The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

"Hmm," hms Uncle Frank. "That's soomthin' t'be prood of."

He's not reading the room, is he? Or is he already punking his new wife?

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"The Very Thought of You" is an uneven home-front movie, but it has some great on-location shots of Pasadena and LA.

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"I hoid she was Scottish," argues Alice. "T'at's close'ta Irish, ain' it?" "Ain't t'same t'ing a'tawl," dismisses Sally. "You eveh heer'a Scottish Eyes a' smilin'? T'ey jus' scowl atcha." Alice ponders for an interval. "Hey Sal," she finally resumes. "I didn' know you was Scottish!"

To this mixed-mutt American, the distinction between the Irish and Scottish seemed like a fine point until I met my Scottish girlfriend, who sees a much more significant difference.

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Police say a Brownsville candy store owner stabbed a man to death after he threatened to attack her. Mrs. Hattie Crawford told police the man entered her shop at 223 Livonia Avenue and threatened to beat her, and that when he made a lunge at her she defended herself with a knife. Police identified the dead man as 32-year-old Danny Dixon of 180 Livonia Avenue.

I could see Frank being inspired to get Ma a gun, but her telling him she can take care of herself "with these –" holding up her two fists.

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

Leslie's a man? That's an angle we weren't expecting.

"Why Not?"

 

[Farace]

To this mixed-mutt American, the distinction between the Irish and Scottish seemed like a fine point until I met my Scottish girlfriend, who sees a much more significant difference.

We have a Scottish pub here in my hometown, run by a true Glaswegian. Call him Irish and you’ll get an earful!

Leslie's a man? That's an angle we weren't expecting.

View attachment 669693
"Why Not?"

My ex-wife’s first name is Leslie, but she never uses it. When she was a baby, she appeared in the newspaper in the arms of her father, who was also Leslie. The caption referred to “Leslie Phillips and Leslie, Jr.” She went by her middle name after that.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Slow day," chirps Bink Scanlan, tossing the canvas bag on the counter with a snap of her gum. Leonora, immersed in the latest issue of Speed Detective, looks up, sees nothing of interest, and returns to her reading. "Guess nobody wants t'bet onnem Jai-Alai races," suggests Bink. "T'ey ain' races," growls Ma. "It's a game. They play it doon in Flaaarida, two fellars with baskets on their aaarms throoin' a bahhhl against th' waaall." "Yeh," snickers Bink. "T'at'll fool 'em. You jus' keep tellin'm t'at." "AN' POOT THAT PACK"A GOMM DOON!" snaps Ma, grabbing said article away. "Oi foond that box doon th' basement, it's th' last woon in th' place." "Whassis on'eeh," observes Bink, squinting at the display. "N R A, we doo oueh pawrt." "It's been doon'there a whoile," shrugs Ma. "Don'chee know tharr's a warrr ahhhn? Anyways, enoof wit'chee tharr, goo in th' back room an' get th' nickels oota th' machine so Leonora can coont'm. At least we're still doin' business with thaat." "Yeh," acknowledges Bink. "AN' KEEP YE FINGARRRS T'YE'SELF!" shouts Ma. "IF YE JINGLE COOMIN' OOT, OI'LL HEAR IT!" Ma runs her cleaning rag under the sink and sets to work scrubbing the countertop. She has been at this for some few moments when the door jingles open, and a shifty-eyed youth enters. "Oi'm aaahl oota smooks," announces Ma without looking up. "An' ahhl Oi gaaaht t'drink is two cents plain." "Awright, granny," mumbles the youth. "Get'm up." Ma raises her head and rolls her eyes. "Ye gaaaht t'be kidd'n," she snickers. "I ain't foolin," insists the youth, brandishing a palm-sized automatic. "Get t'at drawer op'n." "Th' blooody hell ye say," refuses Ma. "G'wan hoom, tell yarrr moothar she wants ye." "I ain't gonna ask ya again," demands the youth. He notices Leonora at the magazine rack, and aims the gun in her direction. "Come acrawst awr I'll drill you an'na kid too!" But as he turns, he fails to notice Bink emerging from the back room carrying a heavy sack of nickels. Bink sizes up the situation, and before the youth can turn back to Ma, she whips the sack around with extreme prejudice against the boy's skull. He drops instantly, his pistol clattering on the tile floor. "Heh," hehs Leonora, returning to her magazine. Ma steps quickly from behind the counter and prods the lump on the floor with her toe. "Ooot loike a mackerel," she announces. "He ain't dead, is he?" queries Bink. "Roon next door t'th' droog store," commands Ma, ignoring the question "Get a big rool'a that adhesive tape, an' a baaatl'a chloroform." "But..." "DO IT!" Bink nods and scuttles out as Ma steps over the youth and dings a nickel down the phone. She dials a BUckminster number. "Francis?" she snaps. "Send th' boys ovarrr here NOW. Tell'm t'bring th' troock. JUST DO IT!" She slams the receiver back onto its hook and turns to her granddaughter, still immersed in her magazine. "Heer now, daarlin'," she directs. "Poot down ye book, an' help ye gran pick oop aaahl these nick'ls...")

Plans for another Big Three conference to iron out the mounting differences between the leading Allied nations appeared today to hinge mainly on definite word from Soviet Premier Joseph Stalin. Prime Minister Winston Churchill has called repeatedly and in strong terms for a quick meeting with President Roosevelt and Premier Stalin. The President has been somewhat less fervent but has acknowledged that he, too, would like to see such a conference. From Stalin, however, there has been only silence. It is well known that the Soviet leader is loath to leave Moscow while his armies are engaging the Germans, and President Roosevelt is said to be reluctant to travel there due to the extreme distance involved. Churchill, however, has repeatedly indicated his willingness to meet with his fellow leaders at any time and at any location.

("Whas'sis town comin' to," sighs Sally. "I ask ya. Wasn' like t'is when *I* was growin' up." "I dunno," shrugs Alice. "I seen a lotta t'ings when *I* was growin' up." "Ahhh," dismisses Sally. "Ain' nut'n compaehed t'what's goin' awn now. Kids runnin' bezzoik." "T'at guy," observes Alice, pointing to the paper, "izza same age as you." "I ain' toity-two yet," frowns Sally. "I got anot'eh t'ree mont's." "Well, 'ees oldeh'rn you," continues Alice. "He ain' no kid runnin' bezzoik." "Well, I still don' like it," argues Sally. "An' -- you got Willie t'eh, now, what'choo doin' t'keep him outa trouble? When Mickey comes home, y'want he should fin' out his son is a juvenile d'linquent?" Alice's face clouds momentarily at the mention of certain matters which may soon have to be confronted. "Willie's fine," she insists. "He's a good kid. Awl'ee wants t'do is build stuff outa t'at Erectin' set 'e got f'Chris'mas." "Well, I'll tell ya one t'ing," sighs Sally. "I'm sueh glad Leonoreh ain' growin' up aroun' any'a t'is kin'a stuff." "Yeh," exhales Alice.....)

("We've told you before, sir, baldness is no exemption!")

The famous "Jafsie" of the Lindbergh kidnapping case has died at his home in the Bronx. Dr. John F. Condon, age 84, died yesterday afternoon at his residence, 2974 Decatur Street, with his wife and children at his side. Dr. Condon was a retired high school principal in 1932, when, in a letter to the Bronx Home News, he offered to act as an intermediary beween the kidnappers and Colonel Lindbergh, whom he had never met. To his surprise, the offer was accepted, and following an exchange of messages by means of classified newspaper advertisements, Dr. Condon met a shadowy figure in a Bronx cemetery and handed over a box containing $50,000 of Lindbergh's money. But the boy was never seen alive again. Dr. Condon was subsequently a star witness in the trial of accused kidnapper Bruno Richard Hauptmann,, who was found guilty and executed for the crime in 1936.

("That flouncing ninny???" roars Mr. Rickey. "That kept man of a Swiss ice skater?? Outwit ME? The day has never dawned, boy, mark the word, the DAY HAS NEVER DAWNED." "No sir," nods Mr. Parrott. "She's Norwegian, by the way." "That," growls Mr. Rickey, "is of no consequence. No, and I say it again, that tuxedoed poltroon will RUE THE DAY he ventured to match wits with ME." "He IS in the Army, sir," whispers Mr. Parrott. "They will," growls Mr. Rickey, "take ANYONE." "Yes sir," acknowledges Mr. Parrott. "Even, I dare say," continues Mr. Rickey, his eyes beading, "a myopic sportswriter." "Yes sir," sighs Mr. Parrott...)

(I thought Al Smith died, and hopefully he did, because appearing in this strip would certainly kill him.)

("Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. I'm going home now, Bill has probably burned the house down again, and I need to see about the insurance.")

(Yes, but what SHADE of blue? Navy? Royal? Cerulean?)

(Do you get the feeling we are in the middle of a "cultural moment?")

("If you don't go around scratching, people will like you!" And to think Dale Carnegie had to write a whole book.)

 

[Fading Fast]

"Get'm up." Ma raises her head and rolls her eyes. "Ye gaaaht t'be kidd'n," she snickers. "I ain't foolin," insists the youth, brandishing a palm-sized automatic. "Get t'at drawer op'n." "Th' blooody hell ye say," refuses Ma. "G'wan hoom, tell yarrr moothar she wants ye." "I ain't gonna ask ya again," demands the youth. He notices Leonora at the magazine rack, and aims the gun in her direction. "Come acrawst awr I'll drill you an'na kid too!" But as he turns, he fails to notice Bink emerging from the back room carrying a heavy sack of nickels. Bink sizes up the situation, and before the youth can turn back to Ma, she whips the sack around with extreme prejudice against the boy's skull. He drops instantly, his pistol clattering on the tile floor. "Heh," hehs Leonora, returning to her magazine. Ma steps quickly from behind the counter and prods the lump on the floor with her toe. "Ooot loike a mackerel," she announces. "He ain't dead, is he?" queries Bink. "Roon next door t'th' droog store," commands Ma, ignoring the question "Get a big rool'a that adhesive tape, an' a baaatl'a chloroform." "But..." "DO IT!" Bink nods and scuttles out as Ma steps over the youth and dings a nickel down the phone. She dials a BUckminster number. "Francis?" she snaps. "Send th' boys ovarrr here NOW. Tell'm t'bring th' troock. JUST DO IT!" She slams the receiver back onto its hook and turns to her granddaughter, still immersed in her magazine. "Heer now, daarlin'," she directs. "Poot down ye book, an' help ye gran pick oop aaahl these nick'ls..."

Jesus.

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Looking for the Daily News.

 

[LizzieMaine]

"We can't get much closeh," mutters Joe, "wit'out loinin' Goiman." "Scauhd?" replies the Corporal. "Wouldn' matteh'rif I was," sighs Joe. "Awr if you was neit'eh." "They don' shoot at cooks," returns the Corporal. "No," agrees Joe. "T'ey don' shoot at cooks."

I don't know if this Mr. Scott is any good of a lawyer, but somebody needs to hire him to write dialogue.

"Oh, I forgot to put a plate in the camera. Set him up and we'll do it again."

Yes, boys, by all means, let's think.

It's Mooseface, Uncle Bim, and Chester! HAPPY NEW YEAR!

"Go ahead, dear, the bottle of Lydia Pinkham's is in the bathroom."

HE'S HOLDING UP CANDY STORES!

They've got dozens of them down at Woolworth's.

"But I'm the only paying boarder she has, mostly!"

Her....messenger????

 

[Fading Fast]

"Oh, I forgot to put a plate in the camera. Set him up and we'll do it again."

– Frank Capa (Just kidding, I know there's no definitive proof.)

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

Her....messenger????

I'm giddy.

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

Terry: "Oh, oooh!, wow, how old is the Dragon Lady now that she looks this good without her clothes on?"

Pat: [Quickly grabbing the paper from Terry's hand.] "Wrong one." [Pat hands Terry another slip of paper.] "This is the one with the design on it."

Terry: "Sure, the sign of the dragon, whatever. Could I see that first one again?"

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Well, soo tharr's noothin' in th' paparr aboot it," argues Uncle Frank. "That still doon't mean ye needed to..." "Faaaar th' last toime, Francis," insists Ma, "Oi nevarr doon a single thing. It was Bink Scanlan slooged 'im an' it was yarrr oon sons loaded 'im aaaahn th' troock! An' ye c'n ask'm yeself if that ain't so. An' besoides, it ain't like anybody doon anything parrmenent. In ahhl th' farrrrty years Oi been in this coontry Oi ain't kilt noobaady, an' Oi ain't aboot t'starrt now. Bink Scanlan knaaacked 'im oot, an' th' boys droov'im oot to th' enda Laaaang Oislan' someplace an' doomped 'im aaahf th' soide'a th' rood. All Oi doon was boind oop th' poor boy's wounds with tape an' Oi give 'im a liiiiitle shaaht'a chloroform t'keep 'im coomfartable durin' th' roide." "Flaaaarence Noitengale," headshakes Uncle Frank. "He'll foind 'is way hoom," declares Ma. "Aaafter a toime." "Oh, yes, aaafter a toime," eyerolls Uncle Frank. "Ye did remoind th' boys t' take aaahf th' tape befarr they doomped im, Oi hope." "Yaaar gettin' sooft in yarrr oold age, Francis Leary," admonishes Ma. "Oi can remembarr a toime whin.." "Nivver moind aboot that!" interrupts Uncle Frank. "Well," summarizes Ma, "Oi'll tell ye this. When that yooong hallion doos foind 'is way hoom, he'll not coom aroond THIS neighbarhood any maaaaar. An' he saaaartainy woon't be pointin' no gon at no innocent starrrkeepars an' lit'l children." "What'd ye do with th' gon," interjects Uncle Frank. "Gaaaht it roit here," replies Ma, fishing into her apron pocket. "See far ye'self." "'Junior G-Man,'" reads Uncle Frank, hefting the tiny pistol. "A bloody toy," scowls Ma. "Oi'm tellin' ye, Francis, soomthin's gaaaaht t'be doon. These yooong hooligans t'day aaaar roonin' baaaarzarrrk." "Ye evarr considarrr," sighs Uncle Frank, "roonin' farr Assembly?")

Four American airmen who bailed out of their flaming Liberator over the Phillipines were back at their base today after spending 36 days on a rubber life raft and 16 more living among friendly natives on two small southwest Pacific islands. Gaunt, bearded and suffering from malnutrition, the rescued men related how they caught birds and fish with their bare hands and huddled beneath a rubber sheet aboard their raft as enemy planes patrolled overhead. One of five Japanese submarines sighted by the men during the first twenty days of their ordeal was said to have come within 50 feet of the raft. They were rescued, it was reported, "in an undisclosed manner."

(There's A New World Coming...)

("Awlat time Joe was heeh," sighs Sally, "an' we couldn' get no brisket. Now 'ee's oveh t'eh inna middl'ov'it, an' looka t'at -- brisket." "I bet 'e c'n have awla brisket he wawnts," assures Alice. "I mean, t'ey awlways say t'Awrmy gets t'picka t'food, right? An' Joe's a cook, an' I bet he gets t'eat awl'ee wawnts, right?" "I gawt some red pernts," Sally continues. "I wondeh if I could get a brisket an' send it t'wim?" "Wouldn' it sperl?" suggests Alice. "Nah," dismisses Sally. "Brisket don' sperl. It jus' gets -- ripe." "Ah," ahs Alice....)

(It's like Mr. Lichty knows my brother personally!)

("A dreadful photograph!" fumes Mr. Rickey. "A poor likeness and an unflattering pose." "Yes sir," agrees Mr. Parrott. "Contact Mr. Holmes at once. Send him that portrait Jane Ann has hanging on the lobby wall." "The one of Judge Landis?" queries Mr. Parrott. Mr. Rickey scowls a deadly scowl. "I told her to get rid of that," he snaps. "And to hang my own portrait in its place. Mrs. Rickey wished to hang that portrait in here, but I, of course, demurred." "I guess it's better than MacPhail's moosehead." "What?" "Nothing, sir...")

(On the other hand, if Al Smith is dead, he can't sue...)

("HEY! This is OUR racket!" -- Kay and Mae.)

(Like all comedy relief, Tubs is a shrewd judge of character.)

(KIDS TODAY)

(Prov. 26:11.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"December Intimacies." Little late for delicate euphemisms, isn't it?

What, you gave up on the dome?

Coming Events...

"That starts at twenty. Wartime inflation, you know."

Well, those "Voice Of The People" letters don't write themselves.

"We're using those to cover the latrine. Don't you know there's a war on?"

And did you know they have matching boxer shorts?

Daren't you?

"Whoa, you gave her a ring? THAT'S MORE THAN YOU EVER GAVE NORMANDIE." "Well now, I wouldn't say THAT."

Chekhov's Snowball.

 

[Fading Fast]

"HEY! This is OUR racket!" -- Kay and Mae.

Nobody has an exclusive on soft-core porn in comicstrips or in comicstrip advertisements. - The Editor.

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And did you know they have matching boxer shorts?

Won't his "office wife" get a kick out of those.

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"Whoa, you gave her a ring? THAT'S MORE THAN YOU EVER GAVE NORMANDIE." "Well now, I wouldn't say THAT."

Nice.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("A casket factaaary!" marvels Uncle Frank. "Nora, Oi know EXAC'LY whoo thaaat is! Oi had dealin's with'im in th' ooold days, an' ye could aaaahlways tell whin'ee was coomin' 'cause 'fore he even coom in th' door, ye caaaught th' stench'a cheap vaaarnish. Oi moita known'eed end oop grave raaaabbin'!" His reverie is interrupted by the arrival of Bink Scanlan, who jitters up to the counter, and gently deposits her canvas bag. With eyes averted and head bowed, she pushes it with one finger toward Ma. "Ya receipts, ma'am," she mumbles. "Very good, Barbara," nods Ma, with a beneficient smile. "You may goo oop 'th' kitchen now an' prepare Leonora's aaaftarnoon snack." "Yes'm," she bows. Uncle Frank, his eyes wide, watches her scuttle thru the stairway door. "Wot th'..." he stammers. "Barbara's laaarned 'er place," smirks Ma. "Thaaat's aaahl. She seen wot happened t' that woon troyed t'stick us oop, an' she reconsidaaared 'er ways." "Boot, din'chee tell 'ar..." stumbles Uncle Frank. "Soomhow th' fool choild acquired th' nootion Oi had th' boys doomp'im in th' Gowanus. An' roit arr wrong, ye moost admit that did giv'arr mooch food far thought," shrugs Ma. "Ain't quoite th' fear a' Gaaahd boot it saaarves th' same paaarpose." "Ah," ahs Uncle Frank. "Ah indeed," snickers Ma....)

Year-end figures from the Treasury Department reveal that the war is costing the nation a sustained amount of $270,000,000 per day. That figure is up slightly beyond the rate achieved during the previous year, indicating that we have approached the peak of our economic effort. The announcement came as Treasury Secretary Henry Morgenthau revealed that the Sixth War Loan Drive exceeded by more than $7.6 billion dollars its $14 billion quota.

Congressional action to give the Army authority to draft nurses now appears likely given the increasing demand for nursing care for battle casualties. The Surgeon General of the Army, Maj. Gen. Norman Kirk, declared that the response to a War Manpower Commission call in October for another 10,000 nurses has been "pitiful," and further noted that many civilian hospitals now maintain nursing staffs well in excess of WMC quotas. "Hoarding of nurses beyond the bare needs of a civilian hospital," Gen. Kirk charged, "is as unpatriotic as the slacker and the black market."

("Stawp lookin' at me," frowns Sally, pulling at the babushka atop her head. "Y'makin' me whatchacawl self-conscious." "You?" snickers Alice. "T'at'd be a foist." "Las' time I eveh buy one'a t'em kits an' give myself a poimenent," growls Sally. "Come out lookin' like somethin' y'd use t'wipe out a terlet bowl." "Yeh," snickers Alice. "Jus' drawp it, awright?" fumes Sally. "I remembeh t'at time you gawt one'a t'em two-dolleh ones at Namm's, an' y'come out lookin' like Lit'l Orphan Annie." "Siddy liked it," Alice shrugs. "Anyways, whatcha gonna do?" "I got an apperntmen' t'night t'get it fixed," sighs Sally. "Wheh y'goin?" queries Alice. "Lillian's," sighs Sally. "Y'know, roun'a coehneh t'eh'r awn 18t'. Upstaiehs oveh t'at cafeterieh?" "Ehhh," frowns Alice. "I been'neh one time. Come out smellin' like veal cutlets." "Meh," mehs Sally. "You know t'at smell?" snickers Alice. "Veal cutlets been sitt'n a while, get awl bent up aroun'a edges?" "DROP IT!" snaps Sally, folding her arms and leaning back in her seat. "I ain' had a veal cutlet in a lawng time," muses Alice. "Hey Sal, t'ink I can come witcha?" Sally's reply is unreportable, as the train rolls on toward work....)

("Top shudder picture of the year." "Eh, it's a living." -- H. Lamarr.)

("If on'y," sighs Joe, huddled in the back of the truck. "Quit twitchin'," mutters the Corporal.)

("The girls bowl once a week at Freddie Fitzsimmons' Alleys." And you just know Fitz is a perfect gentleman.)

(How do you suppose he gets his hair to do that, anyway? Pomade? Simoniz? Crisco?)

(A bit chilly for that, especially in that outfit.)

("And he just couldn't get it right!! "What?" "Ohhh, nothing!")

(Oh no, not AMNESIA again!)

(TORN BETWEEN TWO WORLDS!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Oh, goody, a retrial. That'll give us something to do till baseball season.

"Hey, anybody see my tobacco can?" -- F. Costello.

He'll never want to look at dirty brown again.

"Gee! Wonder how all this junky stuff got in my room. Yuh don't THINK...?:"

"Lomography" has deep roots.

But -- there's FOUR of them!

Wait, he didn't straight up chop his head off? Gould, you're slipping.

Meanwhile, Pat strolls insouciantly along the company street, whistling "Moonlight Becomes You."

Hey Kayo, step up the page and give Annie a hand, wouldja?

Mr. Byrnes would like a word with both you slackers.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Top shudder picture of the year." "Eh, it's a living." -- H. Lamarr.

It's really just a poor man's "Gaslight."

"Well, that's an insu.... Yeh, that's pretty much what it is." – H. Lamarr

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TORN BETWEEN TWO WORLDS!

First generation college grad comes home to a family slightly resentful about his/her better education.

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

Oh, goody, a retrial. That'll give us something to do till baseball season.

 

[scotrace]

Evicted from her home by a bra business mogul. $30 a month rent.

 

[LizzieMaine]

You'd think he'd want a duplex.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Is t'eh anyt'ing else t'day I c'n d'f'yeh, Missis Leary?" bows Bink Scanlan, eyes lowered and fingers nervously wringing the broom handle. "Oh," ohs Ma, "Oi'll think oov soomthin'. In th' meantoime, go ye ovarr there an' straighten oot th' magazines. Dear little Leonora does mess thim oop so." "Yes'm," acknowledges Bink, trying to remember how to curtsy. Ma chuckles softly to herself over the recent adjustment of her employee's point of view, as the door jingles open. "Aaaahl roit, Nora," announces Uncle Frank, holding up a brown paper parcel. "Fix ye glims aaahn this!" He rests the parcel on the counter and strips away the wrappings to reveal a gallon glass jug filled with an onyx-colored liquid. "Coca-Cola syrup!" he declares with a triumphant grin. "That's noo sooch thing," dismisses Ma. "Th' coolar's wraaang, far woon thing, and.." She pauses long enough to unscrew the cap and sample the bouquet. "Aaaaand farr anoothar thing," she exhales, her nose squinched, "sooo's th' smell." "Trifles," scoffs Uncle Frank. "Ye mix it oop in th' glass with ice, naaaahboody'll nootice." "Whar'd ye get it?" demands Ma. "Well," wheedles Uncle Frank, "ye recall me friend in Tenafly had that barrel a' caaarn syrup? Well, we reached a saaaartain accomodation." "Hoo much?" scowls Ma. "No cash ootlay at aahl," declares Uncle Frank. "Boot 'ee gets a quaaarter cent royalty on ev'ry glass ye sell." "Robbar!" spits Ma. "Boot it's very concentrated," assures Uncle Frank. "Ye use half as mooch per glass as ye would with the -- ah -- genuine aarticle. So it's really oonly an eighth oova cent. Paaarfectly reasonable." Ma loops her finger around the lip of the jug and tastes the merchandise. "That's bloody disgoostin'," she blurts. "Again," pleads Uncle Frank, "it's very caancntrated. Ye see, th' fellar set me oop with th' carrrn syrup's gaaaht a broothar has a job at this -- ah -- alkaloid warrks in Maywood. An' woon thing they make tharr is a saaartain ingredient goos inta ye real Coca-Cola. An' Oi was able to -- ah -- procure thru this broothar a sarrtain quantity oov..." "Barbara!" commands Ma. "Step ooovar here, if ye would." Bink fairly dashes across the store. "Yes'm," she replies. Ma drips a quantity of the syrup into a glass, dips in some ice, fooshes in a charge of seltzer, and stirs the mixture. "Looks loike th' real thing," she shrugs. She shoves the glass across the counter to Bink. "Drink," she orders. "Yes'm," nods Bink, plunging a straw into the glass and sucking up a deep sample. Her eyes flare. "Good?" queries Ma. Bink nods, enthusiastically, and in a single pull on the straw, drains the glass. "Y'see?" grins Uncle Frank. "Not'eh one?" gasps Bink. "Hm," hms Ma....)

One of the blackest weekends yet for meat-eating New Yorkers looms as a series of new developments pointed to an even tighter supply situation. Markets Commissioner Henry M. Brundage acknowledged that the city's meat situation at present is "deplorable," and gave no hope of immediate improvement, noting that 4,000,000 to 5,000,000 pounds meat bound for the city has been held up in Buffalo due to bad weather. Meanwhile, it is increasingly likely that a thousand or more of the city's kosher delicatessens will be forced to close due to an inability to get meat. That preduction comes as Local 627 of the Provisions and Distributors Association has gone on record as opposing any further deliveries of pastrami, bologna, salami, or frankfurters to any store that purchases corned beef briskets or any other beef on the black market. A rank-and-file vote on that resolution is expected today.

(And to think Ma and Pa used to dazzle the crowds doing the Texas Tommy.)

("An empty car drove up and Ford Frick got out...")

("Aw, c'mon, Sal," urges Alice. "Y'd have a swell time! We'eh takin' Willie -- he loves 'em monsteh pitchehs!" "Ehhhhhh," ehs Sally. "On'y one'a t'em I eveh liked was t' Invisible Man, an'nat's 'cause ya didn' hafta look at 'im." Alice frowns. "Tell'a t'rut', Sal," she demands. "Did'joo get banned fr'm t' Awlbee?" "NO I DIDN' GET BANNED FROM T" AWLBEE!" Sally roars. ""Well, sawry," apologizes Alice. "But'cha gawtta admit it's a reasonable....HEY SAL, WEH'YA GOIN'??????")

(Do you get the feeling Evans Krehbiel is a secret necromancer?)

(Well good, can we go on to another story now?)

("Well, you just can't get the good kind! DONT YOU KNOW THERES A WAR ON?")

(Wow, Don Ameche! You'd think Stamm would make a bigger deal of this!)

(Shoulda used Lifebuoy.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Ain't t'em supplies heeh yet?" demands Joe. "Holluhrin' ain' gon' gettum 'eeh no fastuh," shrugs the Corporal. "T'em guys up front," sighs Joe, eying the rations before him. "T'ey gotta eat t'is stuff ev'ry day." "It ain' so bad," insists the Corporal. "if yo' don't look." "Jus' like t'resta't'is damn wawr," mutters Joe. "Yep," swallows the Corporal...

That's the way, Mr. and Mrs. Scharf. Hold that pose while Mr. Hill sketches you.

ABOUT TIME.

Keep it up, hon -- after the war there'll be a big market for this type of fiction.

NO ONE LIKES YOU SINC

Actually, the scarf gives him a distinguished Ronald Colman sort of air. Have you considered a moustache?

"And a hot idea is just what I need, because I was getting really chilly in this dress."

Look on the bright side kid, it's three hots and a cot.

EW.

Hey ref, doesn't this count as "traveling?"

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"Donkey Levinsky?"

 

[Fading Fast]

"Not'eh one?" gasps Bink. "Hm," hms Ma....

Alcohol, cocaine?

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

"Ain't t'em supplies heeh yet?" demands Joe. "Holluhrin' ain' gon' gettum 'eeh no fastuh," shrugs the Corporal. "T'em guys up front," sighs Joe, eying the rations before him. "T'ey gotta eat t'is stuff ev'ry day." "It ain' so bad," insists the Corporal. "if yo' don't look." "Jus' like t'resta't'is damn wawr," mutters Joe. "Yep," swallows the Corporal...

We know the food supply – meat, sugar, coffee, etc. – to the civilian population has been cut way back, so if it isn't going to the Army, where is it going?

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

That has to furrow a brow at a certain candy store we know.

 

[LizzieMaine]

I imagine the next words out of Joe's mouth started out with "Rear echelon sonsa...." and continued onward from there.

As long as Valentine keeps his goon squad out of Brooklyn, Ma's not worried. As long as Doyle's paid off. As long as.....