Judge — December 26, 1931 — page 24: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

JUDGE ARRESES, SEP ING AND STOP REG AG HISTERY YRE GMES SANH Claus ANITH YOUR TR THINS AND Christmas Mourning Becomes O’Neill or Desire Under the Mistletoe Being Judge Junior’s None Too Merry Christmas Play (Written by Request—His Own) + is Christmas Eve in the igloo of the Mammons, ancient New E landers who made a fortune in Greek restaurants and have moved up into the Arctic Circle to give the play a setting in which Christmas Eve six months to elapse. mon goes about trimming an old hat- rack with large lumps of gloom. It will be the Christmas tree. The rest of the family is sitting around a de- pressed fireplace—getting on each other's nerves. The gas is on but the logs are unlit. The fireplace is hung with damp-looking stockings, full of holes. A sprig of poison ivy hangs over the door for mistletoe. Outside, a blizzard rages; banshees fill the air. This goes on for quite a while. When the audience gets into the mood of the thing and is beginning to enjoy itself, the play begins. Arrestes Mammon: old punk come? Electricia: How many times have I told you not to call Santy Claus an old punk, you young floop! Arrestes (from the bottom of his stomach): There is no Santy Claus. It’s your father. My father’s an old punk! Electricia: Silence! you Freudian spectacle! You must love your father! When will the Arrestes: I loathe father! mother! Electricia: love father! (They dance around singing, loathe father! I love mother!) Mrs. Mammon (cutting her way thru a large blue funk): Stop that, you two, or I'll cut off your inhibi tions. (Ielapsing back into a Rus- sian coma.) But when will he come? Tam burning up inside! Arrestes: Who, ma? Father? Electricia: No, you dope, not father—and not Santy Claus. It’s her boy friend she’s expecting! But he’s not coming. I've seen to it! The house is surrounded by polar bear traps! Mrs. M. (pulling out her nerves and letting them snap back with a loud whang!): Don't say that, you little brat, or I'll hand you lumps! Electricia: You daren't, you symp- tomaniac. I'd tell father. Arrestes: Stop wrangling! You're driving me crazy. (Song cue: “You're Driving Me Cuh-razy,” rendered by Harry Reser and his Clicquot Club Eskimos, who suddenly enter.) Electricia: You are crazy Arrestes: I’m not! I'm just an intramental sentrovert. I love I loathe mother! =I “] IG Mrs. M.: You're not. You were brought up a good Uni ian and if you don’t stop h ling him, El, I'l snort of hemlock. Electricia: O, you will, will you? (This sort of thing goes on for some time and the audience takes a few months off to do whatever it wishes. Most of it goes home, but those who stay © up later, tear a few pages off the calendar to find that compara- tive peace has descended on the Mammons. Ma cyanide soup for pap: is weeping into Electricia is shocks with the system.) Arreste: for Christmas, Ell Electricia: I hope to get a good swift kick at Ma's boy friend. Mrs. M. (muttering in her coma): pour you 4 is brewing Arrestes bucket; and giving herself house electric at do you hope to get FA WoT! 1m SN ot UY, OLD ArTeaMenray SENTRovERT! i - Cx 3 vi 74. Will Santy Claus never come? Arrestes: There is no Santy Claus. It’s your father. Besides, Peggy Joyce never married Santy Claus, so there is no Santy Claus, (Loud cries of “Phooey! That one’s too old for Eddie Cantor! Take him away!) Arrestes: O, all right, all right! But I hope I get a set of Lionel trains and a nice big poisoning outfit for Christmas. Mrs. M.: All J want is Santy Claus, him and his great rough whisk- ers. Electricia: Mother, “All you want is ‘he’—not ‘him’.” Mrs. M.: O. K., you grammar snob. But wouldn't I like to be alone with you and a good sharp kitchen your grammar: comicbooks.com