﻿An Old Custom Improved Might Help Producers 
By T-BONE SLIM 
 
Consistency, thou art a jewel! 
We plow our own stuff under and then we buy the surpluses of Latin America? 
Muchacho, spare the plow!0 
I am not criticizing, I merely shake my head and murmur, “Nobody home, but somebody may move in.” 
Reasonably, if the buy is for that purpose, England will pay a good price for those surpluses, and we will clear a king’s ransom (strictly according to blueprints). But, on the other hand, if the purpose is to prevent them from getting into Adolf’s hands, the scheme is all wet, and we are loaded down with excess ballast. 
It’s all based on conjecture. I think we are sticking our necks too far. 
USA can supply England’s needs without importing a single pound—just pay the price. 
Good neighbor policy is not at issue and the purchase should not be considered a bribe. Also it would be unjust to insinuate that the forced purchase is to aid our own nationals whose industrial foot strayed to those distant shores. All told, I think our natives should back home and give a look the needs of THIS country—our land. 

On the cuff: 
War industry, booms; consumer goods, pine; durable goods, on and off; market, dull; grain, skidding (Canadian wheat pegged at 70 cents). Nothing uniform or consistent or constant. Looks like curtains. 

Hitler assures England that he doesn’t want to destroy the British Empire. (And Hitler doesn’t lie with every breath). British eyes fairly twinkle in appreciation of this magnaminous information. So if England gets destroyed, it’s some consolation to know it’s strictly against Adolf’s will. Yeah. 
What surprises me—where did the tight little isle get her gigantic navy. Surely it didn’t come from chiseling in the overseas possessions? Perish the thought. 

Seagoing fireman has it that, the social setup years ago was better. He said the rule was that if you wasn’t working, you didn’t eat at the first table. Children always ate at the second table when the lord and master got through; and slim pickings it was, too. But when Johnny got a job he immediately moved to the first table and the best chair in the house was shoved under him. If he lost his job, his plate disappeared from the first table and Johnny stood in astonishment with his finger in his mouth. 
Sometimes it happened that the old man himself lost his job and then there was hell to pay. A rule is a rule, and he had to take pot luck with the unemployed of his family at the second table, for Flora and Jeremiah and Vermilyea were working and rated first crack. 
He says that years ago granddad had to oat in the corner with a wooden spoon and one day, when little Willie had his longue between his teeth whittling at a piece of wood, his father asked him jokingly: “What are you making, William?” 
The little urchin replied, “I’m making you a wooden spoon.” 
There was thunder and lightning! Stars flickered and died! But, the fireman assured us, the employers do better than that. They have a rule that “if you don’t work, you don’t eat at all—first or last.” 
“So,” he muses with a far-away look in his eyes, “if you suddenly hear the parasites have quit eating you will know it is because they have no job.” 
Considerable circumvention, however, is accomplished in certain quarters “to beat the system, and it is even said that “hoboes farm by night and fish by day—s crude form of social endeavor. 
Tradition’s defenders are looking into this and are hoping to yoke them up to a more modern economic setup, mass production. 
Over there: 
If the warring nations starve they will be doing it amidst plenty, as is evinced by the fact that the best eaters are eliminated in the course of military moves, and many others can’t hold anything on their stomachs—hence much of the speculation is baseless, oven so as the presumption that our war expenditures are more that “made work may offset the gradual recession in trade that is both imminent and actual. 
I can’t see the pick-up; it’s a situation wherein man climbs out of a deep crevasse 30 feet a day and slips back 20 feet a night. 
Old age catches up with him and he dies—in the crevasse. 
Herr Hitler says that he only wanted to shake hands across the border—”and I’ll be damned,” sez he, “if those numbskulls over there didn’t start shooting at me.” (Then he went into his dance.) 

Our Commander-in-Chief. Presi- dent Roosevelt, would be doing a graceful deed and an act of mercy if he would give us the low-down on the Chicago battle. 

The expatriates who are hotfooting it to “New Yoick” are not doing so because of cold feet, Oh, no—nor because of Heinie’s bombs or Heinkles. (Note: Brooklynites would rather cut their throats than say “York.”) 

Britain’s baled “griddle cakes” have 3000 miles of sea air to hurdle before they are introduced to syrup. 

Bahamas are all “up in the air”‘ as to how to greet Royal Eddie and Royal Wally. 

New battleship, North Carolina, cost us a dollar a pound. I once bought native veal steak at 65 cents a pound. It’s the upkeep, pals. 

Our two major political parties are soo much similar that some of the political pillars can’t seem to find their proper stalls. Knox and Stimson are in the hands of the enemy and according to press reports, Willkie is unsure whether he’s running GOP or Democratic—or just running. Wallace recalss that his father was a Republican. All else is blank. 
Why didn’t you ask the labor leader if you could go on strike?” 
“Because we wanted to strike.”