The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

You eveh see Kilgallen eat'na plate'a macaroni 'n cheese at t'Awtehmat? You eveh see Kilgallen at Ebbets Feel?

Both of those are Kilgallen's loss.

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Forgive me an edit: "Of course, if any Nazi officers or scientists would like to work for us..." "What?" "Nothing."

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If they can't get him for spying, they should shoot Will Colepaugh simply on grounds of utter stupidity.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("T'enda t' fightin' in Europe is not in sight," reads Sally. "Well, don'NAT make me glad t'be alive." "Jus' cause it ain' in sight don' mean it ain' comin'," notes Alice. "Maybe y'don' see a train comin', but t'at don' mean it ain'neh." "Yeh," sighs Sally. She scans the page, wrinkling her nose at the Valentine's Day photo, and her eyes pause on one of the small items. "Huh," she huhs. "Some lady lawst 'eh son's Poiple Hawrt. You eveh see one'a t'em? Solly Pincus, r'membeh when he was home on foilough las' yeeh? He showed me his. Got a pitchehr'a George Washin'ton onnit, hangs awffa poiple ribbon." "I guess," observes Alice, "Joe's gonna get one'a t'em. T'ey give'm t', you know, guys get wounded." Sally considers that thought and sighs. "Joe won' caeh nut'n 'bout t'at," she predicts. "He don' weah no jew'lry. One yeeh f'r'is boit'day I give 'im' 'eeze cufflinks t'ey had at Woolwoit's. Didn' even know what t'do wit'm. He punched holes innis shoit cuffs one time an' he had 'em awn when we wen' t'Roselan'. But we was doin'nis routine, see, an' one'v'm flew out t'hole an' bounced offa Chawrlie Bawrnet's drummeh's cymbal. He neveh woehr'm none afteh t'at." "Yeh," shrugs Alice. "But -- you know, a medal. T'at's sump'n." "Solly Pincus didn' t'ink mucha his," Sally notes. "Said when he was in Nawrt' Africeh, t'ey was handin' 'em out like pawrty favehs. Joe ain' gonna caeh nut'n 'bout no medals." She is silent for a long moment. "He won't," she sighs. "Maybe I will...")

("Oi taaalked t'ye friend Garrity," declares Ma. "He says he's gonna get me some REAL cig'rettes boi th' enda this week." "Garrity taaalks a lot farr a small-toime jahhber," scoffs Uncle Frank "Well, Oi gaatta have SOOMTHIN' t'sell," insists Ma. "Thim things you been makin', Oi sell a pack, they smook one, an' nivver coom back! That's noo way t'build a trade!" "It's that Bink Scanlan," complains Uncle Frank. "She woon't stick t'th' recipe! Poots in too moocha this, naaahtanoofa that, an' Oi tell'er t'do it roit, she joost snaps 'arr goom at me!" "Roobish," declares Ma. "Oi gaaaht that garrl trained. Oi say 'joomp,' she says 'how high." "She's afraid'a you," notes Uncle Frank. "She ain't afraid'a ME. Didjee knoow what she caaahls me? She caaahls me FATTY! Oi ASK ye!" Ma's stern facade crumbles as she erupts in a loud belly laugh. "Ahhhhh, that ain't noothin'," Ma chuckles. "R'membarr what OI uset'a cahhl ye." "Don'chee DARE tell'arr THAT," pleads Uncle Frank. "Oi wouldn' think'oov it," smirks Ma. "Nivver moind, thin," sighs Uncle Frank. "Farrgit Oi said anything." "Anything ye say," smiles Ma. "Booterbaaaahll.")

In Valley Stream, Long Island, two men and a woman were arraigned on charges of running an indecent floor show at Johnnie's Night Club in that town. Night club owner John J. Giorgetti of Malverne, proprietor of the club was arrested during a police raid, along with dancer Ethel R O'Day, who performs under the name of "Colette," and Pat O'Day, both of Manhattan. The defendents have all pleaded not guilty. Giorgetti and Miss O'Day have been released on bail, while Pat O'Day, unable to raise bail, remains in jail pending trial.

(Marie "The Body" McDonald? Well, I guess that's better than billing yourself as "The Queen Of Coney Island.")

(How's that basketball spread?)

(And not only that, imagine the savings on the cost of shipping sportswriters around the country!)

("Big a' me, big a' you, it's big of all of us!")


(WELL THEN I GUESS THE BIG FAT HEAD DOESN"T WANT HIS SLIPPERS!)

(Not only that, where is he getting those cigars?)

("If only I had the power to cause rodents to do my bidding!")

(Has there ever been a dad in this strip who isn't an idiot?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

What ever became of Tommy Manville?

Desperate times, desperate methods.

Sorry, Patrick, but you're being a real ass here. DL was leading guerilla troops against The Invader when you were poncing around Hong Kong in a white dinner jacket.

*snif*

"Ahhh, what's the difference..."


Doesn't it hurt your hips to sit like that?

I knew we'd get around to this eventually.

MELVIN SHUT UP! MELVIN SHUT UP! MELVIN SHUT UP!

"Well, I guess I'm off the hook for Mother's Day."

I tried this exact line on my grandfather once, and he didn't think it was funny at all.

 

[Fading Fast]

In Valley Stream, Long Island, two men and a woman were arraigned on charges of running an indecent floor show at Johnnie's Night Club in that town.

Nude beaches, indecent floor shows – there must be something in the water in Valley Stream.

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"Hangover Square" is not quite up there with "Of Human Bondage," but it is still a pretty painful tail of unrequited love.

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Lichty hit the center of the target with this one.

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The Chameleon Bride would have made a heck of a pre-code movie, but there is no way it's getting made in 1945 Hollywood. Also, putting the immorality and illegality aside, that could not have been easy to do – this woman obviously has some talents. BTW, she'll do fine in prison.

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Sorry, Patrick, but you're being a real ass here. DL was leading guerilla troops against The Invader when you were poncing around Hong Kong in a white dinner jacket.

Yes, plus, even his logic about this isn't sound.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Justa minute," delays Sally, as Alice ascends the stairs into the foyer. "I wanna check th' mail." She unlocks her box in the wall, and is disappointed to find nothing more than a sales circular advertising a Namm's coat sale. "Nut'n from Joe," she sighs, slamming the box shut. "Aw, you know how t'mail is," reassures Alice. "Y'll prob'ly getta whole stack'v'm awl at once." They swing open the front door and pause on the stoop to breathe in the cold morning air. "Lookit awlis mess," grumbles Sally, her galoshes crunching into the snow. "I can't stand winteh. Ain' ya husban' gonna t'row some ashes out 'eeh, somebody could get killed." "Siddy was up awl night wit'tat berleh," explains Alice. "I tol' Willie t'row some ashes b'foeh'ee goes t'school. Hey, did I tell ya, he come home yestehday wit' a valentine. F'rm'nat Conlin goil lives ovehr'awn Sixty-Fois'. S'got a pitcheh of a WAC onneh, makin' wit'a kissy face, an' she's sayin' 'You Might Have A Fightin' Chance Wit' Me!' Ain'at cute?" "Seven yeehs ol'," sighs Sally as they crunch around the corner onto 18th Avenue. "Kids t'day grow up quick. Ma woulddn'a put up wit'tat. I eveh senna boy a Valentine when I was seven, she'd'a laid me out in lavendeh. But I'll tell ya, it kep' me outa trouble." "Yeh," snickers Alice. "Till Rudy Vallee come alawng." "I neveh shoulda tol'you about t'tat," mutters Sally, as they head toward the station and another day...)

A new "standby plan" for the reconversion of American industry to civilian production has been ordered by War Mobilization Director James F. Byrnes, it was learned today. The order, issued by Byrnes just before he left for the recent Big Three conference in the Crimea directed War Production Chairman J. A. Krug to work out the new blueprint by February 23rd, and Krug immediately assigned a special staff to see to the work. Preparation of the plan has taken place behind closed doors, but is said to be nearing completion. It has been emphasized, however, that work on the plan does not mean that the Government believes the end of the European war is imminent, and Byrnes himself, upon his return to Washington from the three-power conference, stressed that the Allied leaders do not anticipate a sudden German collapse.

("Hmph," hmphs Ma. "'Miss Soobways.' They nivver wint in farr sooch naaahnsense when Sally waaarked at Schrafft's." "She was oonly tharr a week," recalls Uncle Frank. "Noot even laaang enoof t'be Miss Express, let aloon a local!" "Foony man," scowls Ma. "That was a good jaahb too, a laaat better'n she had at Woolwaarth's. Pity she coouldn' keep it." "Ye know how she is," chuckles Uncle Frank. "She sees that maaaaaartgage laaawyarr fr'm th' Brooklyn Troost sittin' tharr, an' harrr carryin' that plate a' beans. Ye know fool well that was too mooch'va temptation. Boot noo harm doon, I went doown an' taaaalked with 'im. He nivvar pressed no charges. Droov'a harrd bargain, thoo, took two cases a' me foinest Scaaatch. What WAS his name -- O'Reilly soomthin', was it? O'Flaherty?" "O'Malley," corrects Ma. "Ahhhh, yes," nods Uncle Frank. "Woondar whoot evarr happen'ta him?")

("Of course, as a commissioned officer, I could always get some dumb corporal to take care of the rinse.)

'
(I mean, what's next? Ballplayers advertising betting books?)

("Ranygazoo?")

(Well, I certainly wouldn't want this idiot around any daughter of mine!)

(Oh, by all means. Take the whole day. TAKE THE WHOLE WEEK.)

(Sounds foolproof to -- oh, wait, there's Tubby.)

(Shhh, you'll wake the bats.)

(Rabies? No, he's just naturally stupid!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Those who live by Page Four shall perish by Page Four.

"I am sure," sniffs Mr. Rickey, "that Mr. Wyatt will very much enjoy Oakland. Many elderly persons find the Northern California climate bracing."

Wheresoever Gertie walks, none may follow...

Bim dead, Warbucks dead -- truly these are perilous times for funny-paper billionaires.

"You know, in the city they can't get chickens at all. Um, is that hatchet still in the barn?"

Ask, and it shall be revealed unto you...

This has nothing to do with the war, does it Pat?

"While U Wait."

Still don't wanna try the Tootsie Rolls?

 

[Fading Fast]

"Yeh," snickers Alice. "Till Rudy Vallee come alawng." "I neveh shoulda tol'you about t'tat," mutters Sally,

Alice keeps that one in her hip pocket all the time.

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"She was oonly tharr a week," recalls Uncle Frank. "Noot even laaang enoof t'be Miss Express, let aloon a local!"

Frank sees Sally with the clear eyes that Ma won't: he respects her; knows she's intelligent; I think he even likes her; but he also knows she's a bit insane.


"...What WAS his name -- O'Reilly soomthin', was it? O'Flaherty?" "O'Malley," corrects Ma. "Ahhhh, yes," nods Uncle Frank. "Woondar whoot evarr happen'ta him?"

I have a feeling Mr. O'Malley the mortgage lawyer will be popping up in the future.

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

"You know, in the city they can't get chickens at all. Um, is that hatchet still in the barn?"

Frank reads the "funnies" and lets out with a big sigh as Ma glances over.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Siddy?" whispers Alice. "You awake?" "Nehh," murmurs Krause. "Ya lucky," sighs Alice. "I can't sleep." "Yeh," sighs Krause, rolling over on his side. "I seen sump'n t'day," Alice continues. Inna papeh." "Mm," acknowledges Krause. "T'eh wassis t'ing," Alice relates. "T'is stawry sayin' t'eh was a buncha wawr prisonehs comin' home. An'na fois' t'ing I t'ought, y'know, was, 'I hope Mickey Sweeney ain' onnat boat.' An' eveh since, I been feelin' like, y'know, t'at was wrawng, y'know, f'me t't'ink t'at. I neveh said nut'n t'Sal a'nut'n, but -- I mean, he might be a rat, but he's 'eh brot'eh. An'na Ol' Lady, I mean, he's 'eh on'y son. Ev'ry time I go inna stoeh t'eh, I see t'at pitcheh'r'v'im she got hangin' up behin'a coun'eh, an' I t'ink -- wha's gonna happ'n when he gets home? Maybe he ain' onnis boat, but'ez one comin' t'at he WILL be awn. An'nen what happens? Wit' Willie? What's Mickey gonna do when'ee fin's out what we done, y'know? Awlat stuff wit' Marie Belasco an' Hops Gaffney? Wit' t'at phony boit' c'tificate? An' I t'ink about awlis stuff, an' I keep t'inkin, well, would it be so bad if -- Mickey neveh come home? An'nen I t'ink, well, I r'membeh when I was a lit'l goil inna home t'eh, an'na sistehs would say even t'inkin' about sump'n bad, well, y'd'soive t'go right t'hell f'tat. Anna wois' of it is, y'know, if it's betteh f'Willie if Mickey don' come back 'eeh, well, I'd just'z soon go t'hell." There is a long silence as Alice stares into the darkness. "Siddy," she resumes. "I done a lotta bad t'ings in my life. You t'ink I'm gonna go t'hell?" "Neh," reassures Krause...)

(Yeah, but can you get a decent steak?)

(I'm pretty sure we've seen this exact gag before, only with Germans. Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without.)

(He could also use a good swing quartet. I wonder if the Merry Macs are available?)


("I have nothing to say about it officially." Thanks for clarifying that, Leland.)

(Something about the way this is all phrased makes me think Evans Krehbiel ought to write for Bob Hope.)

("Don't I remind you of Henry Fonda in 'The Grapes Of Wrath' with these whiskers? DON'T I???")

("Gee whiz, that Junior G Man kit was the best thing I ever bought!")

(Signs and wonders!)

(Panel Four is the best thing I've seen all week,)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News..

Sinatra as Shaky and Frank Morgan as Vitamin Flintheart? PERFECTION.

Sorry Helen, but if you can't tell the difference between nylon and rayon on sight, you deserve exactly what you get.

"Ahhh he's a second lieutenant. What would HE know about work?"

Awwww....

At least he's a thoughtful boy.

"Judge...not....um, how does the rest of that go?"

Yes, he is. And I think he's a detective too.

"Look, they weren't hiring at Smilin' Jack, OK? You take what you can get."

Yeah, but baloney's scarce and everybody likes it.

Slave of the weed.

 

[Fading Fast]

("Siddy?" whispers Alice. "You awake?" "Nehh," murmurs Krause. "Ya lucky," sighs Alice. "I can't sleep." "Yeh," sighs Krause, rolling over on his side. "I seen sump'n t'day," Alice continues. Inna papeh." "Mm," acknowledges Krause. "T'eh wassis t'ing," Alice relates. "T'is stawry sayin' t'eh was a buncha wawr prisonehs comin' home. An'na fois' t'ing I t'ought, y'know, was, 'I hope Mickey Sweeney ain' onnat boat.' An' eveh since, I been feelin' like, y'know, t'at was wrawng, y'know, f'me t't'ink t'at. I neveh said nut'n t'Sal a'nut'n, but -- I mean, he might be a rat, but he's 'eh brot'eh. An'na Ol' Lady, I mean, he's 'eh on'y son. Ev'ry time I go inna stoeh t'eh, I see t'at pitcheh'r'v'im she got hangin' up behin'a coun'eh, an' I t'ink -- wha's gonna happ'n when he gets home? Maybe he ain' onnis boat, but'ez one comin' t'at he WILL be awn. An'nen what happens? Wit' Willie? What's Mickey gonna do when'ee fin's out what we done, y'know? Awlat stuff wit' Marie Belasco an' Hops Gaffney? Wit' t'at phony boit' c'tificate? An' I t'ink about awlis stuff, an' I keep t'inkin, well, would it be so bad if -- Mickey neveh come home? An'nen I t'ink, well, I r'membeh when I was a lit'l goil inna home t'eh, an'na sistehs would say even t'inkin' about sump'n bad, well, y'd'soive t'go right t'hell f'tat. Anna wois' of it is, y'know, if it's betteh f'Willie if Mickey don' come back 'eeh, well, I'd just'z soon go t'hell." There is a long silence as Alice stares into the darkness. "Siddy," she resumes. "I done a lotta bad t'ings in my life. You t'ink I'm gonna go t'hell?" "Neh," reassures Krause...)

This could be brutal. Like Alice, I worry about it all the time. My one hope is that Mickey is glad not to have a kid, so maybe he just plays dumb on purpose. He might be happy to be out, young, single, and childless...but I doubt it.

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

"Don't I remind you of Henry Fonda in 'The Grapes Of Wrath' with these whiskers? DON'T I???"

Or an older, thinner Pat Ryan.

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Panel Four is the best thing I've seen all week

I agree - awful father and pet owner, but still, why can't she get the cat down herself?

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Sinatra as Shaky and Frank Morgan as Vitamin Flintheart? PERFECTION.

Agreed, but Crosby as Tracy, not so much.

BTW, it's a brutal Page Four today.

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

Mae knows the score.

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

Look, they weren't hiring at Smilin' Jack, OK? You take what you can get

She called him "sir." That is by far the nicest thing anyone has ever called him. He should marry her on those grounds alone.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And if anyone would care to hear Crosby as Tracy, et. al, here is the "Command Performance" masterpiece, "Dick Tracy in B Flat, or 'For Goodness Sake; Isn't He Ever Going To Marry Tess Trueheart?"

 

[Fading Fast]

It's much better than I imagined. They are really have fun with this.

Flattop: "I've always wanted to have a gun in this guy's back."

Tracey: "And you can pull it up a little too."

Much racier than the movies would allow.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Whassat, anyway?" queries Alice, nodding at the newspaper on Sally's lap. "Whassa 'Eye-wo?'" "Eee-wo," corrects Sally. "It's some islan' inna P'cific. I hoid H. V. Kaltenbawrn tawkin' 'bout it awna radio t'ot'eh night. It' jus'sis hunka rock inna ocean, but it's big enough t'put, you know, an aieh field awn. An' it's close'nough t'Japan t'ey can use it f'ra base, if t'ey can, you know, do what t'eh tryin' to do t'eh." Alice reflects on this explanation. "An' what good'll it be," she wonders, "afteh t'wawr?" "Who caehs?" shrugs Sally, her glance wandering across the page to the photos of three servicemen. "Huh," she huhs, frowning at the photos. "Whatta T'ESE guys got to grin about like t'at?" "'Playin' tag wit' deat'," reads Alice. Sally's face darkens. "T'ree guys fr'm Brooklyn," she notes. "Wondeh'r'if any of'm eveh run inta Joe?" "Ahhhh," reassures Alice, "don' worry about Joe. I mean, who shoots at a..." Sally shoots her friend a murderous gaze, and Alice's face flushes a horrified red. "Sawry, Sal," she gasps. "I wasn' --- I mean, I guess I --- uh -- well, um -- " "Skip it," exhales Sally, her voice expressing a dead finality. "I'm sawry," murmurs Alice. "I know," sighs Sally...)

Warning against a policy of "appeasement and weak-kneed surrender" in dealing with war criminals, Representative Emanuel Celler (D-NY) last night called for the harshest possible penalties to be handed down to those guilty of such crimes by the United Nations War Crimes Commission. Speaking before the Men's Club Service at Union Temple last night, Rep. Celler warned that the British commitment to postwar punishment of Nazi war criminals already appears to be wavering, and he demanded the "removal of the dead weight of Anthony Eden" from the commission.

("It's noothin' t'warry aboot," dismisses Uncle Frank, eyeing with distaste the potato-macaroni mixture again gracing his plate. "Aaahhl thim arrests tharrr taalking aboot, they was nowharr near here. Bushwick, Bedfaaard-Stuyvesant, Williamsbaaaarg, noo place near here. An' Doyle will see yarrr nahht bathered. Oi pay 'im enoof t'see t'that." "He bettar," frowns Ma. "Paaaalicy's ahll we gaaaht roit now." "Oh, Oi wouldn' warry noon," insists Uncle Frank, pushing the mass around his plate with his fork. "Oi'm gett'n th' still set oop again t'meet th' -- ahh -- present sharrtage." "An' whoo's goona run th' still?" demands Ma, hoisting a forkful and flinching at the taste. "Th' boys poot'n in a full day at the shipyaaard, an' you can't roon it yeself..." "Oi gaaaht Bink Scanlan," reminds Uncle Frank. "Whoot's SHE knoow aboot it?" scoffs Ma. "She'll knooow what Oi teach'arr," declares Uncle Frank. "Laaardamaarcy," sighs Ma. "Nixt thing ye'll tell me ye gaaaaht that fool Quinlan..." "Ummm," flushes Uncle Frank, thru a mouthful of potatoes. "Oi think ye need a bit a saaaalt....")

("Isn't that right, Shiek?" "You said it, Sheba!")

(Some see a crisis, some see an opportunity...)

("Another -- what is the word -- byline, Mr. Parrott?" frowns Mr. Rickey. "You are aware, I am sure, of my position on -- as they call it -- moonlighting." "I have children, sir," sighs Mr. Parrott, his eyes averted. "And the cost of living..." "On the other hand," nods Mr. Rickey, "in the course of unfolding events, there may come a time, a time, mind you, when your position at the newspaper may prove -- ah -- invaluable. Do you understand?" "I do, sir," nods Mr. Parrott. "Never let it be said," declares Mr. Rickey, bathing his minion in a blue cloud, "that my positions on such matters are inflexible." "No sir," bows Mr. Parrott. "You will, of course," Mr. Rickey adds, glancing over the top of his spectacles, "allow me the privilege of -- ah -- reading proof of any item you may write concerning -- ah -- " "Of course, sir," agrees Mr. Parrott. "I admire an industrious employee," smiles Mr. Rickey. "You may drop these letters in the mail chute on your way out." "Yes sir," shuffles Mr. Parrott.)

(Soda is a merciless master.)

(Cheer up, Link, if all else fails you can get a route selling the Hobo News.)

("I could have done it too, but does anybody ever think of me?" -- Irwin Higgs.)

(Isaiah 61:1.)

(The cops in this town are very very stupid, but at least they take care of cats.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Navy Shotgun Wedding Backfires In Flier's Suit." That must've hurt.

No peeking, Father.

"Oh, well. It's only a ten mile walk to the nearest Bohack's."

Every now and then Frank King reminds us, in his quietly modest way, that he is one of the most gifted, and most emotionally-sensitive, artists ever to work in comics.

Say what you will about young Mr. Smart, but you have to respect his confidence in wearing that hat to this job.

Should've taken that Stella Adler course after all.

Helen's so upset she's lost all sense of anatomic proportion.

If this leads to Uncle Willie gaining superpowers, I can't wait to see his costume.

"Well, he's four years older now, maybe he'll get the point..."

"Snow?" HEY KIDS, COMICS!

 

[Fading Fast]

"Nixt thing ye'll tell me ye gaaaaht that fool Quinlan..."

Somebody's got to make the labels and stamp-tax seals.

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

"Isn't that right, Shiek?" "You said it, Sheba!"

Good one, Lizzie. Little changes but the details.

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

Every now and then Frank King reminds us, in his quietly modest way, that he is one of the most gifted, and most emotionally-sensitive, artists ever to work in comics.

Yes.

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

Say what you will about young Mr. Smart, but you have to respect his confidence in wearing that hat to this job.

"Confidence" is a word; I can think of a few other words that might fit here, too.

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

"Well, he's four years older now, maybe he'll she'll get the point..."

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Ev'rybody's actin' like I'm made'a broken glass," complains Sally, staring up at Dr. Levine's yellowed, flaking ceiling. "T'ey say sump'n, an'nen toil awl red an' stawrt apolehgizin', awr t'ey don' say nut'n an' jus' smile an' ack stupid." "Well," replies Dr. Levine, "isn't that understandable? They're your friends and your family. They know how you're taking all this, and they don't want to make you feel worse than they know you do." "Yeh," acknowledges Sally, "but t'ey ack like if t'ey say t'wrawng t'ing I'm gonna go b'zoick a'sump'n. Eveh since t'at railroad guard fell offa t'at platfawrm, an' I got blamed f'rit, t'ey ack like I ain' in my right min'. Awlem people KNEW what happen't'a Joe, an'ney HID it f'r, what, a week? Moehr'n'at? T'ey hid telegrams, t'ey even hid t'papeh had Joe's name onna casualty lis'! I hadda go't'liberry t'fin' t'at. Toehr'it out, too, got it right heeh in my bag!" "Ah," nods Dr. Levine. "Well, tell me this -- how do you think YOU would have acted if you'd gotten the first telegram?" "Well," sighs Sally, "I wouldn'a gone skippin' down' 18t' Aveneh, y'know? But onna ot'eh han', I wouldn'a, I dunno, t'rown t'Weste'n Union off t'fieh'ra'scape a' nut'n.' '"That's good, that's good," nods Dr. Levine. "Sometimes, docteh," frowns Sally, "when y'say 't'at's good' like t'at -- it don' soun' too -- good." "Ah," nods Dr. Levine....)

American heavy bombers blasted Germany for the fourth consecutive day yesterday when a force of 500 8th Air Force planes flew thru heavy fog to drop 1000 tons of bombs on the German rail centers of Frankfurt and Giessen. Bombing by instrument, returning pilots from some of the 350 Fortresses and 50 Mustang fighters reported they could see fires break out in the Frankfurt rail yards, transportation hub for the four main lines from Central Germany to the front.

("I merely said," purrs Ignatius J. Quinlan, "that perhaps you might serve a better class of clientele were you to clear the -- ah --accumulation of winter debris from the sidewalk." "Oi didn't caaahl ye oop here t'talk aboot sidewalks," growls Uncle Frank. "B'soides, ye ain't gonna be warrkin' here in th' ploombin' shaap, we're goin' t'have th' two'a ye oot in th' warehouse tharr, in Bushwick." "Oh my," whispers Inky, as Bink Scanlan snickers. "It ain' so bad," she smirks, "if ya hol' ya nose." "Oi got th' still ahhl set oop," continues Uncle Frank. "An' Inky, ye know how it warrks, ye seen it warrkin' aften enoof. All ye got t'do is light th' barrler, put in the mash, an' wait. I got it ahhl written down in this nootbook here." "Such penmanship," mutters Inky. "Nivver moind that," frowns Uncle Frank. "Th' boys will be ovarr after they get off at th' shipyard, an' they'll see to th' quality controol. An' Oi'm warrnin' ye, if Oi ever foind oot ye been doin' any -- samplin' th' marrrchandoise --" "I never take anything stronger than a dry sherry," declares Inky. "Once a year, on New Year's Eve, I drink a toast to the memory of my dear mother." "Get him," smirks Bink. "An' don'CHOO troy noothin eeithar..." scowls Uncle Frank. "Now, I'm gonna wroite down me phone noombar here, ye can go oovar to th' fillin' station 'cross th' way any toime, an' -- joost a minute now, where's me foontain pen?" Bink conspicuously rolls her eyes as Uncle Frank extends his palm. "Give it ovvar," he commands. "Gal's gotta stay in practice," she shrugs, handing over the pen. "A faaaarger and a bloody pickpaaaacket! Oi dooon't knoo," sighs Uncle Frank, "whaat this waarld is coomin' to....")

(All righty then, we've got a season! Such as it will be...)

(Mr. Ryder seems unusually perceptive today...)

(Ernie lost another argument with his wife.)

(Before she went into engineering, Leslie sold for Electrolux.)

(Hey Beardsley, peasant blouses are best worn with dirndl skirts. Just sayin'.)

(Napoleon on the moon? OK, I wasn't too far off...)

(Although a detailed biography of Sacagawea published in 1933 supported the belief that she lived into the 1880s, the current historic consensus is that she actually died at the age of 24 or 25. Strange as it seems!)

(Poor Porky. When he signed on to do this strip he understood he'd be working with Movie Bugs, not this clod.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News.

EVERYBODY worked with the Resistance!

My mother, gawblesseh, quit cold turkey, and if she can, anybody can.

One of these days I'm gonna wake up and realize I turned into Gravel Gertie without ever noticing it.

YOU WERE FORESHADOWING ALL WEEK!

So by extension, Annie would be perfectly justified in going full Asp on the both of you. Good to know.

And that's why you should never volunteer to shovel the snow.

Mr. Mosley needs to stop reading those "world of the future" articles in Popular Mechanics.

Nuts to you, Walt, I'm a sucker for a good dog picture.

Chili's gonna become a radical separatist feminist, and no one will blame her.

"And after tea, perhaps a drive. I have a car outside, for old times sake..."

 

[LizzieMaine]

And finally...

Get that "Fifty Mission" look even if you're a second looey in a supply unit! Or even if you're a glue-sniffer in Study Hall!

 

[Fading Fast]

...Eveh since t'at railroad guard fell offa t'at platfawrm...

At some point, Dr. Levine is going to have to work on, well, umm, helping, yes, "helping" is a good word here, helping Sally with her memory of that event. That's something she needs to remember she did to sincerely help her from doing it again.

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

"Such penmanship," mutters Inky.

Everyman thinks in terms of his own craft.

BTW, Bink stealing Frank's fountain pen is perfect.

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

"...and the deer, now satisfied that things had worked out for the best..."

Page Four can turn a phrase when it wants to.

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

My mother, gawblesseh, quit cold turkey, and if she can, anybody can.

As did my dad. He was never an easy man to be around, so it wasn't much of a change while he was going through it. Kidding aside, fifty years of smoking and then he quit cold turkey, Jesus. The man – like your mother, clearly – had will power.

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

It's just sex for Christ's sakes, do it already.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("GawDAMMIT!" snaps Sally, her hands tightening around the newspaper. "Lookit t'at," she fumes, indicating a conspicuous headline at the bottom of the front page. "Oh," ohs Alice. "Yeh, I seen'nat. Why's a bum like t'at alive, anyway?" "T'ey take a man like Joe," mutters Sally. "A REAL man, neveh hoit nobody in 'is life, an' neveh will, an'ney sen' 'im ovehseas t'get shot. But t'ey let T'IS rotten son of a --" "i wisht I knew what shipyawrd he woiks at," interrupts Alice, her jaw rippling. "I know some -- ah -- boys t'at might like t'have a woid wit'im." "What boys d'YOU know?" frowns Sally, her eyes narrowing. "Oh, jus' some boys I useta know," exhales Alice. "Useta see'm aroun'." "I dunno what's hap'nin' inna woild," sighs Sally. "Evr'y day y'read t'papeh awl ya see izziz kinda crazy stuff. It neveh useta be like t'at." "Oh," contends Alice, "you'd be s'prised." "What?" "Nut'n.")

Efforts were being made today to raise the main section of the B-29 Superfortress that plunged, flaming, into Rikers Island Channel off LaGuardia Airport last Thursday. The huge tail of the airplane was recovered yesterday. Divers worked in 35 feet of icy water late last night to attach lines to the plane's four engines, as officials at Mitchell Field, in charge of the salvage operation, indicated that at least two of the five missing bodies are entombed within the main portion of the fuselage. One of the missing fliers is Major Billy Southworth, Jr., son of the manager of the St. Louis Cardinals baseball team. Salvage inspectors examining the remains of the tail section found holes burned thru the aluminum skin by the intense flames that engulfed the aircraft as it crashed.

("'Magine 'nat," marvels Bink Scanlan, sitting on an upended crate with the Eagle unfolded on her lap. "'Magine wakin' up one day an' ya gawt millions. 'Magine 'nat!" "Might I trouble you," injects Inky Quinlan, "to -- ah -- unseat yourself. There are, as you may notice, bottles to be packed, and though we may fervrently wish otherwise, they will not, alas, pack themselves." "You tawk pretty," observes Bink, snapping her gum as she rises. "Whehjoo loin t'tawk like t'at?" "We have," declares Inky, "as you may have been advised, a quota to meet this afternoon, and I call your attention to the fact that we have fallen somewhat behind in our obligation." "Y'know who you tawk like?" snickers Bink, glancing at the ornate and entirely counterfeit label pasted on a bottle of tea-colored fluid. "Y'tawk like a movie stawr, t'at's who you tawk like." "Indeed," replies Inky, favoring Bink with a Pepsodent smile. "Yeh," nods Bink, clattering the bottle into the crate. "T'at one made awlem movies wit' Gingeh Ragehs, y'know?" "Ah," nods Inky, with a studied toss of his head. "Oh, indeed, I've even been told I resemble Mr. Astaire. From certain angles, of course." "Nah," nahs Bink. "Nawt him. T'ot'eh guy." "Hm?" hms Inky, not placing the reference. "You know who I mean," insists Bink. "T'at guy was awrways hangin' aroun' WIT' Astaire. Eddie sump'n -- ah -- Edwehd Evehrett Hawrton!!" "Pack the bottles," frowns Inky...)

("Anything'd be an improovment," glares Uncle Frank, glancing out the window as the lumbering red bulk of the Rogers Avenue trolley clatters up the street. "You nivver even roid th' bloody things," snickers Ma. "Oi was roidin' a traaaley th' day Oi met'chee," reminds Uncle Frank. "You with yarr two little children, an' loike a foine gentleman Oi rose t'give ye me seat." "Sally staaamped aaahn ye foot," laughs Ma, the memory clear in mind. "An' when ye gaaaht oop, Michael pooled ye billfoold oota ya pocket an' taaased it across th' car so ye had t'go aaafter it." "An' Oi admired," declares Uncle Frank, "a wooman who could raise two sooch clevarr children, whoile retainnin' 'arr oon poise an' chaarm." Ma snickers again. "It woon't do ye noo good," she chuckles, "all that blarrney. Ye still gett'n macarooni an' p'tataars far soopar." "Waaarth a try," sighs Uncle Frank. "Naaat that ye can't KEEP troyin'," adds Ma...)

(There are an awful lot of 22-year-old majors in this war...)

(With the possible exceptions of Sugar Ray Robinson, Jake LaMotta, and Kingfish Levinsky, Willie Pep is the best 1940s boxer name ever.)

(Hey, Kay Kyser wears an outfit like that and he looks great in it. Too bad Kay Kyser isn't in this strip.)

(And you just know she said "veddy jolly," just to hammer home the point.)

("Wait, was I supposed to plug it in?")

(I like the "Napoleon on the Moon" story better.)

(This poor cat deserves a much better situation.)