Bugs Bunny Stretch In-Betweens

An attractively drawn Bugs Bunny kicked Wile E. Coyote, Genius, into an empty rabbit hole and clamps a pressure cooker lid on top of him in Operation: Rabbit (screened by some theatres in late 1951).



Here are some stretch in-betweens on ones. Naturally, you can’t see the extra eyes when the frames go so quickly. They’re fun to stop the film and look at.



Off strolls Bugs to Mike Maltese’s classic song “I’m Lookin’ Over a Three-Leaf Clover That I Overloaded Be-three.” I’ve been fond of that one since I was a kid.



Lloyd Vaughan, Ben Washam, Phil Monroe and Ken Harris are the credited animators on this, with appropriate settings painted by Phil De Guard for Mr. C.M. Jones.

John Wald

“Oh, oh. It looks like they’re going to warm up the new pitcher,” says the narrator in the Tex Avery cartoon Batty Baseball. It was released April 22, 1944. The narrator is a man named John Wald. This was the second cartoon where he was employed by the MGM studio. The first was Avery’s What’s Buzzin’ Buzzard, released November 27, 1943. He came on at the end and announced the requests of the theatre patrons would be honoured and a picture of a steak would be shown again. As far as I know, those are the only two cartoons where he can be heard.

Who was John Wald? He was an announcer back in the days when announcers did everything—hosted shows, read commercials, presented newscasts, went on location for remote broadcasts. While Avery was animating for Walter Lantz in 1933, Wald was announcing at KSTP in St. Paul; he has been born in Hastings, Minnesota on September 6, 1908.

He came to Los Angeles in February 1937 for a job at the Evening Herald Express station KEHE. Within two months, he was a “Richfield Reporter,” commenting on the news 15 minutes nightly on the six-station NBC Pacific network. As the war came, the number of stations jumped to 13.

Coincidentally, in May 1942, Frank Bingman was added to the newscast as the commercial announcer. Bingman, too, did narration on MGM cartoons, though not for Avery (one of them is Hanna and Barbera’s non-Tom and Jerry short The Goose Goes South).

Let’s jump ahead to May 18, 1947. That’s when Radio Life magazine profiled him. It’s a little miffing (is that a word?) to see these feature stories with no mentions of cartoon work. But the magazine is about radio.

Come V-J Day and High Water, Your "Richfield Reporter" Has Carried On Unremittingly for Ten Years
By Evelyn Bigsby
Sunday-Friday, 10 p.m.
NBC - KFI-KFSD
PLEASANT-VOICED "Richfield Reporter" John Wald has achieved two of his greatest ambitions this year: in April he rounded out ten years on the famous news program, AND he made a hole in one!
(After twenty years at golf).
Placid John admits his golfing companions were more excited about his feat than he was. Wald calmly tossed off the remark, "Why, this game is easy!"
"I'm a phlegmatic person," he summed up succinctly. But we have a sneaking hunch his "Reporter" training has made him take a sane view of most any event.
Wouldn't you be tranquil if you had to report in unheated manner such world-trembling events as V-J Day, D-Day, and President Roosevelt's death?
John Wald, a sandy-haired, ruddy, complexioned 180-pounder, six feet tall and blue eyed, has made over 3,000 broadcasts as the "Richfield Reporter." He followed Sam Hayes in the spot, working first as a team with Ken Barton, then with Alan Ladd, later with Don Forbes. Since the first of this year (and for three years during the war) John has broadcast as "a single." A world upheaval has happened in the decade of his reporting, Wald placing the stories most personally interesting in the following order: the broadcast on V-J Day ("I almost didn't go on"), D-Day, V-E Day, Roosevelt's death, and the flood of 1938.
"I was living at Hermosa Beach then," he recalled, "and when the waters got precariously high, I had to find a place to stay in town so I wouldn't miss the show. I remember we broadcast with lanterns hanging around the studio, just in case the power went off."
When Wald originally started with "Reporter," world news was breaking at such a furious pace that editor Wayne Miller tried to pack as many items as possible into the nightly broadcast and John tried to spiel off his news at the rate of 220 words a minute. Since peace has come, he has assumed a more leisurely pace—180 to 200 words a minute.
Wald, whose presentation of the news is always unimpassioned, with a minimum of alarmism and morbidity, credits editor Miller for writing the broadcasts in newsworthy manner. "In reading of a story," John enlarged, "I try to give an intelligent, factual account of the incident."
John's schedule calls for him to eat seven o'clock dinner with wife and fourteen-year-old daughter
Susan in their Beverly Hills home. He reaches NBC at 8 p.m., goes over his script, looking up any uncertain pronunciations in Webster's International, then does the Arizona broadcast at 9:30.
"What do you do after 10:15?" Wald was questioned.
"You sound like my wife!" he exclaimed kiddingly, adding that twenty years of night work have turned his routine upside down and that he seldom goes to bed until one o'clock.
Suppressed Desire
Golf is John's passion—he plays two or three days a week at Riviera Country Club. He's also an avid reader of New Yorker, Time, Life, and Sunset. A native of St. Paul, he was staff announcer there in 1929 and also played in stock and little theater and although he's afraid he's been definitely typed now as a newscaster (he's played one in fifty pictures, "Body and Soul" being the latest). Wald hungers for an acting career and yearns to be a heavy. The meager taste he had of portraying Japs, Russians, and Chinese on NBC's "Pacific Story" served merely to accentuate his appetite for acting.
But then, again, he might have two new ambitions: to complete another decade as "Richfield Reporter" and to make another hole in one. Golfing probably gives him leeway to indulge in cherries jubilee and other fancy desserts which are John's weakness. And newscasting isn't exactly dull. One never knows what's going to develop in a new script.
Biggest tongue-twister John's run across to date is the name of the Russian Dam: Dnepropetrovsk.

The story doesn’t mention it, but Wald started taking on announcing duties elsewhere. In 1945, he announced The Eddie Bracken Show, in 1947 he was the announcer on the Great Gildersleeve summer replacement, Summerfield Bandstand, and slid into the same role when Gildersleeve returned. Maybe his best-known announcing gig was when Fibber McGee and Molly changed to 15-minute week-nightly format from October 1953 into early 1956.

The Richfield Reporter moved to CBS in 1958. Wald went along, announcing Frontier Gentlemen and then Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar in 1960 until the end of November, when the show moved to New York. The same year, he was caught in a “change in direction” and dumped by Richfield as of July 1st (I know how Mr. Wald felt). He stayed on as a CBS staff announcer until he retired in 1975.

Despite Wald’s long tenure on the longest sponsored newscast in its day, his death was ignored by his colleagues. He died in Los Angeles on March 22, 1988.

Now, let’s show you the steak again.

Another Helpful Sign By Tex Avery

There’s a snake gag in the middle of a bunch of war rationing gags in Tex Avery’s What’s Buzzin’ Buzzard (1943). The Leo Gorcey buzzard (or is it a vulture?) skids to a stop, turns green and faints when he sees a rattle snake. The snake is just the Jimmy Durante buzzard in a poor disguise.



“Lookit ‘im!” says the Durante buzzard to the camera (he gestures just like Durante). “He’s even a-scared of a snake!” He turns and then walks right toward a real snake, whom we are assured is a real snake thanks to one of Avery’s helpful signs.



Now the Durante buzzard turns green and faints. There’s a momentary pause, the buzzard lifts his head up and says in a normal voice “And so am I.”



Kent Rogers is the Gorcey buzzard. The Durante buzzard sounds to me like the Durante cat in The Cat That Hated People a few years later (listen to the way the two say “Ya see what I mean?”.

Betty's Victory March

Toys have vanquished a stuffed gorilla in Parade of the Wooden Soldiers, a 1934 Betty Boop cartoon released a year after King Kong.

It was a horrible war, apparently. We have mismatched parts of toys put together marching along.



Even the Betty Boop doll suffered an injury.



The toys collapse and the camera pans back to end the cartoon. There’s a lot of stuff to animate here, so the pan saves on some footage.



Seymour Kneitel and Bill Henning are the credited animators.

Fred, Jack and the Feud

The Jack Benny-Fred Allen Feud was supposed to end after about 2½ months with a broadcast in New York in March 1937, but audiences liked it, Allen liked it, and Benny liked it, so it carried along, off-and-on into Jack’s television years in the 1950s.

NBC liked it, too. The Boston Post devoted pages to it, as the network tried to coax a columnist to write about it. The first story appeared March 28, 1937 and the second a week later. There was a third another week later.

In the first story, the “John” is John Brown (“Petrie” is the character’s name). “Charles” in the second story is the delightful Charlie Cantor.

My thanks to Kathy Fuller-Seeley, who went through Allen’s scrapbooks at the Boston Public Library. The cell phone pictures of the newspaper photos are poor, but better than nothing. Several are, unfortunately, unprintable, including several with Benny and his writers.

When Fred Allen Got the Hook on “Boston Stage”
Feudist Admits He Obtained Inspiration for Career as Book Boy in Public Library
How Benny Lad Reached Top
BY JOHN F. COGGSWELL
“Here’s one that’s right down the alley for you,” enthused the NBC publicity man—press relations representative to you.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure! Boston setting. Boston celebrities! What more do you want?”
Well, this story of the famous Jack Benny-Fred Allen feud wouldn’t be much of anything if we didn’t have a publicity man in it, would it, or would it? Anyway, the anecdote shows one of our feudin’ wildcats making a start in life, so let’s go!
“You know Fred Allen isn’t Fred Allen’s name at all, if you get what I mean. He was born right across the Charles River from Boston, in Cambridge, in 1894. That makes him home folks, eh? And he was christened John F. Sullivan, Sullivan being the correct family name. Pretty good stuff for you, eh?
“But it isn’t exactly news,” I objected.

“No, sure not. But the story’s a woe, for you, just the same. You see the first job he had was working in the Boston Public Library, for 20 cents an hour. His name was Sullivan, remember that and one day John L. Sullivan, the prize fighter, himself, came in to get a book.”
“For what?” I demanded. “Did he have some flowers to press or did he want to throw it at a cat?”
“Ha, Ha, That’s Good!”
“Huh! I get you. Ha, ha! That’s good,” the publicity man hit around as his mind groped for the way out; but, he was quick on the trigger, all right, this public relations guy.
“You see, it wasn’t exactly a book, the champ prize fighter was after,” he went on. “He’d heard about Charles Dana Gibson drawing a picture about him in “Life.” Took a long time for the news to get around to John L. Ha, ha! And he wanted to look up the magazine and this young John F. Sullivan was given the job of helping him find it.
“Well, the kid was pretty awe-struck, but finally got up his courage and ventured, ‘My name is John Sullivan, too.’
“ ‘Lots of kids have been named after me,” boomed John L. . . . .”
That’s enough of that story, but anyway it sets one of the principles on the way toward staging the world’s funniest feud. Besides, Fred Allen himself told me that is was in the Boston Public Library that he decided to become a stage celebrity. During one of his leisure moments he picked up a book about juggling and before he had read two chapters of it made up his mind to become a professional juggler.
His first appearance was on amateur night at a theatre in the South End. He hadn’t juggled more than one juggle, when the hook got him. He was back next week for more—and got it! In fact, young Johnny Sullivan got hooked off that stage so often that folks and the manager sort of got to know him. So one night the manager decided to have a bit of fun with his most persistent amateur.
Correspondence Course in Juggling
“Where did you learn to juggle?” he demanded, striding out upon the stage.
The kid was a little bit scared and as embarrassed as anyone who has been hooked off a stage 18 times actual count can be, but he didn’t forget to wise-crack. “I took a correspondence school course in baggage smashing,” was the best he could do on the spur of the moment.
It was good enough; came darn near to laying that audience in the aisles. The place rocked with laughter.
“Maybe the laugh was on me,” Allen remarked to me. “That make me believe I was a comedian.”
Anyway, the lad got up a string of patter to go with his juggling, got onto the vaudeville stage, quit juggling for monologue, played all over this country and filled an engagement on the Australian circuit. Back home, just in time to slip into khaki for the World war, he went to France and came back all right.
After the war, he teamed up with another Boston boy who became a top-notcher, Jack Donahue. For a time, Fred did the writing and Jack did the acting, but eventually the kid from Cambridge hit Broadway. Hammerstein’s “Polly,” the first “Little Show,” “Three’s a Crowd”; Allen wise-cracked his way through all of them.
And there you are. What could be more natural with his peculiar gifts that the step-off into radio? So that puts one of our feudists behind his tree, fully ammunitioned with quips, sallies and retorts, ready to shoot at the first wiggle in the underbrush. Seeing he’s there on the job, let’s allow Fred Allen to introduce the other half of the famous Benny-Allen embroglio.
Little Jackie Benny
“Town Hall News! Sees nothing, knows all! Waukegan, Ill., March 28, 1902. Town boys get orchestra craze. Nick dads for instruments. Town Hall News shows little Jack Benny getting violin from his father.
“ ‘Papa, did you bring me my violin?’
“ ‘Yes, Jackie, but that my son should want to be a fiddler!’
“ ‘Oh, daddy, I want to start practising right away.’
“ ‘Okeyedokey, my boy, here’s your fiddle. And Jackie . . .’
“ ‘Yes, papa.’
“ ‘Here’s a monkey wrench to go with it. Don’t forget that plumbing is a good business, too.’”

Skip the years; it’s just as well to leave out the noises that assailed residents’ ears in the vincinity [sic] of the Benny home from then on. It’s Saturday night in Waukegan. The youth and beauty of the town have gathered for a dance. Proudly, the young maestro of the youthful orchestra swings his outfit into action.
“How did we do?” Jack Benny asks the first of the dancers he meets the next day, eager to hear praise of his fiddling and direction.
“Well, your trap drummer wasn’t too bad,” the acquaintance replies and that’s that.
More years pass. Jack Benny and his violin are in the navy. Now, just let those gobs try to escape his playing. There’s to be an entertainment at the training station. The first volunteer is Jack—he plays his fiddle.
He does and gets hardly a police scattering of applause; several of the listeners make rude gestures, clasping their fingers over their noses. Jack gets mad; starts in to tell his audience what he thinks of them. Yah! This is good. First a titter, then loud laughter runs through the place. He slays them; they think his tirade is part of the act. Huh! Then as now—a comedian, not a violinist.
The war is over. Jack and his violin are in vaudeville. His patter goes over big; his fiddling makes no hit, save with the one small town critic who asks for more violin and less chatter.
Up and Coming
“Yeah, I often ran across another fellow about my same age, going by the name of Fred James, playing the same circuits, Jack Benny told me. “Sure, same guy who is Fred Allen, now. No, we never played the same show. We were both monologists so could hardly be billed together.”
With the advent of the talkies, Hollywood needs comedians and it gets Jack Benny. Small bits at first; then good parts. He’s not a star but he’s coming. Give him a break and he’ll be on top. And he gets the break. It’s Ed Sullivan, the Broadway columnist, who gives it to him in 1932. Sullivan is broadcasting a programme from New York. He runs across Jack Benny, who is visiting the big town, and asks him to appear as a guest artist at the next show.
Tucked away in his wallet, right beside that clipping of the small town critic who asked more fiddling, Jack Benny treasures a crumpled, dog-eared, faded single sheet of paper, covered with double-spaced typewriting. It’s the script of the minute talk he made on Ed Sullivan’s programme that night, only five years ago; his radio debut.
Here it is, just as I copied it from that old script. Look it over. Yeah. Here is the same self-kidding comedian, who in such a short space of time has climbed to the top, become radio’s highest-priced humorist.
“Ladies and gentlemen—This is Jack Benny talking. There will be a slight pause while you say, ‘Who cares.’ I am here tonight as a scenario writer. There is a quite a lot of money writing scenarios for the pictures. Well, there would be if I could sell one.
“I am going back to pictures in about 10 weeks. I’m going to have a big part in a new film with Greta Garbo. They sent me the story last week. When the picture opens, I’m found dead in the bathroom. It’s sort of a mystery picture; I’m found in the bathtub on a Wednesday night.
“I should have been in Miss Garbo’s last picture, but they gave the part to Robert Montgomery. You know, studio politics. The funny part of it is that I’m really much younger than Montgomery. That is, I’m younger than Montgomery and Ward.
“You’d really like Garbo. She and I are great friends in Hollywood. She used to let me drive her car all over town. Of course, she paid me for it.
The Rest Is History
That was the start of it. Five short years ago and last week Jack Benny signed a three-year contract that makes him the highest-paid comedy star in the country. Fan mail poured in after that first brief broadcast. The public wanted more of Benny; radio moguls became interested.
The rest of it is too recent history to need recounting. There’s one interesting angle, though. Jack might have labored on indefinitely in Hollywood without attaining stardom, but goes out, makes a hit in radio and in almost the wink of an eye, he’s back in Hollywood a full-blown star.
Last week we sketched the beginning of the famous Jack Benny-Fred Allen feud; told about 10-year-old Stuart Kanin [sic] playing “The Bee,” on the Town Hall programme, of Fred Allen’s comment that Jack Benny ought to be ashamed of himself, and Benny’s comeback.
But even then the boys didn’t realize that they had something. It wasn’t until the fan mail started piling in that they found that, from that meagre start, they had what radio listeners thought was a major controversy. Jack Benny got on the long distance phone in Hollywood; called Fred Allen in New York.
“Fred,” he said, “we’d better bear down on ‘The Bee’ stuff. I think we’ve got something there.”
“You’re telling me,” Allen shot back. “Listen, guy, I was just reaching for the phone to call you when the bell rang. The old Allen luck, eh? This sticks you for the call. You’ll be hearing from me Wednesday night if you put your ear to the loudspeaker.”
“I suppose you had to keep in pretty close touch with each other all through the feud,” I remarked to Jack Benny.
Had a Lot of Fun

“Thunder, no! That would have taken all the fun out of it,” the top comedian answered. “That and one more call was all we made during the whole thing.”
That’s a fact. These two grown men had more fun than a couple of kids, each trying to put something over on the other; to spring an angle that would be hard to answer. Fun! Yes, and work, too. Usually Fred Allen has his script all but finished by Sunday night, ready for whipping into a broadcast.
Now he had to wait until after Sunday night before he could finish it. I have before me the script of the so-called “Benny Bit” from the Town Hall programme of Jan. 13. That’s quite a “bit.” Six pages of typewriting that had to be good. No, not even Fred Allen, with all of his love of writing humor and all his ability for hard concentrated work, could turn that out without many hours of hard labor.
But he had Jack Benny and his writers in the same boat; they couldn’t even start writing script until Thursday for the Sunday Show. There’s enough background for the present. Let’s listen to the bullets whining across the continent as the funniest feud gets to raging in earnest.
The scene is that same Studio 8-H, in the NBC edifice in New York. Fred Allen has just started to introduce the talent for the “Town Hall Varities,” when Portland Hoffa butts in with her well-known “Mister Allen!” Fred reminds her that she has already had her part; she must be getting absent minded.
“There’s a man here to see you; he says it’s important,” Portland insists.
He Was the One
“I’m busy, Portland,” Allen drawls. “If it’s somebody who wants a dime for a cup of coffee, tell him I’ve done away with the middleman. There’s a percolator in my overcoat pocket, he can help himself.”
But this is no panhandler; it’s the General Delivery man from the Waukegan postoffice, a part played by a fellow named John, John Petrie, a member of the Allen cast. Remember that episode? Funny, eh? Well, we might as well have a few of the laughs over again.
John—I heard Benny’s programme last Sunday night.
Allen—So-o-o, you’re the one.
John—No. There was another man with me. He heard it, too . . .
Allen—Now, Mr. Petrie, as man to man. . . . I’m giving it the best of it, perhaps. . . . But did you ever hear Jack Benny play “The Bee” on his violin? John—Well, I heard him play somethin’ in a theatre in Waukegan, one time.
Allen—Was it “The Bee?”
John—Couldn’t a been. When he finished playin’ his violin was covered with somethin’ but it wasn’t honey. Looked more like tomatoes to me.
Allen—I see. With all those tomatoes hanging on it, his E string must have looked like a vine.
John—I ain’t here to stool pigeon, Allen.
Allen—Well. . . .
John—You fellers ought to quit this arguin’, Allen. All Waukegan is agog.
Allen—Oh, are you from Waukegan, Mr. Petrie?
John—Yes. I’m in the postoffice there. At the general delivery window. Right across from the second spittoon as you come in the door. . . .
Allen—Well, you ought to be able to settle the whole thing in two seconds. Could Jack play the Bee on his violin when he was 10 years old?
John—No!
Allen—Can you prove it?
John—Prove it? I been runnin’ the general delivery window in the Waukegan postoffice for 40 years. Jack Benny started takin’ violin lessons though the mail.
PRACTISES IN POSTOFFICE
Allen—You mean he had his lesson come general delivery?
John—He had to. His family wouldn’t let him practise in the house.
I can see Jack now. He’s toddle into the postoffice draggin’ his violin. I’d give him his lesson and he’d practise right there in front of my general delivery window.
Too bad there isn’t enough space to reproduce all that side-splitting scene and the ones from that followed it on both programmes, too; they ought to be preserved for posterity, being, as they are acknowledged, the lead-up to the funniest joint broadcast that has ever ridden the air waves.
Fred asks the man from Waukegan to play the tune that he heard youthful Jack Benny wrest from the innards of his fiddle. The visitor takes a violin and played beginners’ exercises. Then. . . .
John—Well, I got to be goin’. Which way is Waukegan from here?
Allen—Just go out the first door . . . and keep left. Ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing we can add to Mr. Petrie’s story. The Bee was played by a 10-year-old boy on this programme, but his name was not . . . Jack Benny.

The first photo from the Post below is missing the caption. The people depicted, left to right, are writers Al Boasberg, Ed Beloin, Bill Morrow, star Jack Benny and Jack's personal manager, Harry Baldwin.

Jack Benny Fiddlin' in the Bide-A-Wee Pawn Shops
That Was Gag Scene That Made Millions Laugh—Over in a Few Minutes It Took Hours to Write—Producing Funny Script Is Serious Business Until It Comes Roaring Out of Your Radio Set.
BY JOHN F. COGGSWELL
We were sitting in the hotel coffee shoppe. Jack Benny had promised to meet us there at 11:30, for breakfast, his, not ours.
Precisely at 11:30, he whirled in through the revolving door from the street. If you don’t know that that punctuality sets him aside from most of the people of the stage, you haven’t had much to do with actors—or actresses.
Jack ordered orange juice, cornflakes and milk, black coffee and didn’t eat all of the cornflakes.
“Got to watch the old waist-line, eh?” I remarked.
“And how!” he agreed. “But, man, I saw times in the old vaudeville days, when I didn’t have to hang back on the food. Sometimes we ate and sometimes we didn’t. Often, I lay abed hungry and told myself that if I ever got in the money, I was going to have everything in the world I wanted to eat.
“Well, I’m in the money, all right, but I’m getting just about the same things to eat that I did then, out on the circuits. Sure, I get in better places and pay more money for it, but I’m hungry just as often.”
Anyone, who has to watch his diet to keep from getting overweight, can understand how my remarks and his reply got him to thinking along lines that were anything but humorous. He had a few kicks in his system and he worked them off with intense enthusiasm. Suddenly, just when he was going good, he subsided. A sheepish grin spread over his face.
He’s No Kicker
“I’m a fine guy to be kicking about anything, eh?” he went on. “You boys will be thinking that I’m a grouch, getting too big for my clothes, too. But I can tell you honestly that I appreciate all that life is handing me.
“This is the truth. Every morning, when I get out of bed, I stand there and thank God for the break I’m getting. I don’t mean that I get down on my knees and put it into words, but I’m thanking Him, just the same, with every bit of my soul and body.”
It’s a fact that it doesn’t seem to be in the man, to play Benny the Great; he’s walking softly and keeping his fingers crossed. He doesn’t kid himself that he’ll be the darling of the entertainment-seeking ages.
“Some day,” he told me, “the public will say, ‘We’re sick of Jack Benny,’ and that will be that. But tell ‘em I’m enjoying myself now and thank them for me.”
Fred Allen is much of the same sort of fellow, underneath. True, I didn’t get so much of a chance to study Fred; Benny was busy but Fred was busier. But neither of them have any great amount of “side,” both of them speak as kindly to the lowliest stage hand as they do to their sponsors, and that’s speaking very, very nicely. Both of them wear the same size hats that they did in their vaudeville days.
They’re close friends; have been for years. Portland Hoffa and Mary Livingstone both told me that every time the boys get together, they, the wives, might just as well go out shopping. Allen and Benny always have a lot of things to talk over.

With His Iron Hat
We noticed that, the night we got them together in the little room behind the stage in Studio 8-H, for taking the pictures that accompany these stories. Jack and Mary came back stage just before Town Hall closed its doors for the night. Fred Allen, overcoat was over his arm, iron hat on his head, came in. He was tired; it showed in the droop of his body, the fatigue lines in his face. But he was game.
“All right, fellow, tell us what you want,” he invited as he tossed coat and hat on a table.
Yeah, that was a fine idea, but it took a little while to get going. Almost immediately, Benny had Fred backed into a corner of the room. Allen sagged against the wall, while Jack stood leaning toward him supported with one fist against the plaster.
Well, folks, we’ll have to admit that Benny and Allen are chummy enough now, but when they were feudin’, they feuded to a faretheewell. So let’s go ahead and get some re-laughs out of the script. Frankly, over the air, the quips came too fast for me; I’ve enjoyed reading them over in manuscript and very likely you will, too.
Those Famous Air Gags
Remember, at the end of last week’s article, Fred Allen had just finished interviewing the general delivery man from the Waukegan postoffice. That gave Jack Benny plenty to work on in his next broadcast; notice that he runs true to his usual style making himself the butt of the whole thing. Well, that’s the technique that has put him where he is.
DON WILSON—And now ladies and gentlemen, we bring you that violinist with the accent on vile . . . Jack Benny!
JACK—Hm! That was very funny, Don . . . very humorous. Evidently you’ve been listening to Fred Allen again.
WILSON—Yes, I have, Jack. Did you hear him last Wednesday?
JACK—Yes, Don, but only with my ears, my heart wasn’t in it. Any man that can stand before a microphone and say that I can’t play a violin, just isn’t normal . . . that’s all.
WILSON—But Jack, he didn’t say you couldn’t play the violin, all he said was you shouldn’t play it.
JACK—Oh!
MARY LIVINGSTONE—Say Jack.
JACK—Yes, Mary.
MARY—All I heard him say was, you couldn’t play the violin at the age of 10.
JACK—I’m glad you brought that up, Mary, because I’ve got a photograph of myself right here, taken when I was 10 years old, playing “The Bee” on my violin . . . a very difficult number. . . . Here, Mary, look.
MARY—Mmm!
JACK—What do you think of that.
MARY—I’m glad it’s not a sound picture.
JACK—They didn’t have ‘em in those days.
WILSON—But Jack, how can we tell what number you’re playing?
JACK—If you were a musician you’d know . . . Say, who are you working for anyway . . . Fred Allen or me?
WILSON—Jello.
JACK—Oh! . . . Well, let me tell you something: I played a violin in concert halls log before I knew anything about Strawberry, Cherry, Orange, Lemon and Lime. WILSON—You left out Raspberry.
MARY—I’ll bet the audience didn’t.
JACK—Hm! That’s right, give Allen more ammunition to work with.
PHIL HARRIS (orchestra leader)—Let’s see that picture a minute, will you, Mary?
JACK—Yeah, look at it Phil, you’re a musician . . . That proves conclusively that I’m an artist.
PHIL—Well Jack, anybody can have a picture taken with a violin.
JACK—Yes Phil, but can’t you tell from the way I’m holding it that I can play?
PHIL—You’re holding it upside down.
JACK—Well, it’s much harder that way . . . Anyway, I had a small chin and I couldn’t put the violin under it.
MARY—Now you can put a ‘CELLO under it.
JACK—Is that so.
KENNY BAKER—Can I see the picture too, Jack?
JACK—Why?
Calling it a Fiddle
KENNY—Well everybody else is getting laughs out of it.
JACK—Don’t get cute, Kenny . . . And another thing: Fred Allen said I only had TWO strings on my fiddle . . . Imagine . . . that’s what he called my Stradivarius, a fiddle.
KENNY—Is it a Stradivarius?
JACK—That’s not the point . . . Anyway, Mary, you count ‘em. How many strings to do see in this picture?
MARY—Four.
JACK—See?
MARY—Three on the violin and one around your waist.
JACK—Well, that was to hold my pants up. I was poor in those days. Hm, that’s what burns me up: Allen picking on a poor little kid.
Mary—(Laughs).
JACK—What are you laughing at, Mary?
MARY—Burns and Allen.
JACK—Hm! Well, I don’t want to discuss it any further. Let’s forget all the Allens, especially Fred. I should stoop to argue with a toothpaste salesman.
MARY—Well, you could use one.
JACK—I said toothpaste, not toupee.

Takes Lots of Writing
The probabilities are that the average radio fan has no idea of how much writing there is to even a short bit. Allen and a male member of his caste [sic], named Charlie, answered that sally of Benny’s in a very few minutes, but it took five full pages of script for the job. Script full of wit and punch; it must have taken hours to turn out.
Fred opened the “Benny bit” by styling Jack’s fiddling picture, “a new low in composite photographic skulduggery,” and what’s more said he could prove it. As a witness, he produces one, DeWitt Levee of Waukegan, Ill., impersonated by Charles.
“What do you do in Waukegan?” Allen asked the witness.
“I am running—strictly by appointment—the Bide-A-Wee combination pawnshop and photograph gallery,” asserts the man from the West.
Then Fred Allen goes after laughs, and gets them, by allowing himself to be kidded by the visitor. The script runs:
ALLEN—I’ve never heard of a combination pawnshop and photograph gallery.
CHARLES—Why not? It’s my own idea. So many people are hocking valuables and never coming back.
ALLEN—I know. But where does the photograph gallery come in?
CHARLES—By me, let us say for no reason, you are hocking something. I am taking your picture with the article. You are keeping the picture for a souvenir.
ALLEN—I see. Do you ever listen to Jack Benny on the radio?
CHARLES—Who else?
ALLEN—Don’t get personal, Mr. Levee. Just answer my questions.
CHARLES—Jack Benny! There’s a comedian. You should live to see the day you could hold a candle to Jack Benny.
ALLEN—Wait a minute! Don’t turn this into an arson case, Mr. Levee.
CHARLES—Last Sunday, Jack is slaying me. He is calling you a toothpaste salesman.
ALLEN—That’s only the half of it.
CHARLES—A toothpaste salesman. Hi! Yi!
ALLEN—Well. At least my samples don’t wobble around.
CHARLES—What’s the matter you couldn’t say Jello.
ALLEN—Did he say Ipana last Sunday.
Not to Eulogize
ALLEN—Now. . . . Listen . . . Mr. Levee. At long last you and I are not gathered here to eulogize Jack Benny.
CHARLES—Look! I’m giving Jack Benny a little plug. And he can’t take it.
ALLEN—You know what happens if you give Jack a little plug, don’t you?
CHARLES—So what happens? Buck Benny Rides Again
ALLEN—Buck Benny rides again!
CHARLES—Oy! Buck Benny. What a cowboy!
ALLEN—Now . . . Look, Mr. Levee. You were brought here tonight to tell our radio audience about a certain picture.
CHARLES—Could I get a word in endwise . . . Up to now?
ALLEN—Quiet please! Did you . . . or did you not . . . on the afternoon of July 7, 1904, take a picture of Jack Benny holding his violin?
CHARLES—I did.
ALLEN—And where was the picture taken?
CHARLES—In the Bide-A-Wee Paw Shop at Waukegan, Illinois, with a Brownie Number Two.
ALLEN—Fine. What was Jack Benny doing in the Bide-A-Wee Pawn Shop at the time?
CHARLES—He was practicing on the violin.
ALLEN—He practised his violin in your pawnshop?
CHARLES—Where else? You think I am letting the violin out of mine sight?
ALLEN—I see.
CHARLES—The violin was in hock, a technical term, but I was letting Jackie come into the pawnshop to practise.
ALLEN—Now, one vital question, Mr. Levee. Was Jack playing The Bee on this violin when you took the picture?
CHARLES—Is the right arm blurred?
ALLEN—No, the right arm isn’t blurred.
CHARLES—Then he wasn’t even playing.
Then the man from Waukegan borrows a violin from the orchestra leader and plays the music that little Jackie Benny played in the Bide-A-Wee pawn shop. Beginners’ exercises, nothing else.

Talking About Tex

I like Tex Avery cartoons.

Lots of other people do, too.

It’s cool that Tex lived long enough hear the appreciation of his work (mainly at MGM). There were midnight showings in the Bay area in 1976 and another showing at UC-Berkeley in 1979. The New York Cultural Center included him in a cartoon tribute in late 1973 (due to Greg Ford, I suspect). Going back further the Montreal International Film Festival featured a special Avery programme of ten shorts at the time of Expo ‘67.

In the mid-‘70s, Joe Adamson penned the wonderful “Tex Avery, King of Cartoons” with interviews with the great director himself, writers Heck Allen and Mike Maltese, and capsulised reviews of all his shorts; one interview had been published in “Take One” in 1970. It seems that’s when Tex started getting his due with articles in “Positif” (which went back to the late ‘50s), “Film Comment” and “Print.”

Tex was awarded an Annie in 1974 for his life’s achievements. He even showed up at Pasadena’s Crown Theatre in 1975 to discuss his cartoons (along with Bob Clampett. What an evening it must have been).

Much of this came at the end of his life—he passed away in 1980—but there were bits of recognition before. He was nominated for an Oscar six times. Some theatres in Texas would advertise “A Tex Avery Cartoon” in their newspaper box ads. And his name shows up occasionally in the popular press.

This is clipped from the Hanford Sentinel of May 5, 1945

Incidentally, there’s a grand M-G-M baseball cartoon. It's one of those delightfully zany M G-M Technicolor cartoons directed by Tex Avery, who is turning out the screen funniest cartoons these days. This one’s in the typical Avery tradition which means you never can suspect what’s going to happen next.

The Sentinel’s anonymous columnist loved Avery. From July 19, 1945:

Jerky Turkey, the Tex Avery-directed cartoon for MGM, shown on the same bill with [Meet Me in] St. Louis at the Fox, wins our nomination as the cinch Academy Award cartoon of the year. Swell stuff.

Hazel Flynn’s column in the Valley Times in Encino seems to have borrowed from BS news releases from MGM. She tells us on September 26, 1946:

Tex Avery has a new cartoon character, Phil Flea . . . He has rejected “Let Fleadom Ring” in favour of “A Flea Grows in Brooklyn.” He’s the fellow who made “The Secret Life of Walter Kitty” and “The Mouse on 92nd Street.”

The last two cartoons were never made. They may never even have been considered. Metro’s PR department used to send out releases with names of cartoons that were in development. They never were. It was all for publicity. (Another supposed Avery short was “Our Vine Street Has Tender Wolves”). To be honest, I like the first title better than what they used, What Price Fleadom.

He took time off at MGM because he was burned out. The Hollywood Reporter of June 29, 1951 announced his return “after a year’s illness.” The Avery unit was disbanded in the first week of March 1953; pictures are on Michael Barrier’s website. Animator Mike Lah stuck around to finish the cartoons he had in production; why Tex himself didn’t remain is a mystery.

The Reporter kept track of Avery, with a bit more information than I’ve seen elsewhere, in its edition of December 23rd that year.

Walter Lantz has signed Tex Avery, long time cartoon producer at MGM, to a 20-year contract as executive producer of all his productions. Avery, veteran in the cartoon field, makes the “Droopy” series at the Culver City plant. In addition to producing all the Woody Woodpecker and Chilly Willy Cartunes for Lantz, Avery also will supervise all animation as well as the creation of new characters for the Lantz organization. Avery’s first association with Lantz began in 1929 and lasted until 1935. The 20-year pact, as prepared by the law firm of Wright & Garrett, as a gag calls for a daily option clause.

As for “new characters,” the Reporter gave some insight the following January 8th, announcing the creation of Winny Woodpecker, Woody’s girl-friend; “Pa and Ma” and their horse Sugarfoot, at the same time revealing Chilly Willy would be turned into a series, with the penguin playing opposite “Nipper, St. Bernard dog.” (I imagine RCA might have had something to say about the dog’s name).

The start of Tex’s career post-theatrical was announced in the Reporter of May 17, 1956.

Tex Avery joins Cascade Pictures this week as a director of animation, according to Barney Carr and Roy Seawright, Cascade toppers. Avery, director of animation at MGM for 13 years, will work with Hal Mason, who has been with Cascade for the past six years.

Awards started coming fast. The Reporter from July 17th:

Foote, Cone & Belding and Cascade Pictures have been given the Chicago Federation of Advertising Award for Best Commercial of the Year in two categories—animation, produced by Tex Avery, and live-action animation, made by Hal Mason for S.C. Johnson [makers of Raid].

Avery had his own little studio after leaving Walter Lantz on August 20, 1954 before going to Cascade. After Cascade, he took out legal ads in June and July 1973 stating he had formed a company called “Tex Avery Cartoons” out of his home on Weddington Street not far from North Hollywood High.

Tex, as anyone familiar with his life story might know, was born in Taylor, Texas and graduated from North Dallas High School. Historian/author John Canemaker quoted a story about him from a Dallas newspaper of 1933, but we’ve found one published in neighbouring Fort Worth several years later. First, this short note from the Star-Telegram, July 6, 1937.

The clever Merrie Melody on the Worth bill with the exciting film of secret service work and intrigue "The Emperor's Candlesticks" was supervised by Mrs. H. C. Meacham's favorite nephew, Fred Avery.
A Dallas boy, Avery stumbled into film cartoonery when he drove his aunt to California nine years ago. He looked around for a job there with a newspaper cartoon strip in mind. Unlucky at that plan, he took some drawings to the cartoon studio and went to work at the bottom. Now he's at the top, responsible for turning out one Merrie Melody a month.
He visited here last a year and a half ago.

Unfortunately, neither the story nor the ad for the cartoon say what the title is.

A fuller look at Avery appeared in the same paper, August 30, 1938, along with a picture. And this leads us to a bit of controversy.

There’s a reference to Elmer Fudd. And the character is Egghead.

For years, fans and people who believe in strict canon as if we are dealing with the real world have bought the Bob Clampett explanation that in 1940 or so, they took Egghead, checked off some stuff, and redesigned him as Elmer Fudd. But that doesn’t jibe with studio publicity materials at the time, nor Egghead’s designation as Elmer Fudd in A Feud There Was (1938). So some espoused a theory that Egghead had no hair and Elmer did. Or vice versa. I can’t get it straight.

Anyway, it seems the studio used the names interchangeably, with “Egghead” appearing on some title cards. Much like Bugs Hardaway’s Bugs Bunny was redesigned in 1940, so was Fudd.

There’s a line in one edition of the paper that refers to the song “Little Man, You’ve Had a Busy Day,” but there’s no context (a second edition leaves it out). It’s possible it could refer censors being iffy about a dog/telephone poles gag as that song played in the background in Friz Freleng’s Dog Daze (1937), but I really don’t know.

The other note here is that Leon Schlesinger looked at a Rip Van Winkle feature. The trade press of the day speaks of Schlesinger in New York conferring about a feature. There’s no reason to disbelieve what Tex is saying.

He Laughs at Garbo, Makes Her Like It
BY MARY WYNN
The man whao [sic] can laugh at Greta Garbo, Longfellow and Mother Nature and make 'em like it:
Fred Avery, animated cartoon director, who let us in Monday on what can be expected in the immediate future in a field more exciting than Errol Flynn's Fall picture schedule.
All the while he absent mindedly mutilated our autographed picture of Tyrone Power with a sketch of Elmer Fudd and made us like it.
Avery is one of three directors of Merrie Melody and Looney Tune cartoons required by Warner Brothers to turn in a total of 42 products a year.
Our fondest recollection of one of his recent subjects is the takeoff on the FitzPatrick travel talks entitled "The Isle of Pingo Pongo." We praised it highly at the time.
Now we learn from Avery he considers it his best effort because throughout he used an innovation he had tried previously in "The Village Blacksmith" and "Uncle Tom's Cabin"—
An offscreen commentator with a serious Pete Smith voice and a running script of screwey [sic] gags.
Elmer Fudd was in it, too, remember? The bungling little fellow with the half-mast eyelids and the fiddle case who kept interrupting the announcer. Well, Elmer will be seen again as Prince Charming in "Cinderella" and as John Smith in "Pocahontas."
He's an important guy.
You may also expect from Avery: "Believe It or Else" a parody on Ripley, a burlesque version of "The Shooting of Dan McGrew," and the comeback cartoon for Daffy Duck, the haywire fowl with the Hugh Herbert personality.
How do movie stars take the cartoon caricatures of themselves? They like it.
Bing Crosby ordered a print of the recent one that featured him and he wasn't trying to buy 'em all up. Katharine Hepburn is said to have secretly snickered—raaly, we mean—at a takeoff on her voice.
The cartoon characters in fact are treated like stars themselves. They get fan mail—and Will Hays' scowl of censorship.
[ The music: "Little Man You've Had a Busy Day." ]
He just got past by the skin of his teeth in a nature cartoon which had a lizard shedding its skin.
It used a strip-tease technic.
As to the longevity of the feature-length animated cartoon, introduced in Disney's "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs," Avery says his studio has dropped plans to make one based on Rip Van Winkle.
It's a costly process. Just an ordinary cartoon of 700 feet requires the work of 78 people from the time the director goes into a huddle with four gag men until it comes out on the screen.
Avery's dream is for two-reeler animated cartoons which would give sufficient footage to tell a story And why not?
Cartoons are rapidly nosing comedies out of the picture. May they start next on the lousy band shorts the public has to endure.
HOMEWARD BOUND
Mr. and Mrs. Avery, visiting his aunt, Mrs. H. C. Meacham, 1100 Elizabeth Boulevard, will head homeward via the Grand Canyon in a few days. They met when Avery worked on Oswald the Rabbit cartoons for Universal and she was one of the inkers.
The next Merrie Melody to show here will be "The Major Lied 'Til Dawn" Saturday at the Worth.

Finally, something completely removed from animation. The Los Angeles Evening Citizen-News of March 7, 1949 published the picture you see to the right of Tex and Patricia Avery winning a prize freezer for their House of Today.

Our post is done. Un-sad ending, isn’t it.

My thanks to Devon Baxter for supplying the Tex photos.

Turning Animation Into Apple Sauce

“The Greatest Man in Siam” shows how fast he is. He shoots an arrow, which cuts to him running, skidding to a stop, magically growing an apple tree, putting an apple on his head, which the arrow goes through.



More magic. He produces a bowl to catch the saucy remains of the apple, tosses it away and poses victoriously.



Any bets this is an Emery Hawkins scene?

Pat Matthews gets an animation credit for his work on the sensuous Miss X. Art Heinemann drew the layouts and Phil De Guard painted the backgrounds for director Shamus Culhane. There are some hokey signs, meaning Bugs Hardaway wrote part of this cartoon (with Milt Schaffer). Harry Lang provides voices. Keith Scott has sent a note that the B-O bass singer is Harry Stanton, who sang that on Lifebuoy radio jingles.

This March 1944 short was reissued Sept. 11, 1950.

Producer Walter Lantz was forced to change the girls name from “Miss X” because censors thought people would slur the name to “Miss Sex.” Lantz decided to have a contest to rename her. Motion Picture Daily of April 22, 1944 reported Lantz had received 5,000 entries, mostly from exhibitors. Showmen’s Trade Review of July 1st reported Miss Eleanor Lukofsky of the Commerford Circuit, Scranton, Pa. was awarded a $100 for the new name, Miss XTC. I’ll bet that didn’t go down with the censors. The name was never used on screen, and the dancing harem girl lasted only two cartoons before Lantz backed down to the ire of bluenoses.

Fresh!

A snake gets a mischievous idea in Insultin’ the Sultan, a 1934 Ub Iwerks cartoon.



The snake rubs up against Willie Whopper’s leg. Garsh! He thinks it’s Mary doing it. He’s complimented.



It does the same thing to Mary. She thinks it’s Willie doing it. She’s annoyed. The second time it happens, she looks down and realises a snake is responsible. Then a take.



Mary always seems to be getting rescued in these Willie Whopper shorts, like in this one. Mary looks like a West Coast cousin to Fleischer’s Betty Boop. Ex-Fleischerites get credits on this short, Grim Natwick and Berny Wolf for animation and Art Turkisher for the score.

Are You Smarter Than a Game Show Contestant?

Game shows have several appeals which have made them evergreens on TV (and on radio before that). We like to guess along with the contestants (Some people actually shout answers at the TV. This is pointless). Or we like to see if the panelists can ferret out the correct answer. And we always like to see ordinary people like us get free stuff.

The game has to be easy enough to understand and there has to be chemistry among the people on the show.

Game shows occasionally fall out of favour at network executive suites. In 1973, they were back in. “The Match Game” and “The Price is Right” had been revived. “The $10,000 Pyramid” debuted and viewers were caught up in the suspense. “The Joker’s Wild” and “Gambit” were still new. And old favourites such as “Sale of the Century,” “Hollywood Squares,” “Password” and “Let’s Make a Deal” continued to attract viewers.

A columnist for the Montreal Gazette flipped around the dial and recorded what he saw in a column dated November 7, 1973. His conclusion was the same as many others—the questions weren’t hard but people still got them wrong (asking Americans about Canada was one sure way to get an incorrect answer).

Could you do better?
Those gamey game shows
By BILL MANN
of The Gazette
Probably the most interesting thing about television game shows is that you, the viewer, can sit back, watch them at home and sneer at the contestants, at the same time telling yourself that YOU could clean up if you could ever get on the show.
Game shows soap operas are daytime TV's tried-and-true 1-2 punch, and this season's quizzers bring some familiar faces back to TV. Here's a look at some of the most popular U.S. network shows, the degree of difficulty of their questions, and the plausibility of their existences.
First one on in the morn is The Joker's Wild, and the host of this show is none other than Jack Berry [sic], the perennial TV emcee.
In fact, I was looking at a TV nostalgia book the other day and Barry's photo was one of the first in it: he emceed a show called Juvenile Jury back in 1947 when few people had TV sets.
The Joker's Wild revolves around a rigged slot machine, and the questions are not the hardest.
The category for one question yesterday was "Wonders of the World." The question: "A giant statue of the god Helios once stood in the harbor of a Greek island. Name the island."
The answer they were looking for was something dealing with the Colussus of Rhodes. The constantant's Greek Island answer was "Catalia?"
Another typical question yesterday was in a Greek vein: "What is the one-letter (a hint) title of a recent political movie about Greece!" A deaf Canadian is about the only one who could have gotten in trouble on that one (If he'd said, "Eh?").
Yesterday, one contestant lost out on on opportunity to win an air conditioner. Said Barry jokingly, and rhetorically, "You didn't need a room air conditioner anyway, did you, Dave?"
"No," said the contestant with absolutely straight face. "I really didn't. . ."
Another question that got by not one, but both contestants yesterday was: "Shakespeare said that what is the better part of valor?" (One answer given was "braver?")
The Joker's Wild doesn't give out much money, either.

Following that on CBS is The $10,000 Pyramid, host of which is old rock 'n' roller Dick Clark, his Pepsodent smile more lustrous than ever for the housewives. $10,000 is a lot of money for any game show, but, wouldn't you know it, both contestants won it in the same show the other day.
Another mid-morning show is Gambit (also on CBS), which is basically the game of black jack with a Iegit-souding name. Host of this one is the only man with a broader smile than Bert Parks, Wink (wanna bet that's not his real name?) Martindale.
Here's the hidden irony of this card-game show: Martindale had a hit record in the 50's called Deck of Cards, which I've never heard mentioned on the show.
The questions here are ridiculously easy. But one that seems easy here got by a married couple the other day:
Martindale: "Newfoundland is in: Iceland, Greenland, or Canada?"
Couple (after consultation): "Iceland?"
Yesterday morning, Martindale had another Canadian content question: "Montreal is Canada's largest city. Is it or is it not Canada's capital?"
Couple (after lengthy consultation, with worried looks): "Yes?"
Here's another sample question from yesterday's show: "The Astrodome is located in which city: Los Angeles, Houston, or Dallas?"
Hollywood Squares, (on NBC), a show entering its eighth year this month, is emceed by the wide-grinned Peter Marshall. Only one trouble with this show that's shown both daytime and night: the other day, two of the nine "squares" on the show are now deceased: Wally Cox and Betty Grable, or 22 per cent of the panel. Cox died many months ago.
Cliff Arquette ("Charlie Weaver") is always asked questions about his specialty (he's an American history buff), but another regular, Paul Lynde, has been the man in the middle for years, and it's his ad libs that make the show worth watching.
The other day, Marshall asked: "Art Linkletter said he was offered a U.S. government job by Richard Nixon, but turned it down." (Real answer is Ambassador to Australia). Lynde screwed up his face in his special way and ventured: "To dress David Eisenhower?"
Yesterday, Marshall asked Lynde: "What has the U.S. had more of, Presidents or Vice-Presidents?" Lynde's ad lib: "I've had enough of both."
Big prize on the show is The Secret Square (A Chevy Vega seems to be the grand prize on every daytime show), and even if the other questions on Hollywood Squares are easy, The Secret Square question is usually something about binomial equations or The Treaty of The Council of Trent. Not easy.
Match Game '73 (on CBS) is probably the loosest show on television. Host is Gene Rayburn, who emceed the same show in the early 60's (after Dough Re Mi, remember?)
The questions are leading, to say the least. Celebrities fill in the blanks, and Rayburn lets them have plenty of rope. Sample of yesterday's queries:
" 'Marvin's no fun'," said Kathy. " 'We went to a drive-in last night and all he wanted to do was BLANK'." Or, Kermit always has to hold onto his toupee while he and Hortense are BLANKing'."
Or (also from yesterday's ribald show): "The sultan's 50 wives went on strike, saying we really need more than one BLANK'."
And some of the contestants and celebrities DO write down the obvious answers, if euphemistically. Rayburn also pushes stage settings around, laughs a lot, and keeps the show very loose.
Earlier this week, the question went: "A little birdie perched up on Dick's window, so he BLANKED it."
Three of the celebrities filled in the blank with "Shot," which probably says something about the American psyche.