The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

...and Mrs Carlan should be held suspect
for infanticide.

I thought so too.

...

Promissory Estoppel meets the altar rail with Malcomson v Boyington. Were Boyington my
client, I would advise absolute silence as regards Mrs Malcolmson; whom he proposed
marriage and has acted as guardian of his three children. Ace isn't thinking right now.

Or as I said: "Pappy [Boyington] is a scumbag: he used and discarded Lucy when the hot blonde came along."

 

[Harp]

I thought so too.

Or as I said: "Pappy [Boyington] is a scumbag: he used and discarded Lucy when the hot blonde came along."

I held a coupla jobs in law school. While overnite White Hen convenience store
clerk on Chicago's south side, a traffic fatality occurred. Cops came in for free coffee
talking about it. Alcohol involved. I thought it a drunk driver slam bang closed case;
however, the driver I was advised was stone cold sober. The pedestrian was drunk and
stumbled himself onto incoming traffic. Lesson learned. The facts aren't always apparent.
I think Boyington should be taciturn, but I'll reserve judgement as to case entirety for now.

 

[Fading Fast]

I held a coupla jobs in law school. While overnite White Hen convenience store
clerk on Chicago's south side, a traffic fatality occurred. Cops came in for free coffee
talking about it. Alcohol involved. I thought it a drunk driver slam bang closed case;
however, the driver I was advised was stone cold sober. The pedestrian was drunk and
stumbled himself onto incoming traffic. Lesson learned. The facts aren't always apparent.
I think Boyington should be taciturn, but I'll reserve judgement as to case entirety for now.

I agree, that is how the law should work. But as a guy reading a newspaper (an 80-year-old one at that), I can form a flash opinion as long as I'm willing to admit I was wrong (which I do all the time when I am) and revise it as new facts come it.

Further to your point (and I am not going political here even if I am walking around the edges), the recent video event that's been in the news is one that my first response is still the one I have today – I want to see all the video (more almost always comes), all the other evidence (more will absolutely come), and all the analysis (from genuine experts - if possible) before I'll form an opinion. Which makes me an outcast in both groups.

 

[Harp]

I agree, that is how the law should work. But as a guy reading a newspaper (an 80-year-old one at that), I can form a flash opinion as long as I'm willing to admit I was wrong (which I do all the time when I am) and revise it as new facts come it.

Further to your point (and I am not going political here even if I am walking around the edges), the recent video event that's been in the news is one that my first response is still the one I have today – I want to see all the video (more almost always comes), all the other evidence (more will absolutely come), and all the analysis (from genuine experts - if possible) before I'll form an opinion. Which makes me an outcast in both groups.

Boyington is in serious legal jeopardy and I would advise his silence and attention toward
his primary responsibility; namely his children, and secondly the woman he entrusted their care while
he was away. I am rather surprised and disgusted with him.
===
[[[Sorry, no discussion of the topic you're attempting to discuss will be permitted here. This is a direct statement of policy. -- Lizzie. ]]]

 

[LizzieMaine]

("T' noive'a t'em joiks," fumes Sally, whacking the paper against the seat ahead, causing a beefy man in a homburg to turn around and give her a murderous glare. "I'm swattt'n 'a bug," Sally growls. "T'ese trains is full'v'm. G'wan min' y'rown business." She sighs and falls back on her seat, and then sits up to resume her denunciation. "T'em pickets upta Foehteent' Aveneh run ME awff, but t'ey let'tem opehratehs go right t'ru! T'at'sa comp'ny union fawr ya, an' a phony strike!" She looks to her side, and notes that Alice is not there. "HEY!" she shouts toward the back of the car. "DOWN'EEH," comes a response, as Alice lurches up the aisle toward her seat. "Sawry," she exhales, as she resumes her position. "I hadda stretch me legs. I got a cramp." "Y'been awnya feet awl day," observes Sally. "How'c'n'ya have a cramp?" "It's me sacroiliac," replies Alice. "You wait'll you get t'be foehty, it awl goes straight t'hell." "I jus' gawt," moans Sally, flopping against the seat with her eyes closed, "sooooo much t'look fawrwr'd to." "Hey," heys Alice. "T'is'll cheeh ya up. Whyn'choo n' Joe 'n Leonoreh come down f'dinneh t'night? Misteh Ginsboig made a suita cloes f'ra wholesale meat guy, an'na guy liked it so much he give 'im two pot roasts. An' Misteh G give one'f'm t'me." "Me'n Leonoreh'll come down," replies Sally. "Joe ain' gonna be aroun'. He's goin' oveh t'see Mozelewski." "Who?" puzzles Alice. "Oh you know," returns Sally. "T'at big guy useta woik wit''tim at Sperry's. Runs a dress shop oveh'rawn Flatbush Aveneh, by t' Patio T'eateh." "What's a guy like t'at know 'bout dresses," scoffs Alice. "Lotta famous dress designehs is men," shrugs Sally. "Yeh," acknowledges Alice, "but I bet t'eh ain' too many of'm eveh woiked at Sperry's...")

("Aaaahl roit," declares Uncle Frank, as he tacks the 1945 calendar, with December 26th leaf displayed, on a wall of Shaughnessy's Meat Market, displacing a suet-smudged OPA poster. "Oi think weee're ready." "Izzis t' bes' place y'c'd fin' t'do t'is?" grumbles Joe, pulling at his uncomfortable starched collar as Uncle Frank brushes lint from his borrowed dinner jacket. "Can't we do it oveh t' Moze's shawp?" "They aaahlready poot away th' dicorations," explains Uncle Frank, "boot we goot ev'rything we need t' look Chris'massy right here. You, Moozelewski, ye gaaat that mis'letoe wharr I told'jee?" "Yeh," replies Mozelewski, dismounting the stepladder. "I still don' get t'is, but I guess yoeh t' expoit." "Inky," calls Uncle Frank. "Ye riddy with that camera?" "One moment," replies Mr. Quinlan, fiddling with a press camera mounted on a rickety tripod. "I believe the viewfinder is somewhat fogged -- oh, no, it's a bit of -- gristle?" He looks up at the rotating ceiling fan, precipitating over his position. He glares at Shaughnessy, who hastens to shut if off. "Saaaaarry," the butcher replies. "Soombody's warrrrin' straaaang paaaarfume. Oi'm allaaaaargic." "Hmph," disdains Inky, removing the offending speck of grease with his monogrammed handkerchief. "Very well," he nods. "We may begin." "AAAAHL ROIT, MISS KAPLAN," calls Uncle Frank. And from Shaughnessy's back room sashays Miss Kaplan, artfully encased in a Mozelewski original of eggshell satin, and teetering on shimmering evening sandals. Joe blanches as she swivels toward him, and squares his shoulders for the inevitable. "Ready?" directs Uncle Frank. Joe, taaaaarn ye head taaaaard th' camera -- and now....ACTION!" Before Joe can blink, Miss Kaplan grabs him by the neck, pulls him forward, and affixes an emphatic osculation as the camera flashes. "Didjee get it?" calls Uncle Frank. "I did," declares Inky, "but I should like another shot as well. I was not satisified with Mr. Petrauskas's -- ah -- position. He seemed to be -- resisting the lady's advances." "Solly wooldn' do that," nods Uncle Frank." "Solly??" puzzles Joe, blinking from the flash, and bearing an enormous lipstick smear. "What'see got t'do wit'..." "Ahhhhh," stammers Uncle Frank. "Yes. Ah. Ye should pitchaaaar Solly in yarr position -- straaang, confident -- an' troy an' act as he --ah -- would." "Oh," ohs Joe. "Ahhhhl roit," calls Uncle Frank. "Let's troy it again!" "Well," flutters Miss Kaplan, "if you insis'...")

(Coming Events...)

(You may recall that Mr. Russo was the Yankee batter whose line drive kneecapped Fitz in that Series game, and I don't think I want to think about it anymore...)

(A teenage boy wearing size 6 1/2 shoes? He should get that looked at..)

(Well, it worked for the Barrymores.)

(You seldom see weather in a comic strip unless it's germane to the plot, so look for a thrilling pursuit by dogsled.)

(I know these friendly fellows well, they always show up around 3AM.)

(It's a cat-eat-food world.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Not even half way thru January and we've already got the most 1946 page of the year.

"Ninety per cent of my fares tell me to go to Sixth Ave. The rest tell me to go to -- uh -- someplace else."

Little strokes fell mighty oaks. Just hope the rope holds.

"SHHH! Not in public!"

NOW we'll see some action.

I hate winter. I hate it so very much.

Yes, that might be a good idea.

Some people can't handle that strong ginger ale.

Someone's about to "walk with the Magi."

110 VAC across the heart. That'll do it.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Yes. Ah. Ye should pitchaaaar Solly in yarr position -- straaang, confident -- an' troy an' act as he --ah -- would." "Oh," ohs Joe. "Ahhhhl roit," calls Uncle Frank. "Let's troy it again!" "Well," flutters Miss Kaplan, "if you insis'..."

Dear God this is an awful plan.

Separately, it's interesting that the bank took out an add to print its balance sheet in the paper. I get it – shows its financial strength – but still it's a bit odd.

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

You may recall that Mr. Russo was the Yankee batter whose line drive kneecapped Fitz in that Series game, and I don't think I want to think about it anymore...

Indeed. Also, not a good era yet to need surgery on your pitching arm. They'd get there, but not really there yet.

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

Well, it worked for the Barrymores.

These two deserve each other.

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

Comicstrips love the wasp waist.

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

Google AI: "Flapper fashion in the 1920s embraced a boyish, flat-chested silhouette by flattening the bust using bandeau bras, binders or corsets to achieve a streamlined look."

It's much harder to lie in the internet era.

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

NOW we'll see some action.

Oh, yeah. Could not be more excited to see these guys and I'd bet Pat is not far behind.

 

[LizzieMaine]

It's much harder to lie in the internet era.

I bet her French accent's a phony too.

 

[Farace]

Some people can't handle that strong ginger ale.

I’m reminded that I’m one of very few that misses original formula Moxie.

 

[LizzieMaine]

We have a close approximation here, but not quite.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("That look on poor Joe's face," winces Uncle Frank, as under the red glow of the safelight he watches Ignatius J. Quinlan swish the print in the stop bath. "Oi feel taaaarrrible pootn' th' poor boy thru that. Boot it can't be helped." "These photographs," observes Inky, "should serve your purpose nicely." He withdraws the dripping sheet from the tray and clips it to the drying line. "Aaaaaare ye saaaartain," queries Uncle Frank, "ye can do this? Poot Solly's face aaaahn Joe's baaahdy?" "The preparation of a composite photograph," explains Inky, "requires a practiced eye and a skilled hand. It is to your good fortune that I posess both. I will require a photograph of Mr. Pincus, of course, before I may proceed." "Ainchee got that woon," repllies Uncle Frank, "ye used t'make that cartooon faaar th' Sergeant Solly's Saaarploos sign?" "Oh heavens no," declares Inky. "Not that snapshot with the foolish expression on his face, no indeed. That won't do at all. Haven't you a more dignified, more appropriate portrait?" "That's th' oonly woon Oi got," shrugs Uncle Frank. "An' we're roonin' oota time. Thim coppars are boond t'catch aaan aboot Solly dooin' away wi' that villain Wilentz, an' if we doon't cook up an alibi, it's th' chair faaaar saaartain." "Isn't there anyone," pushes Inky, "who might have a better photograph? A realistic effect is essential to the success..." "Coom t' think'oov'it," considers Uncle Frank, "thaaar IS soomwoon moit have a phooto......")

("T'ey say t' new yeeh is a new beginnin'," sighs Sally, "but it jus' seems like t'eh stawrt'n'a same ol' show allovehr'again. It's jus' one t'ing afteh'ra'noteh." "Well, I wouldn't quite agree," injects Dr. Levine. "For one, the war's over. Your husband's home, your life is going on..." "Oh, it's goin' awn awright," eyerolls Sally. "I mean, lookit what's hap'nin'. I'm awn strike, an' it's a cockamamie strike t'at ain' even legit, y'know? An'nen we spen' pretty neeh'r' oueh las' nick'l t'try'n get Leonoreh's eeh fixed, an' it's woise now'n t'en it was when she wen' in! An' now it says inna papeh t'ezza meat strike comin'. I mean, I know t'em meatpackehs got it woise awna job'n I do, f'soiten -- an'ney OTTA strike if t'ey hafta, but onna ot'eh han', whassat gonna do t' Joe? He's woikin'imse'f sick onnis Big Joe's Beefwich t'ing, an' if'ee can't get t' meat..." She trails off long enough to catch her breath. "I dunno what I'm s'posta t'ink. I dunno what i'm s'posta DO. An'nen -- well, I dunno what t'is is awlabout, but Joe come home late las' night, an'ee had'dis bandage awn 'is face. He wen' oveh t'see t'is friend'a his, right? I din' t'ink nut'n of it. But 'ee comes home, an' he's got t'is t'ing awn'is face, an'ee said it was jus' a soeh he was pickin'. But I made 'im show it to me, an' it was -- it was awl rubbed rawr, like t'eh was sump'n onneh he'd scrubbed awf wit' san'papeh'ra sump'n. An' he wouln' tawk about it an' jus' wen' inta bed. WhassawlAT?" "Hmmm," hmms Dr. Levine, tapping her pencil on her notebook. "I don' like it whenya say t'at 'hmmm,"" grumbles Sally. "It means ya dunno what else t'say." "Hmmm," repeats Dr. Levine...)

("Hmph," hmphs Mr. Rickey. "These fly-by-night football franchises, invading minor league towns..." "Oh, now, Branch," smiles Mr. O'Malley. "I hear there's a great potential for sports on the Coast." "Hmph," emphasizes Mr. Rickey, as Mr. O'Malley contemplatively fits a fresh cigar into his holder....)

(Dirty glue? What, you can't get molasses?)

(I know how ya feel, Bugs...)

(Coming Events...)

("He lost.")

(Wait, do we know this guy? Did he ride in on a St. Bernard?)

("Is not otherwise ambidextrous." He better not be, I hear there's a Congressional committee investigating that.)

(Hey, it worked for Elaine Barrie.)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Of course it's big-a-me, it's big of all of us! Oh, let's be big!" -- Groucho.

Mr. Hill went out to visit his sister in Montauk, and...


Fancy tech on a cheap band? Coming events.... (Oh, and notice that with no fanfare whatever, the 16-page comic section is back. The war is really over!)

"My tall friend has it for you, all wrapped up in his rug. Ho-ho!"

"Gladyse Delite." I bet she's sorry they're tearing down the Star Theatre.

Well that certainly throws a new light on things...

You should know better than to trifle with Incendiary Cindy.

I guess it really has been since before Pearl Harbor that they were last together -- when we last saw Connie and Stoop they were on that commando mission with Pat. Who will no doubt be arriving on the next plane to renew his warm friendship with Mr. Sandhurst.

Well, at least she's not going out with Beezie.

This is why you need to be bonded.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

A little light reading for a Sunday afternoon.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Coom t' think'oov'it," considers Uncle Frank, "thaaar IS soomwoon moit have a phooto......"

She does come in handy sometimes. Still, it's a God awful plan, especially since Inky's belief in his skills and the reality of his skills often have a wide gap.

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

"For one, the war's over. Your husband's home, your life is going on..."

She is so right and I'm at least as guilty as the next, but we immediately forget the good stuff and complain about the bad stuff.

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

Coming Events...

Yes, indeed, but really more internet than TV. Still, kudos to Bushmiller for some darn good vision.

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

"Well, they're overdressed, they're overpaid, they're overs*xed, and they're over here."

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

Oh, and notice that with no fanfare whatever, the 16-page comic section is back. The war is really over!

War is hell, but we did our part.

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

I guess it really has been since before Pearl Harbor that they were last together -- when we last saw Connie and Stoop they were on that commando mission with Pat. Who will no doubt be arriving on the next plane to renew his warm friendship with Mr. Sandhurst.

What a fun reunion with the boys "mocking" Terry, but of course absorbing it all and ready for the job. Caniff at his best.

Pat, Pat, Pat, Pat, Pat, Pat, Pat, Pat!

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

A little light reading for a Sunday afternoon.

Jesus.

 

[Madhouse27]

I drank a lot of Moxie as a Maine boy and then actually sold it early on in my career as sales rep in the beverage industry. For years, New England was blessed with the best Moxie on the planet which was bottled at Cro-PAC in Worcester, Mass (now Polar Beverages). It had that distinctive somewhat bitter (but complex) flavor and the carbonation bite would take a little skin off your throat.…it was heavenly.

Things went dramatically downhill when Coca Cola got their hands on it in 2018 and started making it themselves in Londonderry New Hampshire. The mouthfeel became syrupy, the flavor seemed simultaneously mungy and overwhelmed with sugar (well….corn syrup) and the carbonation was reduced leaving it quite toothless and non refreshing.

There are many things that were better back in the day. Sadly, Moxie is one of them.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Whadja do t'ya face?" queries Bink Scanlan, eyeing Joe as he rolls up his shirt sleeves and ties on his apron. "Cut m'self shavin'," mutters Joe. "Whadja use," snorts Bink, with a smack of her gum. "A lawn moweh?" "Mine'j'rown business," growls Joe. "Go gimme t'at boxa meat outa t' fridgehrateh." "Awl used up," shrugs Bink. "R'membeh? T'at buncha kids come t'ru jus' befoeh y'closed las' night?" "Y'mean I'm outa meat???" erupts Joe. "Why dincha TELL me it was get'n low??" "Figyehed y'knew," Bink retorts. "Ain' my fault. Hey, weh ya goin?" "Out," snaps Joe, pulling his coat on over his apron, "t' fine some meat!" ""Hmph," hmphs Bink as he slams out the door. "Some people." "Whaaar's Joe goin'?" queries Uncle Frank, descending from the back stairs with a spot of breakfast clinging to his tie. "I dunno," denies Bink. "Hey, I neveh hoida weahrin' scrambl't egg f'ra tie pin. Right outa Eksquieh." "Oi'm glad yaaar here, me gaaarl," blarneys Uncle Frank as he pops the bit of egg into his mouth. "Moit Oi ask ye a favaaaar?" "Whateveh," sighs Bink, rummaging thru the packs of Black Jack displayed on the counter to find the one least shopworn. "Oi need a photograph ooov -- ah -- Sollly Pincus, and it occurred t'me thaaat..." "Hah," scoffs Bink. "T'at bum? Whacha gonna do, sen' it in t' t' Hobo News?" "Oi' prepaaaaarin' a -- tribute oov a sort," dissembles Uncle Frank. "In the Sergeant's honor, ye see. And Oi'm gathaaaarin' phootographs faar..." "Yeh," snickers Bink. "Come t' t'ink'v'it, yeh, I gotta pitcheh. Hol' awn." She reaches under the counter for her handbag and extracts her billfold, from which she produces a narrow strip of images. "One'a t'em boot' t'ings t'ey gawt at Coney Islan'.," she explains. "Look at t' face awnat guy. His pooeh mot'eh, havin'a raise a monstrawsity like t'at." "Hmmm," hmms Uncle Frank. "I come out pretty good t'ough," smirks Bink. "Ah," headshakes Uncle Frank...)

("I dunno," shrugs Rosa Capiello from behind the Bohack meat counter. "Jus' ten pounds," pleads Joe. "I c'n get t'ru most'a t'day onnat if it don' get too busy." "I wish I could, Joe," indicates Rosa. "But t'bawss tol' me one poun' t'wa customeh t'ill we know if t'is meat strike is gonna hap'n 'a nawt." "Yeh," sighs Joe. "I jus' figyehed I betteh try." "Hey," adds Rosa. "I heeh Shaughnessy t' butcheh up by Empieh Boulevawrd ain't limitin'." "He don' hafta," exhales Joe. "Soybeans is cheap....")

(Really running up the points there, kid...)

("Rickey was never a major payroll man." Well, he does pay better than the Army.)

(What?? I hear it's a legitmate business strategy.)

("Mrs. Worth, dear, shouldn't you be thinking of your family back -- ah -- home?" "Who??")

(Ohhhhhh now I wouldn't say that.)

(A very well thought out plan.)

(As long as SOMEBODY's on the job...)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"We don't want any publicity about this." Oh, you poor innocent child.

First a new president, then a new mayor, now a new Miss Rheingold. It's so hard to keep up.

And to think Normandie felt a sense of moral obligation to this foul creature.

And so begins the postwar age...

I TRIED TO WARN YOU

You've also seen him curled up on the ground in a fetal position while Punjab had to save the day, but we won't go into that....

On the other hand, dishwashers can always find a job, hint hint.

HOPE ITS THE INSURANCE POLICY.

Yeah, don't shut down the OPA quite yet.

Here's another guy who'll end up frozen in a river in Jersey.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Worker...

There's a New World Coming, even if sometimes it seems like it isn't.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Yeh," sighs Joe. "I jus' figyehed I betteh try." "Hey," adds Rosa. "I heeh Shaughnessy t' butcheh up by Empieh Boulevawrd ain't limitin'." "He don' hafta," exhales Joe. "Soybeans is cheap...."

Running a small business is h*ll.

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

Ohhhhhh now I wouldn't say that.

If you know a way, I think Joe would like your advice right now.

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

"We don't want any publicity about this." Oh, you poor innocent child.

If there is anybody with a brain in that family, he/she should start working on an annulment and don't be cheap - cut the grifter a decent four-figure check and be happy you got off for just that. And no more letting Marilyn out of your sight.

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

And so begins the postwar age...

I think Tracy is about the right weight here: he should try and hold it.

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

I TRIED TO WARN YOU

Mr. Old Codger shouldn't be so cocky; he hired the not-bonded workers.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Noop," sighs Ma, slowly chewing a bite of Beefwich. "This dooon't quoite taste roit." "I dunno what I'm gonna do," groans Joe, slamming his spatula to the counter. "T' whole pernt a' t'ese sanwiches is t' meat. An' people'at eat'm, buy 'm becausa t' meat. Ev'ryplace I know t' GET t' meat is limitin' -- we mize well have rationin' back!" "Taaaalk t' Francis, Joseph," exhorts Ma. "Maybe he knoos sooombaaady..." "Yeh," scowls Joe. "Shaughnessy. T'Soybean King'a Eas' Flatbush. I dunno, Ma, don' CHOO know anybody?" "I knoo haaaarseflesh," shrugs Ma. "An' THAT ain't gooin' t' help ye mocch..." "Well, I'm tellin' ya," fumes Joe, "I''m ready t' jus'..." His lament, however, is interrupted by the phone, and he shuffles around the counter to answer. "Lieb's Luncheonette, sawry, we'eh outa meat," he exhales. "Oh, hiya Morrie. T'ank's f' cawlin' back. Lissen, you got any meat oveh t'eh? C'n ya spaeh ten poun -- you what? Twenny? Whe'd'ja get -- Ya don't say! He did??? Lissen, I'm comin' right oveh t'eh. Yeh! Seeya'na bout twenny minutes -- an' HOL' ONTA T'AT MEAT!" Joe joyously flips the receiver onto its hook, and strips of his apron. "Ma!" he exults. "Morrie Schreibstein's gawt plenny'a meat -- an' he says 'e c'n get moeh. Misteh Ginsboig knows'is guy, an'ee made 'im a suit! An' -- lissen, I'll be back in about'n'oueh! Tell people t'wait, an' it'll be woit'teh while! TWENNY POUNS'A MEAT!" "Hm," hms Ma, as her son-in-law dashes out the door. "Moosta binna moity foine suit....")

("Oi dunnooo," sighs Uncle Frank. "Is this th' BEST ye c'n do?" "Those photographs you provided," declares Inky Quinlan, "were scarcely of the best. And Sergeant Pincus, whatever other fine qualities I am certain that he embodies, is a man of -- ah -- unfortunate facial physiognomy." "OI know'ee's gotta foony-lookin' pan," snaps Uncle Frank. "That ain't th' praaaablem. Look'eere, ye got th' head twoice as big as Miss Kaplan's head. He looks loike a D ick Tracy chaaaaractar! Big Eaaaaars! An' this one 'eeere, it's too smaaaal! 'Ee looks loike a pinhead froom th' ciiiircoos! What are ye THINKIN', man?" "There are certain limitations," argues Inky, "inherent in the process whereby..." But the debate goes silent at the sound of a rattling at the door, followed immediately by footsteps. "Uh oh," inhales Uncle Frank. "Get this oota..." "Whatta YOU two monkeys upta now????" growls the unmistakable voice of Sergeant Solly in person. "Ahhhhhhhh," stammers Uncle Frank. "Oh my," whispers Inky....)

(Create A Need And Fill It.)

("Pete can hardly lift his arm," pleads Mr. Parrott. "He has two," notes Mr. Rickey. "Did you yourself not explain to me that he is ambidextrous? And recall the example of that fine and inspirational youth with the St. Louis American League club who played last season with but ONE arm." "I think you could get him in a trade," mutters Mr. Parrott. "What?" "Nothing, sir...")

(Clean toilets and Red Barber. At least that's something.)

(Watch the pennies, and the dollars will take care of themselves...)

(In my family, we all wore yellow. Cheaper that way.)

(Who pays Jane's salary, anyway?)

(Oh, and the time you just spent telling that story? Billable hours.)

(CATS ARE PEOPLE TOO!!!)