Word: cash
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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What about the dowdies? Those senseless frumps who haven't the instinct, or cash, to wear the right clothes? Mrs. Guinness advises a career for which a uniform is required. "A religious order would be infinitely the best choice." The woman who is not wild about convents can always settle down and start breeding. No one cares what she's wearing then. Even Mrs. Guinness admits that: "Fortunately, we do not have to have our clothes on when busy multiplying ourselves...
...Convention People's Party. Osagyefo recently told a visitor that he not only listened intently to the dissenting opinions of Ghana's "market mammies" but accepted them with alacrity: after all, the mammies control much of the nation's retail trade, hence hold much of its cash. The situation is familiar to any Madison Avenue man working on a consumer-goods account...
Treasure-Trove. Under the law, Mrs. Morris had a clear obligation to report her son's haul. And it was far from clear last week that the Morrises will be allowed to keep the cash. The "finders keepers, losers weepers" rule of thumb dates back to a celebrated case in 1722 when a British court held that a chimney sweep could keep a jewel he had found in a sooty flue. But over the years, specific exceptions to the old saying have been spelled out in an effort to clarify conflicts over accidentally discovered loot. Though practices vary widely...
...there is no shortage of disputants. Her landlord, Thomas Locascio, maintains that he owns the money, since it went with the $7,000, five-room frame house when he bought it from Nunzio Calcagno in 1962. Calcagno, who now lives in California, has filed a suit claiming that the cash belongs to him; tucked among the bills were envelopes bearing the name of his dead uncle Joseph. Arguing that the money was only misplaced, not lost, Calcagno said that Uncle Joe on his deathbed warned against selling the building because "the house is rich." Summit County has slapped a lien...
...Freudian pratfall. It makes a shambles of psychiatry and brings the art of film close to idiocy. Stuart Whitman is hired to bluff his way into a mental hospital where Psychotic Killer Roddy McDowall may or may not reveal the location of $1,000,000 in stolen cash. But malevolent Psychiatrist Lauren Bacall also craves money, to continue her research. When she hits on Whitman's game, she prescribes electroshock therapy, then injects a concoction into his jugular vein to induce catatonia...