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.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 16, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Sure ‘n’ tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day, and ‘tis myself, the daughter of Maggie Darragh from County Clare, who’s wishin’ the top of the day to all of you.
I accused my poor husband, George, of celebrating St. Patrick’s Day two days early. When he came home yesterday his face was the color if a Shamrock. Then I found out he’d been down paying his income tax.
Incidentally, they’re calling Mr. Morgenthau the “American St. Patrick” because so many people get out that green stuff for him at this time of the year.
Believe me, we should all be happy to pay our income taxes. That “green stuff” will ripen into the planes and guns needed to drive the snakes out of lots of islands – from Iwo Jima right up to Japan.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 19, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, I see the Duke of Windsor has resigned his job as Governor of the Bahamas, and according to rumor, he and Wally may come to the United States to seek their fortune.
My gracious, if he’s not satisfied with jobs like being king and governor, he certainly isn’t going to be happy on the swing shift at Lockheed. But if he doesn’t want to be a riveter, he could always become a movie star. Of course, it doesn’t pay so much, but it’s pleasant work.
The movie people have nice long vacations, or as they call them, “strikes.” If that doesn’t interest the Duke and Duchess, I formally invite them to join the ranks of the radio teams. Who knows, maybe someday “Ed and Wally” may become as famous as Fibber and Molly, Amos ‘n’ Andy or that darling couple, George and Gracie.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 20, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, spring arrives this afternoon at 4:38 p.m. Pacific War Time.
Personally, I always thought it came on March 21, but in our home almanac on farmers’ complaints, it’s a day early this year. Well, I guess we’re all having troubles with our transportation schedules this year.
I never understood exactly when spring arrives but, according to the almanac, it’s here, and days and nights are getting nearer to being equal. That is, they were getting nearer before the midnight curfew order, but a lot of people are finding out nights are much longer, no matter where the sun is.
So now it’s spring and in Washington Mrs. Roosevelt is wistfully looking over her travel folders, and Clare Boothe Luce starts making up new words.
In Germany, the tourist season is in full swing, and the vultures are getting ready to fly South. In Japan, the groundhog has appeared, but the rest of the nation is busy going underground.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 21, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, I don’t know yet whether it’s funny or tragic, but that story about Adolf Hitler taking a wife to an Alpine hideout to raise little Hitlers is certainly a lulu. If you ask the typical German man-in-the-street – and that’s where most of them are living now – he’ll tell you that one Hitler is already too many.
Then another story says there is talk he may take along a few spare wives. You can imagine the confusion with all those Hitler doubles running around!
My husband George, who is a baseball fan, says even the Nazis don’t relish the idea of another war with Adolf Hitlers pitching and catching and playing both the infield and outfield. One Hitler, doing the coaching from the sidelines, has worked out badly enough.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 22, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, War Mobilization Director Byrnes is worrying about the manpower shortage, and there are fourteen – count ‘em – fourteen people running for Mayor of Los Angeles. The candidates include everyone from an unhappy restaurant owner to a lady who used to run an escort bureau, and who wants the city jail cleaned up for personal reasons.
Anyway, the whole thing started off as one of the most delirious political campaigns in history. So far, the voters have witnessed cowboy bands, radio singing commercials, parades, fan dancers and medicine-show barkers, with trained seals rumored to be on the way. Abbott and Costello could run on the conservative ticket here, believe me.
If you think Mayor La Guardia is going to steal the spotlight from our boys and girls, you’re sadly mistaken. The New York Mayor has extended the curfew to one o’clock, but our candidates never stop performing.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 23, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, now it looks like that long-standing argument about women’s slacks has finally become official. The War Labor Board and the Members of Congress are arguing about whether they are essential or not.
It seems the situation in slacks is becoming too tight for comfort. Well, that’s something that could happen to anyone. Anyway, ladies, I think we ought to keep an eye on this situation.
Personally, I don’t think men are to be trusted when it comes to making laws on women’s clothes. The best of them have an ax to grind or a charge account to cut.
Besides if we left it up to the men, they’d make the law so just slim, glamorous girls like Betty Grable and Ann Sheridan could wear them. Why should such girls be the privileged few? We want all women to wear them.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 26, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
HOLLYWOOD – Well, now the OPA is trying to put as price ceiling on haircuts. It seems that some citizens are complaining that they’re being clipped in more ways than one. Bald-headed men say it costs them as much to have their fringe singed as it does to work over a full crop of hair, and they think it’s a case of accentuating the negative.
Our senators have the matter under discussion, but I think they’ll decide in favor of the barbers. After all, the senators have to get shaved, and it’s awfully easy to be sympathetic with a man who holds a sharp razor at your throat every morning.
They’re also talking of putting ceilings on beauty treatments. Well, they’re using everything else – mud – oil – wax – I guess a little ceiling plaster won’t hurt us.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 27, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, it’s beginning to look as though everyone but Mrs. Roosevelt has crossed the Rhine in the last few days.
The Nazi Wehrmacht was astounded at the ease with which the Americans crossed that mighty stream. Little do they know the years of training our boys have had.
Why, crossing the Rhine is nothing compared with trying to get across the streams of traffic on Michigan Boulevard during the rush hour – or Hollywood Boulevard on Saturday night – or Broadway at any time.
And speaking of traffic, wait till some of our Sunday drivers, now driving tanks, start chasing Nazi pedestrians around Inner Germany. I asked George if the Americans were the first to cross the Rhine, and he said, no, a fellow named Caesar did it a long time ago, but came to a bad end.
It seems Caesar was stabbed by his best friend. Of course, Hitler doesn’t have to worry about that. You can’t be stabbed by what you haven’t got.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 28, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, I ran into one of those nasty clerks today. I went into the candy store to buy some Easter rabbits, and the clerk just glared at me and said: “We’ve had a run – or don’t you know what that is?”
The idea of asking any woman if she knows what a run is, with the stockings we get these days! But it developed that he meant there is a shortage of candy Easter rabbits.
I guess they’re sending most of the rabbits to our boys overseas. Though the way they’ve moving in Germany I’d like to see the rabbit that could keep up with them.
Anyway, unless the OPA pulls a few bunnies out of its hat between now and Sunday, I guess we are going to do without them. I know our children, Ronnie and Sandra, will understand. But it’s simply going to break George’s heart.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 29, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, girls, now is the time of year when spring starts breaking up our homes again.
Our better halves bury their noses in the sporting pages at breakfast, and slop coffee on the tablecloth as they get agitated over the Dodger’s chances. They don’t realize that it’s going to take longer for that tablecloth to come back from the laundry than it will for the Dodgers to come back.
It’s funny what spring does to men. They look so healthy and vigorous swinging those golf clubs and tennis rackets. But just hand them a broom or a carpet sweeper, and that forgotten knee injury suddenly flares up.
They can carry a heavy golf ball as far as 10 miles, but they can’t carry a wet sponge as far as a dirty window.
The Pittsburgh Press (March 30, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
I think I should take time out today to thank the people who responded so generously to my story on George’s shorts shortage. To date, George has received six or seven pairs of shorts, a bundle of pot holders, and four empty salt bags of really noble proportions. The latter at least should keep him well preserved.
This just shows you that when you make your wants known the warm-hearted American public will do everything it can to supply you. Look at Mr. Roosevelt. Every four years he says he needs votes to renew the lease on his house and the people give them to him.
And I remember reading a few months ago, when Sen. Saltonstall of Massachusetts happened to remark that his wartime garters wouldn’t stay up, he was practically smothered with gift garters.
Well, now that you’ve taken care of Sen. Saltonstall and George – I wear a size 9 nylon.
The Pittsburgh Press (April 2, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
My goodness, when all these amazing new medicines they’ve been discovering are released to the public, people are going to live forever. My! Wouldn’t it be funny to live long enough to see Mrs. Roosevelt settle down, and a Republican in the White House, and Jack Benny get a motion picture Academy Award and (George says) a Philadelphia baseball team finish in the first division again.
Georgie Jessel and Al Jolson would be in their prime at 400 or 500, and would be marrying sweet young things who hadn’t been out of high school more than 80 or 90 years.
But even if I live to be 500, I’ll still fib about my age. If someone says “How old are you, Gracie?” I’ll just look them right in the eye and say, “Day after tomorrow I’ll be 472.”
The Pittsburgh Press (April 3, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
My husband George who is an authority on military affairs says that Hitler and his friends will fight to the last man. George says he doesn’t know just who this “last man” will be but he’s pretty sure his first name won’t be Adolf.
My guess is that John Doe will be a little elderly German wearing thick spectacles. If they haven’t taken those away from him. He’d be the last man left to hold the fort anyway. Whether he wanted to or not, because he hasn’t any armored car to shoot away to a hideout in the Alps.
George says that the only difference between Hitler and his last man and a prizefight manager and his fighter is that sometimes the man in the ring is allowed a cut of the purse.
The Pittsburgh Press (April 4, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, I’ve just read about the most wonderful invention since the telephone. It’s a jukebox into which you drop a coin and buy three minutes of silence instead of jumpin’ jive. Now, if the scientists can just figure out how to do that with human beings!
My goodness, if you could drop coins in people and get silence. Dr. Goebbels would be so full of metal that they couldn’t hoist him up to a microphone with a derrick.
Mr. Roosevelt would be over in Congress every day, dropping coins in Southern Democrats. And before elections, candidates would go around clanking like wartime autos.
And wouldn’t it be nice, when you’re having a dinner party and your lesser half begins telling that old one about the time he almost made a hole-in-one, if you could whisper to the maid, “Terese, drop a nickel in you-know-who.”
The Pittsburgh Press (April 5, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, if anyone calls you “fat as a pig” these days, you’d better worry about your health. Because you’re really down to skin and bone.
It’s positively frightening the way pigs have wasted away. They haven’t got hams any more or bacon or chops or even salt pork on them.
It would be exaggerating to say they’re on their last legs because there aren’t any pork legs; all that is left on them is feet. At least that’s all I can ever find at my butcher shop.
Maybe we can blame this pig shortage on Walt Disney. His cartoon showered the pigs how to build brick houses so strong that the big bad wolf couldn’t get them. Now the rascals have gone and built houses so strong that even the OPA can huff and puff and not blow them down.
The Pittsburgh Press (April 7, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, last night I went through my husband’s clothes, but not for the usual reason, girls. I went through them to pick out everything that he could spare for the United National Clothing Collection. That’s the wonderful drive that’s underway this month to collect clothing for the 125 million war-impoverished people of Europe who need it so badly.
It’s going to be up to us women to dig out the old clothes because men are just natural-born clothes hoarders.
My husband has a blue serge that came in with Hoover and should have gone out with him. It would have been eaten long ago but it’s so shiny the moths can’t get a foothold.
Between George and the two children and myself, I really collected a big bundle of clothes. Gee, it just makes me feel warm all over to give things to a good cause. I hope it makes George feel that way, too, because that feeling is just about all I left him to keep him warm.