The Pittsburgh Press (February 13, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, this is about the time of year that everyone in Hollywood starts to get excited about the nominations for the Motion Picture Academy Awards.
Speaking of awards, I’d like to hand out a few Oscars myself, for the best dialogue writing of the year: the American General who said “Nuts” at Bastogne; for the best sound effects: the roar of B-29s over Tokyo; for the best story of the year: MacArthur’s reconquest of the Philippines; for the best screamplay: Joseph Goebbels; for the best comedy writing: almost any communiqué from the Japanese Propaganda Office; for the best travelogue: “My Trip Through Poland,” by Gen. Zhukov.
Oh yes, and as a grand booby prize, for the worst supporting performance of the year – Benito Mussolini.
The Pittsburgh Press (February 14, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, happy valentine greetings to all and in particular here are a few special ones:
To my husband George: Don’t fence me in, come turn me loose to buy a hat likle Clare Boothe Luce.
To an American general: George Patton, pudding and pie hit the Nazis, and make them cry.
To my grocer: My love for you I cannot utter when you produce a pound of butter.
To the Senate committee: A loving cup of lots of solace to Jesse Jones and Henry Wallace.
To the Nazis: Russians are red, Hitler is blue; victory is sweet, but it’s not for you.
The Pittsburgh Press (February 15, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, the flags are flying at half-mast over all Chamber of Commerce offices in California this week. California has landed the next United Nations Conference. If Churchill, Stalin and Roosevelt are coming to San Francisco, I hope they have a little influence as rooms there are awfully hard to get.
Of course, we’re a little blue here in Los Angeles as we would have liked to have it, too, maybe it’s lucky, as the United Nations are going to have enough real estate problems without some local lot salesman trying to sell them view of Catalina Island on a clear day.
Then, too, officials are probably worried that the delegates to the conference might spend more time here trying to get Betty Grable’s autograph than they would each other’s.
The Pittsburgh Press (February 16, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
If you ask me, Jack Benny and Bob Hope need never worry where their next comedy writers are coming from, as long as the Japs keep up their standards of humor.
The leading laugh-getter among them is Gen. Yamashita. He’s the one who said: “The enemy, retreating northward, has advanced south.”
But his latest bon mot is what my husband George, an employed radio personality, calls a belly-laugh.
Now the general says: “I have pursued Douglas MacArthur all over the South Seas. Now I have him in my iron trap.”
George says the enemy propaganda boys remind him of the prize-fight manager, whose man was taking a big heating. Said the manager between rounds: “You’re doing fine. Think how his hands must hurt.”
The Pittsburgh Press (February 19, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, girls, I’ve just seen a showing of the new spring hats, and I’m happy to report they’re not silly this year. They all carry a serious message. For example, there’s a little number called “OPA… How Could You?” decorated in cancelled red and blue points.
Another, called “Breakfast at Berchtesgaden,” has little strips of Persian rug on Russian rye toast. The one everybody was scrambling for was a little off-the-face number built like an ash tray. It had a real cigarette butt in it.
My husband, George, says that women’s hats are ridiculous. Just to make me mad he took his derby hat – painted it purple, stuck an egg-beater through the crown, and hung link sausages from the brim.
It made me mad all right. He wouldn’t let me wear it.
The Pittsburgh Press (February 20, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, I see that Congress wants to raise its own pay, but is a little timid about it, remembering the “Bundles for Congress” movement that sprang up the last time a hint was dropped.
Personally, I think they could get the raise if they dramatize their plight the way it’s done in the movies. The pleading Congressman should appear before the Ways and Means Committee clasping a tiny ragged urchin in either hand while a hidden hundred-and-ten-piece orchestra plays Tchaikovsky’s Pathetique.
And no wonder we see so many Congressmen nowadays who play banjos and guitars. Probably the only way they can exist is to make a little on the side at chautauquas and club smokers.
In the early days of our republic, some of our backwoods Congressmen used to live by trapping small animals and eating them. If conditions keep up today, I’m afraid the squirrels in Potomac Park are in for a nasty surprise.
The Pittsburgh Press (February 21, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, tomorrow is George Washington’s birthday, and I can’t help wondering what the Father of our Country would think of it today.
For one thing, he probably wouldn’t enjoy asking the ration board for gas – that’s a terrible ordeal for a man who can’t tell a lie.
He was always first in the hearts of his countrymen, but if it were possible, they’d love him even more today. He was a tobacco grower, you know.
It’s funny, but no one seems to know for sure whether Washington even threw that dollar across the Potomac. One thing I do know, he couldn’t do it today. Not with Mr. Morgenthau hanging on to most of it.
The Pittsburgh Press (February 24, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, that new 12 o’clock curfew is really stirring up a hornet’s nest. People are saying: “If they close the nightclubs and theaters, at midnight, where will we go?”
Well, I have a suggestion. It may seem terribly old-fashioned, but how about going home and getting some sleep?
Of course, I do see a problem if they close the movies promptly at the stroke of 12. Maybe the picture won’t be ended, and it would be awful to have the screen go dark just as Charles Boyer was about top reach his objective, or to leave Errol Flynn with two Japs still alive.
Now I have a suggestion for Mr. Byrnes, too, if the nightclub proprietors raise too much fuss. Since this is a fuel conservation measure, he could allow them to stay open if they didn’t use any heat.
But no, that wouldn’t work. The cocktails on the tables would freeze solid. And if you’re about to say that the alcohol in them would keep them freezing, then you haven’t been to a nightclub lately.
The Pittsburgh Press (February 26, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
My husband, George, who reads the political news, tells me that a Congressman named Gallagher has made quite a startling statement. This Congressman says that if the Republicans aren’t careful, they might not have any party in four years.
My goodness! I think this would be a terrible country without Republicans.
Who would make up all the Roosevelt jokes? Who would keep track of Eleanor’s travels? Elections wouldn’t be any fun at all without Republicans. Why, Roosevelt would just become president automatically.
Wait a minute – what am I so concerned about? – he’s been doing that for sixteen years. Anyway, I got interested in this fellow, Gallagher, so I checked up on him. And what do you know! He’s a Democrat.
The Pittsburgh Press (February 28, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
I certainly got a fright when I picked up a newspaper and saw the headline, “Hair Pulling in Congress.” I thought that long-awaited tiff between the women members there had happened at last.
Thank goodness, it turned out the fighters were men. But having seen some of the scalp arrangements on congressmen, a Gracie “hair-pulling” match didn’t seem possible,
Right now, it seems there’s also a scuffle in Congress because the Rules Committee says all members must be addressed as “gentlemen.” A member stood up and said lady members should be called “ladies.” Another member said he didn’t think they should be called “ladies,” and that got some of the chivalrous Southern congressmen mad.
But the worst thing was that not one of the nine lady members of Congress even opened her mouth during the argument, and I was beginning to lose faith in my sex. Then it turned out that none of them was present.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 1, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
I see they have Nazi prisoners of war helping out with the citrus crops in California. Well, they’ve certainly had the right experience for the job after picking a lemon like Hitler.
Just imagine those mean old Nazis living in this famous California climate. Well – it serves them right. Of course, if the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce reads this, I’m only kidding. You fellows write some beautiful weather. Maybe you should write some propaganda leaflets to drop behind Nazi lines.
Think of the allure in a folder with the lines: “see our Sunny California prison camps. No rains, no fog, no Himmler.”
Goodness knows the Germans should be used to unusual weather themselves what with the current Berlin weather reports reading: “moderate showers of incendiary bombs, heavy cloud formations of American bombers – complicated by advancing Russians and departing government officials.”
The Pittsburgh Press (March 2, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Girls, have you tried to buy your husband some underwear lately? It seems there’s a terrific shortage of shorts.
I couldn’t find a single pair for George. And when they’re out of George’s size that’s something, because there’s little demand for his peculiar dimensions. From the waist down, George is what we women would call a “stylish stout,” and from the waist up, he’s more of a “junior miss.”
Anyway, the situation at our house is so desperate that I started to make George a pair of shorts out of a sugar bag, but along came the paper bag shortage and now I have to use it for groceries.
So, today, I searched the house over for some good, strong pieces of material that I might sew together to cover his little tummy, and I found just the thing – pot holders. Appropriate, don’t you think so?
The Pittsburgh Press (March 5, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, girls, that nice Chester Bowles from the OPA has been juggling the ration points again. He says that starting today we can get T-bone and porterhouse steaks for 9 points a pound instead of 12.
Now, I just want him to tell us one more thing – where can we find them.
Oh, but don’t get the idea I’m complaining – I’m not at all. I know that rationing is the only fair way to distribute things. In fact, I think that more scarce items should be rationed.
Men, for instance; now I’d be willing to share my husband, George, with any deserving women who might need him to go shopping with them or to do dishes and light laundry. In fact, I’m sending the following note to Chester Bowles today:
My husband, George, I gladly share;
He’s agile but fragile, so handle with care.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 6, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Goodness, it seems everyone else has forgotten them. But I want Herbert Hoover, Alfred Landon and Thomas Dewey to know I worry and wonder about them all the time.
The three one-time candidates for President must feel awfully neglected. Even Secretary Ickes doesn’t say things about them anymore.
Of course, I can understand Mr. Hoover retiring from the public eye. He’s probably having trouble getting the laundry to starch those tall collars and send them back to him. The Republican Party could survive almost anything but the sight of Mr. Hoover in a low-necked polo shirt.
I don’t know if Mr. Landon has something to keep him busy but anyway, my husband George says Thomas Dewey has a nice paying job as Governor of New York. Just keeping up with Mayor La Guardia’s activities in the newspapers can occupy his mind nicely.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 7, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
I noticed in the papers that when a reporter asked President Roosevelt why San Francisco had been chosen for the big United Nations meeting, he answered: “Well, everyone seemed to like it, except those from Southern California.”
Goodness, Mr. President, speaking in behalf of Southern California in general and Los Angeles in particular, I want to say were not one bit jealous of San Francisco. Most of us like San Francisco very much, because of its beautiful view. On a clear day there, people say you can see Los Angeles.
Anyway, at the rate Los Angeles is growing, by the time April is here, our city limits will probably overflow and engulf San Francisco anyway.
So don’t worry, Mr. President, we’re with you and hope you will enjoy the beautiful weather there. But if I were you, I’d remind Haile Selassie to bring his umbrella.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 8, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
I just read where Field Marshal Montgomery’s mother had written him telling him to wind up the European War by March 23. I knew those silly Germans would fool around until they got the women good and mad at them.
I think that “Monty’s” mother, Lady Montgomery, really has an idea there. The habit of obeying mother is very strong and if all our generals were to receive similar letters from their mothers, they might just polish off those Nazis that much faster.
I can just see a dazed von Rundstedt surrendering as Gen. Eisenhower says: “Sorry to rush you like this, Von, but Mom says hurry home.”
And we don’t have to worry about Mrs. Shickelgruber writing to Adolf. They can’t even find an incubator that will claim him.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 9, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
I thought you folks in other parts of the country might be interested in knowing what our California Legislative is in heated debate over right now.
Yalta? No. Taxes? No. Post-war security? No.
They’re selecting a poet laureate for the state. They want someone with the talent of a Whittier or a Longfellow, but who has a Californian’s outlook. I can just imagine what Whittier might have written had he been a dyed-in-the-wool Californian:
Blessings on thee, little man.
Barefoot boy with cheeks of tan.
Where did you get the sun tan, pray?
Why, sir, in Californ-i-ay.
And Longfellow would probably come up with something like this:
By the shore of Santa Monica,
By the sparkling sea water,
Stand the wigwams of the movie stars,
Guides will show you for a quarter.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 12, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Last night, I read the story of Rumpelstiltskin to our two children, Ronnie and Sandra. It seems that Rumpelstiltskin was a nasty little dwarf who jumped up and down and screamed, and the children kept getting him confused with Dr. Goebbels, it’s amazing how modern-day characters fit into the old fairy tales and Mother Goose rhymes. Isn’t Mussolini the perfect humpty-dumpty?
And Gen. Hodges is probably reading to Von Rundstedt the story of the ogre who was supposed to guard the bridge.
Gen. Patton makes the giant with the seven-league boots seem like he was traveling on an A card.
Old Hitler probably imagines himself as Cinderella and I’ll bet he’s expecting to hear that clock strike twelve any minute now. Only George says instead of a glass slipper, Hitler is finding out he’s got a glass jaw. That’s man-talk, I guess.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 13, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Goodness me, it used to be every time you went to the newsreels, you saw either a ski-jumping contest or a cat show at Madison Square Garden.
Now, every week, they have Gen. MacArthur wading ashore on a new island which is much better, believe me. It seems he always moves onto a new island before I learn to pronounce the name of the preceding one, but he’s now at a place called Zamboanga, which I can say, because we used to sing about the “Monkeys Have No Tails in Zamboanga.” Only now, with the Nips being chased out the song can go, “Zamboanga Doesn’t Have the Monkeys Without Tails Anymore.”
Gen. MacArthur has put so many sons of Nippon to sleep, the Japanese call him “the American Sandman.”
As a matter of fact, they’re so desperate. Radio Tokyo has announced their scientists now have an apple cider that can be used as fuel for planes. It looks like they have to get their planes drunk before they will fly against the Americans.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 15, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, I’ve finally found a bright side to the housing shortage; did you ever stop to think how it has improved domestic relations?
For example, I know a young couple next door who wanted to separate but neither could find any place to go. So, they kissed and made up.
And another thing, it’s pretty futile for a wife to go home to mother, when going home to mother consists only of stepping into the next room.
The housing shortage has practically brought back vaudeville. We used to talk about acts being booked into houses. Now it’s the same way with relatives.
Uncle John can do a split week with a nephew in Pomona and then make a sleeper jump to a niece in Sacramento. Of course, if he brings along enough cigarettes, he’s sure to be held over for a second week.