Word: dished
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...owner of a collection of some 5,000 cook books (in all languages), which he has been assembling since his 18th year. He carries on considerable correspondence with dealers around the world, and has turned a nice profit on some of his choicer finds. His favorite dish: beef a la Stroganoff ("a very fast dish once you have everything...
...Charles MacPherson, who is a mixed incarnation of Hearst, McCormick and Rasputin. He sends little Harry Smith to Moscow with orders to write a book on ten reasons why the Russians want war. However, relates Hero Smith: "In Russia I became ashamed of myself-of all us people who dish up poison to Americans with their breakfast every morning." Result: Smith returns with a book on ten reasons why the Russians don't want war, and is promptly fired. On top of that, his pretty wife (played by Valentina Serova, Playwright Simonov's wife) prepares to leave...
...censors, Fred's cup of wrath floods the entire industry. "The scales have not been invented," he says, "fine enough to weigh the grain of sincerity in radio." And, "Everything in radio is as valuable as a butterfly's belch." Network vice presidents are his favorite dish. They are "a bit of executive fungus that forms on a desk that has been exposed to conference." Their conferences are "meetings of men who singly can do nothing, but collectively agree that nothing can be done...
Later, little Willie sickened and died: "Yes, my darling, impossible as it seems, our precious little soldier boy has been taken away." Later still, to forestall Yankee marauders, "I took my silver sugar dish, cream pot, bowl, forks and spoons and put them into the legs of a pair of your drawers . . . tying up each leg at the ankle and buckling the band around my waist. They hung under, and were concealed by, my hoops. It did well while I sat still, but as I walked . . . the clanking destroyed all hope of concealment. ... I could not restrain my laughter, which...
...Hiya cat, wipe ya feet on the mat, let's slap on the fat and dish out some scat. You're a prisoner of wov, W-O-V, 1280 on the dial, New York, and you're picking up the hard spiel and good deal of Fred Robbins, dispensing seven score and ten ticks of ecstatic static and spectacular vernacular from 6:30 to 9 every black on the 1280 Club. . . . We got stacks of lacquer crackers on the fire, so hang out your hearing flap while His Majesty salivates a neat reed...