The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

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

This entire exchange is freakin' hilarious. Kudos, Lizzie.

This line: "A billet-doux, as they say. Perhaps in a light, feminine hand with a dash of, ohh, Nuit de Noel? And who, might I inquire, is to be the -- ahh -- unfortunate recipient?" is particularly funny. Inky is quite the piece of work.

He's been a great addition to the crew.

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

"Girl Marines on Desert Isle"

Let's check back on this story in about nine months.

 

[Fading Fast]

I also love the entire meta Frank thing at work here: Frank deals all day long with sketchy people who have "custom" codes of honor and a creative approach to abiding the law, but they are all uncomfortable putting their name on a letter that says he is a man of strong moral character. The really funny thing is that Frank is a man of honor, he's just honorable according to the rules of honor in his warped little world of corruption. A hand shake deal with him will be honored / a friendship is respected / bills are always paid / and he'd protect people close to him, like Ma and Sally, with his life. But sure, he'll skim a little here and cheat the gov't as much as he can get away with - it's the water he swims in. Still, even his corrupt friends, who lie and cheat all the time, aren't comfortable with putting their name on the moral character letter. It's very funny.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And honestly, I think he would have married Ma a long time ago if she'd let him. But she carries her own coals of fire.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Oh, t'at's wondehful," mutters Sally to herself, as she spends a quiet moment with the newspaper after putting Leonora to bed. "Jus' wondeful. Now we'll NEVEH get ridda t' fathead. An' whot'hell's'is guy O'Malley?" Her musings, however, are interrupted by a soft knock at the door. "Hello, Sally," smiles Uncle Frank, as she opens the door. "Oi was in th' neighbarhood an' Oi thaaat Oi'd drop this aaahf. It's a little present farr Leonora." He hands Sally a brown-wrapped parcel, as she hangs his hat on the peg by the door. "It's a book," he continues, indicating the package. "Huh," huhs Sally, unwrapping the parcel. "Huh," huhs Sally, examining the dun-colored book inside. "'Crane Valves, Fit'ns, Pipin', Plumbin', Heatin', Mill Goods, Tools, Et cetehra. Catalawg Numbeh 140. 1921.' Uh, well, I don' t'ink she's eveh read t'at one..." "Oi gaaht th' oidea ovar at th' stoore th' oothar day. Th' choild spent almoost th' whool aftarnoon aaahf in th' carrnar, readin' th' telephoon book. An' she'd look at pitcharrs, an' spell oot what it said oondarneath. Oi've nooticed she loikes sooch books, cataloogs, things loike..." "Yeh," nods Sally, cocking an eye, "it's swell. Hey, c'n I getcha a cuppa tea a'sump'n?" "Noo, noo," sighs Uncle Frank. "Nora woon't allow -- uh, that is to say, th' doctarr woont allow -- you know, on accoont'a me oolcar. D'ye gahht any milk?" Sally nods in acknowledgement, steps to the icebox, and pours a glass. Uncle Frank sits down at the kitchen table, and sips without much satisfaction. "Ahhh." he exhales with false heartiness. "Noothin' soo good aas a whoolsome glass a'milk." "Sawry I ain' got no beeh," chuckles Sally. "Joe useta like it, but since 'e's gawn I don' keep none aroun." "Nivver tooch th' stuff," disclaims Uncle Frank. "If ye knoo what went into it, ye wouldn't neither." He pauses, drumming his fingers against his glass. "Listen, Sally," he begins, his eyes flicking nervously around the room. "Ye've been loike th' daaaghter Oi nivvar had. Ye knoo that, don'chee?" "Yeh," acknowledges Sally, unsure where the conversation might be headed. "Oi've known ye moothaar," he continues, "farr a long toime. Twenty-foive years. We've been thru thick an' thin. An', well, Oi'm verry faahnd oov'er." He goes silent for a moment, pondering his next thought. "If Oi was to -- " he stammers, "if Oi was, let's say, to ask yarr moothar to..." But that thought is cut off sharply by a loud banging at the door. "HEY SAL!" comes a loud voice from the hallway. "OPEN UP!" With an eyeroll, Sally holds up her hand to pause the conversation and goes to the door to find Alice in a highly agitated state. "Sal," she exclaims. "Y'gotta gimme a han'! Willie locked Siddy inna berleh room, an' we can't get t'dooeh open!" "What?" gapes Sally. "We neveh had no key t't'at dooeh, but Willie took it awlapawrt an' puttit back t'get'eh, an' he done sumpn' an' Siddy wen' inneh t'shake t' grates, an' shut it behin' 'im an' now we can't get it open! An' I do'wanna jus' bust it down, I mean'nat's nice woodwoik onn'eh, y'can't get t'at kin'a woodwoik no moeh, so.. Oh! Frank! Good! You gotcha tools onna truck? C'mon, come downstehs, Siddy's gonna roast t'deat' inneh!" And with a sad sigh, Uncle Frank drains his glass and reluctantly rises to the occasion..)

("Aaaahr ye tellin' me," demands Ma, "that we're sharrrrrt foive caaartons? Foive carrtons'a Camels?" "I coun'ed 'em t'ree times," shrugs Bink Scanlan. "T'ree times I coun'ed 'em." "What brand," scowls Ma, "d'YOU smoke?" "Hmph!" hmphs Bink. "I like t'at. Not even a week awna jawb an' awready makin' accusations. An' if it's any'ting t'you, I smoke Ol' Golds, so t'eh. An'," she insists, with a pointed chaw of her gum, "ya got just'z many a't'em as ya sposta have." "Hmmm," scowls Ma. "Five carrtons'a Camels shawrt. Oi don' like t'at. Oi don' like t'at at AAAAHL" She taps the clipboard on the counter, running calculations in her head, but finds no satisfaction. "Oi'm gonna get to th' bottom'arr this, ye may be saaaartain," she frowns. "Anyway, Oi want'chee t'goo ovar th' chooin' gom next. We been gooin' thru an uncooman amoont'a Black Jack this week." She glances suspiciously at Bink. "Incidentially," Ma continues, her eyes narrowing. "What braand'a gom d'YOU chew?" "Gum," swallows Bink. "What gum?")

The lowly $2 bill, widely scorned as unlucky, turns out to be even more of a jinx for Adolf Hitler. It seems that the two-spot is the only denomination of US paper money that the Nazis have been unable to successfully counterfeit, and when this fact became known, the Germans abandoned any further attempt to manufacture that denomination. As a result, American $2 notes have become the only US currency to be accepted without question anywhere in the world.

(I'm not crying, it's just pollen...)

("George S. Pat-ton hits the spot...")

(Getting back Camilli would certainly goose attendance next year, but getting back Babe Herman? DO IT!!!!)

("Strictly zombie!")

("I swear to god, Bill, if you don't put that costume back in that trunk I'll take it out back and burn it!")

("Meanwhile, just let me reach up here and change this light bulb...")

(That'll teach the little imps!)

(Woo hoo! Free horses!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"A friend for Zippy," suggests Mr. Ginsburg. "A companion, you could say." "Hmm," nods Mrs. Ginsburg, spreading marmalade on her toast. "It's a thought." "It's a thought!" repeats Zippy, squawking in his cage.

Nothing makes a gal feel more glamorous than "Government Rejected Nylon."

"Oh, and you did bring your ration books...?"

and when Sel LeLoyd sends a telegram, he always uses the Nite Rate.

Some people just don't like to be upsold.

A crummy COMMERCIAL?

Well, it'll give him time to come up with an ending.

I mean, it's not like she really needs to study...

"And besides, it's only spelled with one 'K.'"

"I'll merely say it's Government Rejected!"

 

[LizzieMaine]

And finally..

Gee, I wonder what kind of an act she'll do.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Allow me to rephrase the question and to break it into two part. First, can you write the numbers "two" and "zero" in that order?"

"Like this?" [Willow writes the number twenty on the form.]

"Yes. Good. Now can you say the number 'twenty' out loud?"

"Twenty."

"Congratulations, you are now a WAC!"

 

[Fading Fast]

Internet down again?

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I sweah, t'woil's goin' nuts," sighs Sally. "Wawrs, elections -- an'nen, out'a t'blue, out'ta t' BLUE min' ya, Unca Frank comes oveh'rn stawrts tawkin' awlis stuff about marryin' Ma. Afteh'raw'leese yeehs. An' he wawns ME t'be t'one t'try'n convince'eh!" "Whassat stawry," chuckles Alice. "'Speak f'y'self Jawn Awlden?' Hey, izzat t'one 'bout t'guy wit' t'big schnozz, awwr'm I t'inkin'a sump'n else?" "Whateveh," dismisses Sally. "What'm I s'posta SAY? We don' even know if Pa is livin' awr dead, he might be runnin' aroun' France right now. Awr Asb'ry Pawrk a'sump'n." "Who caehs?" queries Alice. "Ain'ee legally dead?" "Yeh," shrugs Sally, "I remembeh when she gawt'tat papeh inna mail, but y'know what she said? 'T'at bloody bodach ain' gonna die until I kill 'im!'" "Well," sighs Alice, "I mean, I'm still soeh at Hig f'what he done, but y'know, afteh'ra t'rew t'at pot roast att'im I didn' feel so bad." "What'm I s'posta SAY?" repeats Sally. "I mean, Unca Frank's a good old guy 'nawlat, an' 'ee was good t'me 'n Mickey growin' up, but I mean -- husban' material? He'd neveh be home, awrways out on'nem plumbin' cawls, fixin' foinaces. An' Ma bein' such a homebody. I jus' dunno'f it'd woik out." "Marriage is a swell t'ing," argues Alice. "You'n Joe got a good marriage, right? T' Ginsboigs, t'ey gotta good marriage. An' I neveh knew what happy was 'till I met Siddy. An' y'know what, he feels'a same way. Las' night, right, afteh we got'tim outta t'at berleh room, I says t'him, 'good t'ing I was heeh, huh?" An'nee looks at me wit'tem big brown eyes an' says 'Yeh." "He ain' got brown eyes," notes Sally. "Y'know, I wondehed about'tat," shrugs Alice. "Must'a been awlat soot.")

The chairman of the Democratic National Committee today predicted that President Roosevelt will defeat Governor Thomas E. Dewey by a greater margin than he defeated Wendell Willkie by four years ago. Chairman Robert Hannigan also stated that the popular vote this year is likely to exceed 47,000,000, and predicted that the President will not only sweep New York City but also the state and the nation. Republican National Committee Chairman Robert Brownwell Jr. expects to issue his prediction for the election later this week.

("Whoot's that smell?" queries Ma, her nose twitching. "Ain't me," declares Bink Scanlan, tossing the canvas bag on the counter. "I use'at Koikman soap." "Leonora," continues Ma, frowning at her granddaughter, absorbed in her stacks of nickels. Ma sniffs closer, and again requests attention. "Leonora, daaarlin',"she queries, "didjee motharr give ye a baath laast noit?" "Yeh," snaps Leonora. "Go 'way. I'm busy." Ma shrugs, as Bink takes the opportunity to pocket three packs of gum from the countertop display. Ma sniffs again, and reaches for Leonora's sweater."What's in ye pocket tharr," she inquires, her nose wrinkling at the smell. Leonora huffs and reaches into her pocket, tossing a gelatinous gray mass on the table. "Leonora, darlin'," stammers Ma, holding her hand to her mouth. "Whoy d'ye have boiiiiiled fish in ye paacket?" "Fr'm dinneh," explains Leonora, her dignity ruffled. "Savin' it fa' Stella!")

(Everything will be fine. Yes indeed. Everything will be just fine.)

(Well, they had to do something since the Battle Page went away.)

("It's Mr. O'Malley again, sir," interrupts Mr. Parrott, as Mr. Rickey chalks new names on the roster list on his blackboard. "Tell him I am out," declares Mr. Ricket with a puff on his cigar. "Prevaricate if you must. And instruct Mr. O'Malley, if you will, on the meaning of the term 'silent partner.'" "He's very upset," insists Mr. Parrott. "He wants to know why Holmes ran Schmitz's picture and not his." "Call Mr. Holmes," sighs Mr. Rickey. "Tell him another photograph of Mr. O'Malley will be delivered by messenger, and that he should take pains to run it. And be certain, this time, that the photograph does not exceed the maximum width." "That won't be easy," sighs Mr. Parrott. "Ah." chortles Mr. Rickey, his own ample belly rippling with laughter. "A jest, a jape, a joke. Very good, Mr. Parrott. Very well observed." "Yes sir," sighs Mr.Parrott...)

(You know, a jitterbugging goose just might work. I hear Margie Hart used to do an act with a seagull.)

("Or was it Waukegan? Somewhere around there?")

(Um, that's not a closet. Just so you know.)

(If I Only Had A Brain...)

(Well, at least they're not on the menu.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

View attachment 651725

Internet down again?

Technology, our capricous master..

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Maybe if he didn't run around getting drunk in nightclubs with Georgie Jessel, he'd have a happier home life.

DIdn't they make a movie of this in 1931 with RIchard Barthelmess and Kay Francis?

Serves you right for trying to finesse. Flattop would've just hit her over the head.

"You little SHOP-LIFTAH!"

LOOK IT UP IN A BOOK WALT

Sorry, you don't get a Purple Heart for this.

"Ann Sheridan was never this much trouble!"

"You could be an air raid warden. Just look important and yell a lot!"

You're not supposed to use an actual chain.

Look, a ragtag band of misfits!

 

[Fading Fast]

DIdn't they make a movie of this in 1931 with RIchard Barthelmess and Kay Francis?

I can't think of the movie you're referring to, but it would certainly fit the precode style of movies from that era. There's also a pretty good foreshadowing of this in Evelyn Waugh's 1934 novel "A Handful of Dust." There, the wife tries to set the husband up with a mistress to – after the fact –"justify" her own affair and kind of make it all okay (if you're insane).

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Hey, Ma," hesitates Sally, contemplatively stirring her straw in half a glass of Coke. "C'n I ask ya sump'n?" Ma glances up from re-counting the contents of a carton of Black Jack, and flicks her daughter an inscrutable look. "Oov caaaarse," she replies. "Whaat's aaahn ye moind?" "You eveh t'ink," ventures Sally with a sigh, "''bout gett'n old?" "Oi ain't thaaar yet," snaps Ma. "An' noo sensa waaaryin'aboot things y'caaan't doo noothin' aboot." "Well," inhales Sally, "I mean, ya ain' exac'ly gettin' youngeh." "Oi'm still aaahn th' near soide'a fifty," Ma insists. "Oi ain' yet ready farr th' boonyard, if thaat's what'chee warried aboot." "Well," shrugs Sally, "I mean, y'haddat stroke las' yeeh, right?" "A moinir inconvenience," huffs Ma. "Oi'm fit'sa fiddle." "I guess what I'm askin'," Sally squirms, "is -- have ya eveh t'oughta settlin' down?" "Noo thaat'sa fool question," snorts Ma. "Oi been waaarkin' in this stoor day aftar day farr almoost twenny-foive years. Ain't thaaat settled doon enoough far ye?" "I mean -- " hesitates Sally, "settlin' down WIT' somebody, t', you know, keep ya comp'ny in ya old age." Ma frowns. "We've been ovarr this before, daughter," she growls. "Oi can't afaaard a dog." "I'm tawkin'," blurts Sally, "'bout UNCLE FRANK." Ma gapes at her daughter for a long moment. "No," she finally resumes, with a firm shake of her head. "Thaaat wouldn't do. Francis is allargic t' daaahgs.")

("Oh, by all means you should go," nods Mr. Ginsburg, as Alice serves dinner. "An informed voter you should be." "Um, yeh," nods Alice, a touch of flush creeping across her cheeks. "Sal's real hep on goin' -- hep, t'at means like y'really wanna do sump'n, like, you know, t'kids say." "Ah," nods Mr. Ginsburg. "We should go," injects Mrs. Ginsburg. "We should go, Mendel. A vice president, you don't get to see every day." "Um," adds Alice, "Chawrles Boyayy too." "Again, please?" queries Mr. Ginsburg, smoothing a napkin across his lap. "Um, Chawrles Boyayy," blushes Alice. "Y'know, t' acteh. Good lookin' felleh -- not as good lookin' as Siddy, of couese, but...um...he's gonna -- um -- be t'eh too. Also Moina Loy. An' Et'el Moiman." "Ethel Moiman, you say?" marvels Mr. Ginsburg. "I agree with you, Esther," he nods. "We should go." )

An endorsement of President Roosevelt for a fourth term in the White House by the New York Times was denounced today by Parks Commissioner Robert Moses, who termed the editorial "drivel," "political tripe," and "claptrap." Moses, a Republican who has endorsed Governor Thomas E. Dewey for President, also called a fourth term for Mr. Roosevelt "a enormous risk," and declared that the President himself is "a palpably tired man" who might give way to the elevation to the Presidency of Senator Harry S. Truman, whom he called "a professional hack weaned in the Pendergast nursery." The statement by Commissioner Moses was published in the Times this morning as a paid political advertisement sponsored by the Republican National Committee.

("An outstanding speech, sir," nods Mr. Parrott, helping his master on with his topcoat. "Indeed so," rumbles Mr. Rickey, fumbling in his pocket for a cigar. "Once again your experience as a ghost-writer has carried the day," he adds as Mr. Parrot proffers a match. "Have you," he adds, "completed that survey of baseball talent in Japan that I requested you prepare?" "Um, not yet, sir," admits Mr. Parrott, struggling with his own coat. "It's not -- um -- easy to get that sort of information right now." "Inspiration, my boy," puffs Mr. Rickey, pounding his meaty palm on his factotum's shoulder, "is ninety percent perspiration." "Yes sir," sighs Mr. Parrott...)

("And if it doesn't fit, we do need slipcovers...")

(Baseball and gambling? What could happen?? Interestingly a different player named Dutch Leonard came forward in 1926 to make allegations that Ty Cobb, Tris Speaker, and Smoky Joe Wood had conspired with gamblers to rig a 1919 game between the Tigers and the Indians, but he declined to appear before Commissioner Landis to substantiate those charges. Perhaps 1944 Dutch Leonard was the victim of mistaken identity...)

(Walter Catlett is doing comics now? Some actors will take any part.)

("118 POUNDS? I HATE YOU!")

(What does a guy like this even eat for for lunch, boiled flies?)

(Mr. Stamm is staying with his mother this week, and he can't take his eyes off the crucifix on her guest room wall.)

(Worst Dad Ever is here? Now they'll ALL get lost.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Nice specs, Martha. Guess Dorothy Parker was wrong.

Clip and save!

C'mon, Mama could be the new Marie Dressler.

"Use a service revolver next time? But where's the fun in that?"

"Of course, why do you think I went into medicine in the first place? TO MESS WITH YOU, WALT! THAT'S WHY!"

"OH f'gawdsakes. All I did was run a mimeograph!"

C'mon, kid, you're not usually this dumb.

Let's hope the war is over soon.

How many daughters did Captain Blaze have??

Aw, two rough tough characters sharing sodas. So wholesome.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I awrways liked'at Henry Wallace," affirms Sally. "An' I know why," snickers Alice. "He's got haieh like Joe." "He don't neit'eh," frowns Sally. "Joe combs his. What I like is what 'e's got t'say. I dunno 'bout t'is Truman, t'ough." "He ain' as good lookin'," nods Alice. "Sometimes," scowls Sally, "I don' t'ink you take politics too serious. Ya still gonna vote, t'ough -- right? You AWR gonna vote." "Oh yeh," nods Alice. "Oh," she continues, engineering a chance of subject. "Misteh Ginsboig tol' me sump'n las' night. Guess who come by an' ordehed a new suit'a cloes? Ya Uncle Frank, t'at's who!" "I t'ought Misteh Ginsboig was gonna retieh," replies Sally. "Oh, he still woiks a coupl'a days a week, jus t'keep busy," explains Alice. "He says Uncle Frank come in an' seen'is pre-wawr suit he had inna shop t'eh, wit' cuffs 'n evr'yti'ing, an' tried it awn, an' whatcha know, it was awrmos' a poifec' fit. Jus' hadda let out t'pants a bit. He says he was gonna come in lateh t'day an' pick it up." "What's Uncle Frank wawnt wit' a new suita cloes?" ponders Sally. "He's been wearin'at same blue soige 'a his so lawng y'can light up a room wit' t' shine awnna seat'v 'is pants." "Yeh," snickers Alice, "'e does polish it up good sitt'n on'nat stool at t' counteh t'eh." Sally has no further reply, as she gives the situation a careful mental review...)

A wealthy naturalized German cork importer and former Brooklynite could face the death penalty if he is found guilty of serving as the paymaster for a Nazi spy ring. Fifty-five year old Helmut Ludwig Suhl was arraigned yesterday in Brooklyn Federal Court on a charge of conspiracy to commit espionage in wartime, and pleaded not guilty. Bail was set at $25,000, and Suhl was denied permission to visit his Manhattan safety deposit box to retrieve securities to post to meet that bail. Those securities were found to primarily consist of United States War Bonds. Federal Attorney T. Vincent Quinn charged that Suhl was approached by Gestapo agents while he was in Portugal on business in 1940 and 1941 and that he agreed to act as paymaster for German spies operating in New York, using the Manhattan office of his cork-importing firm as the payoff center. Suhl lived in Brooklyn from the time of his naturalization in 1930 until he moved to Peekskill last year to become a "gentleman farmer."

("Oi don't see what ANYONE sees in this man Sinatra," frowns Ma, slapping at the paper with the back of her hand." "You just ain't listenin'," sighs Bink Scanlan, leaning languidly against a broom. "I guess," she adds with a pointed munch of her gum, "when ya get old, ya get hawrd'a hearin'." "That'll be enoof outa YOU," snaps Ma, as the door jingles open to admit Uncle Frank, resplendent in dignified double-breasted charcoal grey. "What's this now?" demands Ma. "Ye didn't leave ye topcoat ahhn th' soobway again, didjee?" "Taaake a cloosar look," insists Uncle Frank, flicking a bit of lint from his lapel. "A caaarnation in ye buttonhole!" marvels Ma. "Ye been to a funeral? Who was it doyed this toime, someboody finally get fed oop with Shaughnessy's roasts an' poota sloog in'im??" Uncle Frank carefully lifts off his hat and rests it gently on the counter, to reveal a fresh and aromatic haircut. "Whoot's that smell," puzzles Ma, wrinkling her nose. "See here, Francis, ahhr ye wearin' PARRFUME?" "That," Uncle Frank declares with a slight toss of his chins, "is whatchee caahl aftarr-shave lootion." Ma takes another sniff, and cocks an eye. "Whaaaaaat aahr ye oop to, Francis Leary? Paradin' aroond in th' middla th' day aaaahl doon oop loike a daaahg's dinnar." "Annd you too, Mrs. Sweeney," proposes Uncle Frank, "moost daaahn th' glad rags, faaahr Oi am takin' ye aahn th' town t'noit. DOWNtown, moind ye. Dinnar at th' Marine Room, faaahloowed boi a pitcharr show at Looow's Metrapaaahlitan." Ma blinks incredulously. "Yaahr droonk," she scowls. "Ahhhl that smellum ye gaaaht aaahn ye head ain't cooverin' oop noothin'. Yaaahr droonk." "Oi am," responds Uncle Frank with a grand sweep of his arm, "droonk with desire faaahr th' glaaaaary oov ye smoile." At this, Bink Scanlan bursts into a loud braying laugh as her broom clatters to the floor. "SHUUUT OOP!" roaars Ma. She regards Uncle Frank carefully before speaking again. "What toime?" she inquires...)

("Glamor?" Seems more the "Charm" type to me.)

("It's Mr. O'Malley again," sighs Jane Ann Jones, poking her head into the Inner Sanctum. "I am in conference," snaps Mr. Rickey, carefully arranging a stack of index cards before him on his desk. "Direct his inquiry to Mr. Parrott." "I already did that," shrugs Jane Ann. "Mr. O'Malley is very upset that the Eagle still hasn't run his photo. I tried to turn it over to Mr.Parrott, and Mr. O'Malley said, in no small words, that as an owner of the ballclub he won't be handed off to a minion. Mr. Parrott -- took offense -- and I don't know where he went." "Hmmm," ponders Mr. Rickey, drumming his pudgy fingers on the blotter. "Do you have -- what was his name again -- Mr. McDonald's telephone number?" "He doesn't work here anymore," reminds Jane Ann. "A small matter," frowns Mr. Rickey, returning to his cards...)

(You've got to hand it to Mr. Catlett, he's giving this part his all.)

("Hmph!'" hmphs Dr. Levine. "Amateurs!")

(Tubby's wondering where Burma went too.)

("Hah!" hahs Mr.Stamm. "Let's see Gould top THIS!")

(AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG has no time for cheap sentiment.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Patriotutes?"

Figures don't lie.

I wish Connie and Stoop would show up to kidnap Hotshot Charlie and haul him off to the jungle, never to be seen or heard from again...

Well, to be fair to the old fathead, one of his kids was left in a basket on the doorstep and one was left in the back seat of his car...

Next time he falls off, leave him down there.

Point of order: the studio still has an untorn copy.

MIght actually be time for a little dirty work. Just a li'l suggestion, hon.

"Look, I'll have it done by election night. Close enough?"

BETRAYED by a conscientious service station man!

How do you suppose he can balance like that?

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Nah, it'll never catch on.

 

[Fading Fast]

A wealthy naturalized German cork importer and former Brooklynite could face the death penalty if he is found guilty of serving as the paymaster for a Nazi spy ring. Fifty-five year old Helmut Ludwig Suhl was arraigned yesterday in Brooklyn Federal Court on a charge of conspiracy to commit espionage in wartime, and pleaded not guilty. Bail was set at $25,000, and Suhl was denied permission to visit his Manhattan safety deposit box to retrieve securities to post to meet that bail. Those securities were found to primarily consist of United States War Bonds. Federal Attorney T. Vincent Quinn charged that Suhl was approached by Gestapo agents while he was in Portugal on business in 1940 and 1941 and that he agreed to act as paymaster for German spies operating in New York, using the Manhattan office of his cork-importing firm as the payoff center. Suhl lived in Brooklyn from the time of his naturalization in 1930 until he moved to Peekskill last year to become a "gentleman farmer."

I thought we had already corralled all of these guys by this late in the war.

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

I wish Connie and Stoop would show up to kidnap Hotshot Charlie and haul him off to the jungle, never to be seen or heard from again...

Yes, anything to get rid of him.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Well, as far as we can tell from the latest test results at the clinic," begins Dr. Minkoff, "Leonora is now reading at about a third grade level." "T'oid grade?" replies Sally. "Zat awl? I t'ought you said she was gifted." "Ah," ahs Dr. Minkoff, tapping his chin with his pencil, "I don't think you..." "I mean, I was read'n pretty well when I was t'ree too," continues Sally. "I dunno what grade, but I remembeh read'na newspapeh. T'ey had t'is t'ing inna Eagle t'en, 'Aunt Jean,' y'remembeh t'at? Well, I remembeh lookin'at Aunt Jean an' t'inkin, 'well'at's f' babies. I dowanna read t'at.' T'ey had t'is t'ing inna funnies t'en, 'Buttons 'n Fatty.' I'd read t'at, an' t'ink, "well'at's stupid.' An'nen I'd go read'a editawrials.'" "Ah," acknowledges Dr. Minkoff. "So, y'tellin' me t'oid grade," shrugs Sally. "So what?" "Well," sighs Dr. Minkoff, gazing thru the observation window as Leonora, a pile of ignored toys strewn about the floor, ponders a telephone book, "there's another thing I wanted to talk to you about. "It's been brought to my attention that Leonora's been talking to the other children at the clinic -- about the election." "Good," nods Sally. "T'at's my goil!" "Um," hesitates Dr. Minkoff, "it's like this, though. Leonora's been -- ah -- how should I put this -- quoting odds." Sally gapes incomprehensibly. "What?" she queries, her heat tilted. "Quoting odds," repeats Dr. Minkoff. "You know, on the outcome of the election." "Oh," ponders Sally. "Whe'zshee comin' up wit't'at?" "I was hoping," ventures Dr. Minkoff, "you could tell me." Sally is silent for a moment. "T'stoeh," she finally exhales. "My ma's canny stoeh." "Oh?" replies Dr. Minkoff. "Yeh," nods Sally. "It awl makes sense now." "Ahhh," nods Dr. Minkoff, his pencil poised. "Yeh," continues Sally. "Ma sells 'em racin' fawrms t'eh, y'know, t'em papehs t' hawrse playehs read? Leonoreh must be read'n'em t'ings an'nit's givin'eh ideehs." "Ahhhhh," replies Dr. Minkoff. "T'at ain' no good f'ra kid," declares Sally. "I'll get'eh t'read sump'n else. I keep tellin' Ma she oughta carry t' New Masses." Dr. Minkoff makes a notation in his book. Sally is silent for a long moment. "Um," she resumes, "sooooo -- what's she givin'?" "Pardon?" replies Dr. Minkoff. "T' election," continues Sally. "Who's she like?" "Roosevelt," answers Dr. Minkoff. "Five'll get you eight." "T'at's my goil," smiles Sally.)

The entire mainland of Greece is now free of Germans after a forty-day Allied campaign that shattered the Nazi grip on that ancient country after three years and seven months of brutal occupation. Official Allied reports stated that aside from a few scattered individuals encountered by patrols in the north, German forces were fully expelled from the Greek mainland as of Thursday night.

("What d'ye say, me dear," invites Uncle Frank, sliding the paper across the counter. "Tonight -- th' Pierrepont!" Ma snaps her cleaning rag around the gleaming seltzer spout and rests it on her hip. ""See here, Francis," she demands. "What's gaaaht into ye?" Laaaast noit ye take me to th' Marine Room an' that pitchar shoo -- an' we doon't even sit in th' mezzanine -- an' noo ye want t' goo t' th' Pierrepont? Haave ye gaahn bloody daft? Whot's next, th' Staaaark Cloob?" "P'raps," acknowledges Uncle Frank. "Oi should caaahl aahn Mistar Billingsley. We did soom business in th' oold days.")

The angriest political campaign in recent American history nears its climax as voters prepare to cast their ballots on Tuesday, amid warnings that the final outcome may not be known for weeks, or even months, after the polls close. The unknown factor in this wartime election is the Armed Services absentee vote, with eleven states, worth a total of 123 electoral votes, not permitting absentee ballots to be counted until all of the ballots cast on Election Day are tabulated. The latest such count is scheduled to take place in North Dakota on December 7th, but the state that has caused the most concern is Pennsylvania, which casts 35 electoral votes and where the final vote will not be determined until no sooner than November 22nd. All service ballots cast in that state will be impounded until that date. President Roosevelt won Pennsylvania in 1940 by a margin of 282,000 ballots, but the outcome in that state this year is very much in doubt.

Mayor LaGuardia yesterday dismissed polls showing Governor Dewey ahead in the state of New York. "I think all these polls," declared the Mayor, "are about as accurate as these racing dope sheets, and are made for the same purpose as the dope sheets are made for the races. It is a scheme, of course, to get the suckers to bet."

Film star Jackie Cooper has "washed out" of Navy officer's training school due to poor grades. The former child actor was attending the training program at Notre Dame University, and now will be sent to Great Lakes Training Station to undergo boot training as an apprentice seaman.

(Meh. Fifteen weeks till pitchers and catchers.)

(Please welcome our special guest today, Mark Twain.)

(I miss political signs with pictures.)

("Spill us the filler Mister Bush-a-miller!")

(If you look at Mr. Roosevelt here long enough he transforms into Mr. Truman, which is far too unsettling an effect to consider any further.)

(Between this and the scarecrow crucifxion plot in the dailies, I think somebody needs to check in on Mr. Stamm and see if he's all right.)

("Hmph, she thinks she's SO SMART." -- O. DeHavilland.)

(Ehh, too much hair.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Miss Crabtree is VERY disappointed in you, son.

Captain? Should have stopped at lieutenant, nobody ever pays attention to lieutenants.

Mr. Hill has been drawing these pages in one form or another since 1916. Sometimes you can tell.

HEY KIDS! Try this prank on Dad!

All right, ma'am, I'll see that verse and I'll raise you Ecclesiastes 9:10. And it serves Shadow right, trying to play high school football at 23.

"You'll look sweet upon the seat.." And better button up, Joy, you'll get sunburned.

Looking forward to the 1948 Olympics.

Psst. Jon Stardust's real name is "Sternenstaub." Pass it on.

I didn't think Charlie could annoy me more, but...