uncle Frank. "Oh yes, of caaarse. Absolutely." Uncle Frank chews on, lost momentarily in thought. "Y'know, Tommy," he chuckles, "I fargaaat aaahl abooth that." "Ah," ahs Doyle, reaching into his service coat pocket. "Heeh," he offers. "Have a cigawr. Hawrd t'get now, I guess, even f'you." "Nah," declines Uncle Frank. "Truth be toold," he shrugs, "Oi'm sarrta loosin' me taste farr cigars." He reaches into his own pocket. "Heere ye goo, lad," he offers in return. "Have a Tootsie Rool...")

A police sergeant from Sunnyside, Queens, attached to a Manhattan precinct, is under arrest today on charges of suspicion of homicide for allegedly shooting to death a Bowery habitue who asked him for a cigarette. Forty-three-year old Sergeant Anthony Fox was arrested yesterday, in a drunken stupor, at the Manhattan entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge after he fired several shots from his service revolver into a watchman's shanty. The arrest followed by only a few minutes the discovery by police of the body of 50-year-old Michael Condon, a trackwalker with no regular home, in front of 7 Chatham Square, his abdomen torn thru by two bullets. Fox was linked to the shooting after a police ballistics expert identified those slugs as having come from the sergeant's gun. Investigators from the Manhattan District Attorney's office reconstructed Fox's movements after he completed his Monday night tour of duty at the Elizabeth Street station. As determined by that probe, conducted in the psychiatric ward at Bellevue Hospital, Fox changed out of his uniform and, in civilian clothes, had several drinks in Bowery bars to ward off the evening cold. While walking past the Grand Windsor Hotel, a 35-cent-a-night flophouse on Chatham Square, Condon approached Fox, asking for a cigarette, and the two came to blows. During the scuffle, Fox admitted firing three shots. Fox has been investigated by the Department on six previous occasions, one by a woman who charged he struck her while he was drunk. Fox originally joined the force under the name of "Fuchs," but had it legally changed in 1931.

("Heeh we go," says Sally. "Heeh's what t'get Ma f'Chris'mas. A nice setta cawrds." "Ah," snickers Alice, barely holding it in. "Y'know, when me'n Mickey was lit'l we'd sit down inna stoeh t'eh wit' Ma at night, wait'n f't' Daily News t'come up, an' we'd play t'ree handed rummy. Ev'ry night, t'ree handed rummy. An' y'know what, Ma awrways won. I guess she jus' had a way wit'it a'sump'n." "Heh," nods Alice. "Guess ya don' hafta get 'eh no weejee board." "What?" "Nut'n." "I wondeh if Uncle Frank likes t'play rummy," muses Sally. "Pinochle," submits Alice. "How'da YOU know?" challenges Sally. "Um," ums Alice, "he jus' seems t'type. Hey -- lemme ask ya. Now t'at t'eh married, you still gonna cawl'im 'Uncle Frank?" Sally ponders this question, one she has never before considered. "I mean," continues Alice, "you gonna cawl 'im Pop? Awr Pa? Awr Pap? T'at's what Willie cawls Siddy, I like t'at." "Huh," sighs Sally. "I neveh cawled nobody Pa since, well, my Pa. Ma is Ma because, you know, she's my Ma, but.." "Well, Uncle Frank aincha blood uncle," notes Alice, "but'cha still cawl 'im Uncle." "I dunno," demurs Sally. "I ain' much for, you know, t'em kinda names, nicknames.." "Well," presses Alice, "whattaya cawl Joe?" "I cawl'im Joe," replies Sally, startled by the question. "Ain'cha gawt no, you know, pet names?" returns Alice. "You know, like dawrlin', awr honey, awr sweetie, awr, you know -- uh -- Rosebud." "Rosebud?" laughs Sally. "Yeh," nods Alice. "I mean -- uh -- nawt in fronna people, but.." Sally gives her friend a long, sideways glance, and pointedly returns to her paper...)

(In a dark, cold barracks at Stalag VII-A outside Moosburg, Germany, Private Michael K. Sweeney passes a sleepless night mentally reviewing the card-counting tricks his mother taught him around the fountain counter those many years before...)

The Eagle Editorialst declares the book closed on the Noel Coward affair, in the wake of the British playwright's public apology for his "outrageous slur upon Brooklyn soldiers," but also congratulates the people and civic institutions of the borough for rising as one to condemn Coward's ill-conceived remarks after the Eagle brought them to public attention, and doing so without resorting to bans against the author's works or his person, acts which would have established "a precedent that is abhorrent to every democratic instinct." "Brooklyn has come out of the Coward controversy," concludes the EE, "better known, better understood, and with the reputation of its fighting men unimpaired."

(Ripped from the headlines!)

("Mr. O'Malley seemed a bit agitated," comments Mr. Parrott as he enters Mr. Rickey's sanctum. "I ran into him on the stairs and he was muttering under his breath." "Mr. O'Malley has still to learn," huffs the Mahatma, "the meaning of the phrase 'silent partner.' Tell me, boy, what do you know of baseball operations in California?" "Eh," shrugs Mr. Parrott. "I guess the Coast League does all right. Camilli seems to like it out there." "You are in communication with Mr. Camilli?" frowns Mr. Rickey. "Oh, ah," stammers Mr. Parrott, "we, um, you know, keep in touch. He's -- ah -- well, still wondering when he'll get his Day." "Mr. Camilli," growls Mr. Rickey, "has HAD his day...")

("The Mezz" -- top notch, first rate. A term derived from the name of Milton "Mezz" Mezzrow, a jazz clarinetist who was well known among musicians as a pre-eminent dealer in high-grade marijuana, which, itself, was often referred to in his honor as "mezz." No wonder this strip is so weird.)

(Gawd, you're dumb.)

(You'll be hearing from Louella Parson's lawyers in the morning.)

(I MEAN WHAT WERE YOU EXPECTING?)

(Besides, before you can leave you have to clear it with Mr. McNutt.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

Yes, well, it isn't exactly every gal's dream to marry a dentist either.

Ah.

I took two years of algebra in high school, and I have absolutely no memory of any of it. Glad to see I'm not alone.

"Yeah?" C'mon, Shakes, you can do better than that.

At least he isn't stupid.

That's right, Chazz. Take a deep deep breath.

Never mind this foolishness, send her after Mrs. Bleating-Hart!

KIDS TODAY

Hey, at least you don't have to bang the radiator for heat.

Strongest marriage in the comics.

 

[Fading Fast]

Yes, well, it isn't exactly every gal's dream to marry a dentist either.

Didn't they talk about this before they married?

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

Ah.

So, "C."

 

[LizzieMaine]

("T'ree yeehs," sighs Sally. "Seems like it's been t'oity." "Yeh," nods Alice. "Leonoreh was just a baby," Sally continues. "Me'n Joe, we stood'eh lookin' down on'eh sleepin', an' we was bot' wondehrin' if we done t'right t'ing." She exhales sadly. "I still dunno if we did...." They ride on in silence for an interval before Sally resumes. "Solly Pincus wen' down an' enlisted t'nex' mawrnin'," she recalls. "An' Joe made up 'is min' t'quit t' pickle woiks an' get in at Sperry's. An' me, wit' a t'ree mont' ol' baby, I couldn' do nut'n." "Ya doin' it now," notes Alice. "T'at's what counts." "So's Joe," nods Sally. "But y'know, I'd give anyt'ing inna woil' f'r'it t'be like it was -- befoeh, y'know. When it was jus' me an' Joe, goin' out dancin' Satehday nights, an' din'know what it was awlabout. But it neveh will be like t'at again." "I guess," concedes Alice. "But me, y'know, I'm glad I ain' weh I was t'ree yeehs ago. Nut'n'ta do wit' t'wawr, I'm jus' glad I'm heeh an' not -- um, livin' upstate." "Country livin' didn' agree wit'cha?" queries Sally. "No," declares Alice, her tone leaving no doubt, "it di'n't...")

Russian armored spearheads drove deep into the southern Balaton Gap 40 miles from Austria, as Berlin radio reported that other Red Army forces were battering against the outer defenses of Budapest from two sides in a climactic attempt to take the Hungarian capital by force. The entire 200 mile battlefront across Hungary from the northeast to southwest exploded into furious action as the Germans poured reserves into the Austrian gate below Balaton and the new danger zone southwest of Budapest.

("What aahr ye laaaaughin' aboot now," queries Ma, as Uncle Frank chuckles atop his stool. "Thaaat baaaahtle," he grins, indicating a photo on the paper before him. "It loooks aaaaahful familiar." "Ah," nods Ma. "Oi didn't know ye evarr made vodkarr?" "Noothin' to it," Uncle Frank replies. "Ye joost doon't poot in th' coolorin'." "Oi've married a scoondrel," snickers Ma. "Aboot toime, too," he nods.)

("It's delicious," smiles Shaughnessy the Butcher. "It'll melt in ye mooth!" "A buffaleh?" frowns Sergeant Doyle. "Like awna nickel? T'at kin'a buffaleh?" "Wallll, soomwhat," concedes Shaughnessy. "Praaahb'ly a bit -- ah -- leaner. That woon ahhna nickel doon't look loike'ee moved aroond too mooch." "An'nis izza real stuff? Not like t'at goat meat ya tried t'say was veal?" pushes the Sergeant. "R'membeh, I c'n run ya in if ya tryin' ta--" "Y'caaaan't neither," insists Shaughnessy. "Oi'm paid oop aaahn me protection an' you know it." Doyle scowls across the counter. "Awright," he nods. "Gimme a coupl'a steaks. But I'm wawrnin' ya, when Mavis cooks it up, if I smella slightes' bitta goat --- an' HEY! keep ya t'umbs we'h'r I c'n see'm!")

Three million dollars worth of surplus property and equipment from the Sperry Gyroscope Company is to be auctioned off by the War Department next Monday. The surplus materiel includes tools, six-watt lamp bulbs, radio tubes, and similar articles, many of which have not been available on the civilian market for the past two years. The auction contstitues liquidation of a War Department contract with the Sperry company for 60-inch searchlights that are no longer in production, with proceeds from the sale intended to reimburse the company for its manufacturing costs. Regulations are in place to prevent bulk purchases of the articles sold, so that, for example, radio supply dealers cannot purchase all of the commercially-rare tubes, leaving none for the individual user.

(Too soon.)

("Hmph," hmphs Mr. Parrott. "You get a suite, Jane Ann gets a private room, and I have to double up with Dressen. In the same bed, yet!" "Ah," smiles Mr. Rickey, "fortune has smiled upon you, smiled upon you indeed. Mr. Dressen will prove a valued mentor as you learn the intricacies of the game." "I was a sportswriter for ten years," snaps Mr. Parrot. "Intricacies I know. And Dressen SNORES!" "Love not sleep," quotes Mr. Rickey, "lest thou come to poverty. The Bible, Mr. Parrot, the word of the Lord." "The Lord," mutters Mr. Parrott, "doesn't have to sleep with Dressen." "What?" "Nothing...")

(If I were you, kid, I wouldn't let that goose out of my sight. Poultry shortage is getting pretty desperate.)

("Banjo Eyes?" Does she mean Eddie Cantor or Moon Mullins? Because either one would be preferable.)

(Points to Jane for negotiating a wet beach in heels.)

(EPICALLY dumb.)

(All right, Kitty. Law into your own claws.)