The Era -- Day By Day

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

There is more going on with Raymond Russell Clark than they're telling us.

Can't sleep, Mr. Hill?

Such a nice family.

How do these Respectable Clubwomen even know what a blackjack IS? HMMM?

The Mullins family is the best-paid in comics because Kayo negotiates their contracts.

You know, Avery, they have soldering irons now you just plug in the wall...

Don't feed him to the fish, there's enough blubber on there to keep you going for a month.

Shadow should just give it all up and become a monk. And looks like Helen's all set for a while...

And Mr. Caniff fools us, unless Connie and Stoop are now masters of disguise...

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"The House I Live In" still packs a punch -- and was perhaps the first sign that there's a lot more to Sinatra than just his tonsils. And Germany's WWII-era leader and Chaplin on the same bill? Somebody has a sense of humor.

 

[Fading Fast]

Foeh yeehs ol' an' she t'inks she's a headshrinkeh!" A wisp of a frown flits across Dr. Levine's composure at this last.



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

The "Ace Safe Crackers" story is insanely 1940s.

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

There is more going on with Raymond Russell Clark than they're telling us.

Life would have been much easier for him had he been born now.

The story of the two young girls who abducted the baby is quietly devastating.

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

"The House I Live In" still packs a punch -- and was perhaps the first sign that there's a lot more to Sinatra than just his tonsils.

I believe two things about Frank Sinatra:

- He was absolutely sincere in his beliefs against racism and antisemitism

- He could fire off a racists or antisemitic barb in his personal life (this fact seems well documented).

All it tells us is that humans are complex and today's social media "gotcha" game does not show us "the real" person any more than their public life does – it's all part of the very complex and often contradictory nature of humans.

 

[2 Days Dubai]

Looks as though Chuck and April have met some renegades.
War always has a free lance element; neither side but themselves,
so today's strip might veer off the normal path.

The infant fatality story is a legal quagmire. On second skim I see the Jones girls are older than first skim impression, and their parents need
a local yokel fast. The fifteen year old sister in particular, which prudently requires severance from her younger sibling with her own counsel.

On a much lighter note, Belmont post positions were drawn last evening with a new kid shooter added mix. A small but decidedly talented field sets stage for a real barn burner this Saturday. Nine years ago, I failed to draw a line through Creator's bad trip in the Derby; overlooking his #7 North America purse earnings and his stone cold killer personality much to my detriment. He jumped the chow line after the turn and fast dashed the wire, winner by a nose. And all that day my inner voice repeatedly whispered warnings that I dismissed. So my handicapping ever since then includes my gut instincts.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Hmph," hmphs Ma. "Ye wouldn't b'lieve aaahl th' ****** amatchoors Oi roon into oot t'Jamacia. Oi tell ye Francis, th' field is overroon." "Th' waaarld is changin', Nora," sighs Uncle Frank. "Usetarr be ye could build ye business an' ye had waaaark farr loife." "Oi shooulda knoon things was goin' t'be loike this," frowns Ma, "whin they poot in thim parimutuels." "Loife was simplaaaar," laments Uncle Frank. "Bootchee gahht t' moove with th' toimes, Oi guess." "Have ye given thaaaaht," prods Ma, "t'what Oi aaaasked ye last noit? Aboot a jaaahb farr Michael?" Uncle Frank stares into his glass, watching the tiny bubbles rising to the top, and then tosses it off with a single gulp. "Oi gahht soomthin' in moind," he murmurs....)

("Beans?" queries Joe, gazing at his plate. "Awr carrots? What coleh IZZAT?" "Who knows?" sighs Sally. "T'ey haddis bin at Bohack's. Cans wit' no labels. Ten cents apiece. Take a chance." "Dawg food," frowns Leonora, shoving her plate away. Joe shoves his chair back, "I'll be at Schreibstien's," he sighs. "We'll go witcha," declares Sally. "Ain't so bad," shrugs Leonora, chewing on whatever it is....)

(Mary Haworth and Doc Brady are actually the same person, CONFIRMED.)

(Now they're not even trying. How many other lefthanded pitchers who wear number 11 and let their pants hang low are there besides Carl Hubbell???)

("****nic and Old Lace." Hey King, won't you have a glass of elderberry wine?)

(That's right, Irwin. Count it carefully.)

(Tough luck, Nan and Fan. Too bad you didn't get the Kirkman Soap gig.)

(Well at least he isn't disguised as your housemaid...)

(Somebody needs to do a hard-hitting investigation of all this featherbedding at the Department of Animal Control.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Joseph "***boat" Mastropole? Back to Normalcy...

Hey Hilda -- do you know this guy??

"Heart of Darkness," by Milton Caniff...

"Okay, I win." Well, that's that.

Well, cozy at least...

"Oh, maybe I did stash a few dollars offshore but why bring that up..."

They start 'em young in Covina.

"Tell the mutt to stop grinning at the lunch wagon!"

There's a New Look Coming...

There's something to be said for pragmatism.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

\
A prophet is without honor in his home country...

 

[Fading Fast]

("Hmph," hmphs Ma. "Ye wouldn't b'lieve aaahl th' ****** amatchoors Oi roon into oot t'Jamacia. Oi tell ye Francis, th' field is overroon." "Th' waaarld is changin', Nora," sighs Uncle Frank. "Usetarr be ye could build ye business an' ye had waaaark farr loife." "Oi shooulda knoon things was goin' t'be loike this," frowns Ma, "whin they poot in thim parimutuels." "Loife was simplaaaar," laments Uncle Frank. "Bootchee gahht t' moove with th' toimes, Oi guess." "Have ye given thaaaaht," prods Ma, "t'what Oi aaaasked ye last noit? Aboot a jaaahb farr Michael?" Uncle Frank stares into his glass, watching the tiny bubbles rising to the top, and then tosses it off with a single gulp. "Oi gahht soomthin' in moind," he murmurs....)

Parimutuel betting and slot machines are two of my favorite inventions of all time, not because I use them, but because of the sheer beauty – even audacity – of their Occam razor's business model: by plan, at their core and they don't hide it one bit if you pay attention, they are designed to take in a dollar and, collectively, hand the customer back a fraction of a dollar – that's it. They are both so brilliant, I marvel every time I see a row of slots machine or a tote board at a racetrack.

Oh, and good luck to Frank if he has to hire Mickey.

One more, if I were the Japanese right now, I don't think I'd be issuing inflammatory threats against the United States.

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

Tough luck, Nan and Fan. Too bad you didn't get the Kirkman Soap gig.

They never really had a shot: Nan doesn't have the right silhouette. They have found a great use for their particular twin-ness, if they are okay being grifters.

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

Joseph "***boat" Mastropole? Back to Normalcy...

Yes, there is something oddly comforting in returning to a good old-fashioned gang war after the real war is nearly over.

Alice Reinhart is cute as all heck, yet no sane man – now amply forewarned – should get within ten feet of her.

 

[2 Days Dubai]

Alice Silverson's Reno divorce and hubby's Stork story defense pitch is small ball lawfare, but his counsel should have advised silence. An approach to petitioner with initial feeler as pertains settlement is always preferable. All out of court away press prying eyes with a local gumshoe private eye suitably retained and on the case. Still, Alice is a real pro.

Conrad's Heart of Darkness is unreadable to me because its inexorable depressing pull is best avoided like the plague. Terry's in a fix; though Caniff's expert literary filler reckons a plantation connect.

The Belmont Saturday is a fairly predictable race with a few wild cards tossed Journalism's inside straight mercurial personality running style as seen his Kentucky Derby defeat to Sovereignty. The latter is herewith ***ned Belmont; however, no Kentucky Derby winner-Preakness skip ever won the Triple Crown third leg. And Jay can win if he plays his cards right and aims a target lead. Another wild card is Baeza. Catching considerable buzz, yet in two graded stakes unwinnable and defeated by Jay. All the foreordained Baeza gush is ****shoot dice yap. Past performance. Not to say he cannot win but he hasn't won and nothing says he must win Saturday.
A lean cue stick trifecta is Jay, Sov, Beeswax; although pros will spread since either neither gambling percentage rules apply.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Ev'ryt'ing's jake wit' Joe's boit'day cake," declares Alice. "We got t' sugeh an'na floueh, an' awlarest'vit, an' it's gonna be right t'eh onna table t'marra night at 7 pee em!" "How 'bout food?" inquires Sally. "Eh," ehs Alice. "Misteh Ginsboig wen' upta Moskowitz's t'day. No p'strami. But'ee did come back wit' a dozen pickles." "Full soueh?" hopes Sally. "Half," shrugs Alice. "I hate t'is damn wawr," sighs Sally. "Um," ums Alice, "you hoid anyt'ing about Mickey? When'ee's gett'n outa camp?" "Last I hoid," replies Sally, "he's home awn Sunday. Uncle Frank say t'es gonna be a do ove'ht'a Frien'ly Sons'a St. Patrick's hawl. Ma din' wanna do it inna stoeh, said it'd drive away t'customehs." "You goin'?" asks Alice. "I gotta," shrugs Sally. "He's a joik but'ee's still my brot'eh." She gazes out the window at nothing in particular. "I hoid las' night," she resumes, "t'at Ma wants Uncle Frank t'take 'im awn at t' plumbin' shawp, but I know 'e don'wanna do it. Y'know, he had Mickey f'ra 'prentice afteh'ree quit school. Hope'd 'e'd loin'a business, but'ee neveh did." "Well now," eyerolls Alice, "I wouldn' say t'at." "What?" "Nut'n....")

("Whose idea was this??" blusters Mr. Rickey. "Um," ums Mr. Parrott, "yours, sir." "Oh yes," frowns Mr. Rickey. "Patriotism moves a man in mysterious ways." "It does, sir," nods Mr. Parrott. "How much do we pay the groundskeepers?" frowns Mr. RIckey. "Not enough, sir..." sighs Mr Parrott.)

(I once rode from a stanchion carrying a surgical donut and barely able to stand, while my fellow riders contemplated the inside of their eyelids...)

(Don't kick, Colonel. I have one of those briefcases myself, and it's a very fine briefcase indeed.)

(Giddyap, it's Harry "The Horse" Danning. a very excellent catcher with the Giants who is soooooo happy that he never had to catch Hugh Casey in the World Series.)

(Hmph. I want to see him box a kangaroo at Coney Island.)

(Sorry Irwin, that's the way it goes. Maybe they can use you in "Jane Arden." Oh wait, they've got Tubby.)

(I don't know what Tubs thinks is about to happen in Panel Three, but I doubt he'd know what to do if it did.)

(DIdn't I see this movie in 1933? Sure, there's Warren William right there.)

(Sometimes my heart just aches for poor Kitty. It really is that kind of world.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News....

The judge was up late doing research.

For best effect, read this in his world-famous voice.

Less talk-to-yourself, more do.

Littering, Tracy? Don't you know that's a misdemeanor?

Welcome home, Status Quo.

You'll get used to the bugs and the smell.

You do have to wonder how Pop makes a living.

"Could be worse. I've got a mule named after me."


The first rule of disappearing is to do nothing that would give anyone any reason to remember they saw you.

I -- actually don't see a flaw in this plan...

 

[Fading Fast]

"How much do we pay the groundskeepers?" frowns Mr. RIckey. "Not enough, sir..." sighs Mr Parrott.



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

I don't know what Tubs thinks is about to happen in Panel Three, but I doubt he'd know what to do if it did.

And if it did, he wouldn't last long enough for it to matter anyway.

Plus, it wouldn't kill Fan to not smoke every single second of the day.

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

The judge was up late doing research.

Now do the Hawk Tuah girl for us, judge.

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

"Could be worse. I've got a mule named after me."

The airplane, especially the big bombers, has all the cachet. Think of the Memphis Bell or Enola ***. Can't think of one tank that memorialized a woman the same way.

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

The first rule of disappearing is to do nothing that would give anyone any reason to remember they saw you.

Good point, but Annie's large mop of curly red hair means she was defeated before she started.

 

[2 Days Dubai]

The Esquire appeal success only leaves question as to why the comely colleen so lasciviously portrayed Vargas isn't sent first-class priority certified mail, return receipt requested.

A last Belmont comment. Pace makes the race, and Crudo's last minute introduction to help round out the Stakes with a kid shooter upended what at first glance seems a straight stalk analysis. Everything holds yesterday's Journalism rail crow track analysis; albeit with a twist: Baffert.

Crudo wired the Barton Stakes on the Preakness undercard in a less competitive field. And Baffert's boy, Rodriguez, fastest speed entered the Belmont, but no more the lone ranger. Consequently, Baffert will order rider Mike Smith to charge front and hold circuit celerity, breaking a simple straight stalk bet open wide. A second series unveiled has a possible sustained Rod drive win with pace stalkers Journalism, Sovereignty; or vice-verza these two, tailed by any of a handful of bunch lunch superfecta others. Degenerates like me click the ''ALL'' box in such moments, or the more willing will likely gamble rail bird Hill Road at 10-1 odds morning line punt.

Ticket structure and lettuce distribution remain.

Terry's similar track route to the mansion and his reason for restraint is solid thinking. And no accountant riding his back. I explained why I divided my roll in the Derby and why low odds with new kid shooters held back a splurge on Journalism with my Preakness play. Solid poker percentages. Sound analysis. Like Terrry, wait.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Joe?" calls Sally, stepping into the kitchen. She looks around the room and notices the open window. She steps to it and leans out, to find her husband sitting on the fire escape, gazing blankly down into 63rd Street, his cheek bulging with tobacco. On the platform beside him, Stella the Cat curls, silently looking on with as much a look of concern as a cat can muster. "Joe," Sally continues, climbing out the window to join her husband. "Ain'cha comin' down? T'pawrty cant's stawrt wit'outcha." "Boit'day," murmurs Joe, firing a streak of black thru the metal railing. "A't'sa hot one." "Please," pleads Sally. "C'mon, Missis G an' Alice baked a swell cake, an' Ma brung oveh some ice cream, an' we gawt -- um -- pickles..." Joe exhales a deep breath, and spits out his tobacco cud. He watches it splatter on the sidewalk two stories down, and exhales again. "He was just a kid, Sal," he begins, his voice low and strained. "Nineteen yeehs ol', an' dumb as a rock. An'ney made 'im a cawrpr'l, c'n ya beat t'at?" "Oh," ohs Sally. "Yeh," she stammers, "t'at docteh out t' Mason tol' me." "I was ol' enough t'be 'is -- i dunno, 'is uncle a' sump'n." muses Joe. "An'nee's tellin' me what t'do. T'at's'a awrmy fawrya, y'know? I didn' like 'im, Sal. Awrways tellin' me *I* tawk funny when'ee soun'ed like'ee hadda mout'fulla cotton, awr whateveht'hell it is t'ey eat weh he come from. Awrmy's like t'at, y'know? Y'meet awlese guys, ya get t'know'm an'nen one day t'eh gawn. It ain' woit't'trouble, y'know? An'nen'na snipeh stawrts shootin', an'ee t'rows me awff t'at bench inna backa t'truck an' I push'im awfff me an'nee's dead. His eyes was open, Sal. I neveh seen nobody dead wit'teh eyes open. But t'ey was open an'ney was lookin' right at me, but t'ey wasn't. An' I ast'im why he done it an' he couldn' say nut'n cause'ee was dead. He was jus' a kid, Sal, an' now'ee's dead. Cause'a me, Sal. He's dead an' I'm alive, an' -- I dunno why. I'm jus' some guy, y'know? I'm nobody. Some guy useta make pickles f'ra livin' an' go dancin' awn Satehday night. Why should some dumb kid be dead so I c'n be alive? What'd I eveh do t'be WOIT' t'at, huh? I ask ya! I ain't impoehten', i ain' nut'n special..." "Y'awr t'me, Joe," murmurs Sally. "An' Leonoreh, an'awlem people downstaiehs." Joe is silent for a long moment. "I bet he was impoehtn'," he finally replies. "T'somebody." The silence resumes as Stella stretches and leaps back thru the window. "C'mon, Joe," urges Sally. "T'eh'rawl waitin' fawrya." "Yeh," Joe sighs, taking her hand as they crawl back thru the window to join the party below...)

("Yeah, right!" -- Bink Scanlan.)

(It's sad to see such cynicism in a man of medicine...)

(I wonder what Lichty will do when the war is over?)

(The Schoolboy, Waite Hoyt. Who, if he hadn't taken up drinking, would probably still be on somebody's 1945 pitching roster. Oh, and the horse says "be sure to get my good side.")

(Running en pointe? Now that's skill.)

(Ever notice nobody in this strip ever smiles?)

(Better check your pocketbook, Janie. Not all these dips are as skillful as Bink.)

(Job's not over till the paperwork's done.)

(Poisoned elephants, fires, dead aerialists... I think I'll pass on the circus this year.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

With a diagram, yet.

Never marry an opera singer, but if you must, at least marry a tenor.

Don't point it unless you intend to use it.

That's why he's a detective.

"The farmer doesn't have any sons." "Oh! That's even WORSE!"

Careful, kid, you don't want to end up like Uncle Walt.

Yeah, but everybody knows these prison romances never work out...

"Shacked up." HEY KIDS COMICS

Now, RENTING it, on the other hand...

"Anyways, I didn't meet Harold, but I did meet this gal, calls herself Burma..."

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"Sis? I'm not your sister! I'm in the wrong apartment again? CANT THEY TURN THE LIGHTS BACK ON???"

And finally...

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.....

 

[Fading Fast]

Oh, and the horse says "be sure to get my good side."

Just like Claudette Colbert, but she favored her left side.

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

Ever notice nobody in this strip ever smiles?

Heck, they hardly ever even look at each other when they are talking.

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

With a diagram, yet.

You'd think they'd have noticed there was no bathroom before they rented the apartment.

Madeline Webb and her crew are all still locked up, right?

Here's he Wikipedia page for the hotel: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hotel_Marguery

Re the better article in the Eagle, how did an unspent shell get on the floor? That does not sound like a professional hitman move.

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

Never marry an opera singer, but if you must, at least marry a tenor.

How much did Page Four enjoy rubbing his daughter's elopement in Winchell's face?

"Sweet Smell of Success," which riffs on Winchell, also had a similar storyline, but with a younger sister not a daughter.

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

That's why he's a detective.

Agreed, good moves on his part. Although, to confirm, you'd think he would have asked, "So, did the kid have red hair and the dog orange fur?"

"I've told you before, it's 'sunset copper!'"

 

[2 Days Dubai]

The Langford murder evidences conspiracy and deliberate intent; which the decedent surviving spouse ''black book'' may be theoretically considered implicit. However supposition tracks said log, the actual assassination with twin triggers capped a loose .38 caliber round scene isn't strictly pro grade major league New York Yankees murderers row hitting. Definitely done minor leaguers looking to be called up.

Anyway, April has that Scarlet O'Hara southern belle charm act down.

Looking to lay down a heavy bet tomorrow. A conservative play for what presumably will prove a high healthy handle at 1 1/8th distance run.
I know what Baffert will do. And Mike Smith is a favorite of mine whom I once bet against when he rode Crowded Trade in the Preakness against Rombaugh. My stomach churned like a cement mixer. Right ticket, still a tough call. Crudo isn't probable but forced Baffert's hand.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Nah, it ain' yawr fault," assures Alice as she and Sally turn onto 18th Avenue toward the BMT station. "You din' have no way'a knowin' he was gonna show up. Nawr ya Ma awr Frank neit'eh." "T'ree days left inna Awrmy," sighs Sally, "an'nee sneaks out wit'out a pass an' bawrges inta Joe's pawrty. It's a wondeh'ree ain' in jail, awr t' brig, awr wherehveh t'ey sen' guys'at do t'at." "I guess it coulda been woise," exhales Alice as they run into a crowd in front of Ebinger's Bakery. "Hey," she hesitates, "we gawt time t'run in'eeh, get a bag'a doughnuts? I din' have no breakfast, I ovehslep'. Me'n Siddy was up awl night tawrkin'." Sally flicks an eye at her watch and shrugs. "Howcome y'up awl night?" queries Sally. "I neveh hoid 'im say five minutes woit'a tawk, let alone a whole night." "Ahhh," dismisses Alice. "Jus' stuff. Yeh, honey --" she begins, shouldering her way to the counter, "gimme haffa dozen powdehed sugeh..." "Nut'n but plain," sighs the clerk, too accustomed to that particular order. "Awright, gimme t'em," replies Alice. "Hey Sal, y'wawnanyt'ing?" "Gawt cheese danish?" asks Sally. "I gawt plain doughnuts," exasperates the clerk. "Eh," ehs Sally." Alice tosses the clerk a quarter and a nickel, and takes her bag. "Mm," declares Alice thru a mouthful of doughnut as they return to the street. "One t'ing I don' unnehstan'," recalls Sally. "When Mickey seen Willie t'eh las' night, Willie din' reckonize 'im. I mean, I get t'at, he ain' seen 'im since 'e was, what, two yeehs ol? Ain'at what Marie Belasco said? An' Willie says 'how'dya do sir..." "Yeh," nods Alice, biting off another chunk as they join the line of commuters filing into the station. "We'eh teachin' 'im good mannehs. Ya don' get fawr in life ya ack like a bum." "Well, yeh," nods Sally, "but what I don' get is he says 'how'dya do sir, my name is William Krause.' Whassat Krause stuff?" "Well," sweats Alice, "I didn' wanna cawl 'im Dooley, people'd tawk." "Well, 'at ain' is name neit'eh," notes Sally. "I mean -- ain' 'is name Sweeney? Awr Belasco? I mean, ain'cha gotta go by what it says onna boit' cetificate?" Alice coughs up a chunk of doughnut as the 4 Train rolls mercifully into the station...)

("Speakin' a' juvenile d'linquents," scowls Ma, as the screen door skeens open to admit Bink Scanlan. "Oi tol'jee t'keep th' store oop'n till th' Daily News Pink cooms oop, an' we get hoom las' noit t'foind two boondles throon oop against th' door." "T'ey was late," dismisses Bink, tossing her jacket behind the counter. "I t'ought you said you was gonna bring me a piece a' cake." "Oi'll give ye cake," growls Ma. "That's tellin'arr," snickers Uncle Frank. "An' doon'choo laugh," retorts Ma. "What koinda stoont warr ye troyin' t' pool pourin' ahhl that beer down Michael? "Bettar t'have 'im drinkin' beer," shrugs Uncle Frank, "thin taaalkin' t' Alice 'boot th' boy." "That's goona look foine," frowns Ma. "Three days lift in th' Aaarmy, an' ye doomp 'im at the camp gate langaaared oot've 'is head." "If ye had a better plan," eyerolls Uncle Frank, "ye shooda spook oop. That was a fool stoont he pulled, sneakin' oota camp in th' faaarst place." "Oi imagine," growls Ma, "aaaaftar two yarrs in a prison camp ye'd be choompin' at th' bit yeself." "Oi've nivvar had sooch misfaartune," sniffs Uncle Frank. He finishes the last of his two cents plain, unwraps a Tootsie Roll and jams it into the corner of his mouth, and dons his hat. "Noo, if ye'll excuse me Oi have an appaaaantment with Mr. Shaughnessy aboot a paat roost." "Tell 'im," calls Ma, as the screen door bangs shut, "t'pool oot th' shoelaces this toime!")

("Beets!" sneers Leonora. "Sppppppppppppt!")

("Well, it's better than 'One Meat Ball!'")

(Yeah, joke all you want, but you might remember Luke Hamlin won 20 games in '39 before Leo messed with his head. And ahoy there, Seaman Third Class Owen, you'll enjoy the Navy. Maybe they'll let you drop anchor...)

And introducing as Melody, Miss Ann Blyth.

(And a week later, he died of tetanus. PROBLEM SOLVED.)

(Quill? You mean Mike Quill, city councilman and powerful head of the Transit Workers Union? Yeah, you better worry.)

(I misspoke the other day. Clearly this isn't Warren William, it's Robert Benchley. Bold casting choice, I must say.)

(Besides, you really wouldn't want to work with Gargantua, I hear he's awful to get along with.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Not Eddie DeLange! He had a great band in the 30s, and now he's reduced to -- um -- taking payments from -- uh ------

I hope Iris takes the SOB for every shilling he's got.

Tape? Well, paste's hard to get. DONT YOU KNOW THERE'S A WAR ON?

Very poor shooting technique. Incorrect posture and doesn't even use the sight.

If the Boss turns out to be, oh, Captain Blaze, I'll scream.

If all cops were this efficient...

FEET OFF THE TABLE PRIVATE!

Eventually, anyone can snap...

"Look! In that laundry cart! It's --- Van Lingle Mungo!"

Mr. Willard may not be the most sophisticated storyteller, but as a pure cartoonist he has few equals. The delicate way Mamie is holding her hem down is an unnecessary but hilarious detail.