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In the frivolous flapper days of blackmarket booze and short-skirted women, a man knew where he stood. It was the era of the catalogued woman. Career girls were uninhibited, wives were faithful, and alimony was reserved for the little floosies who periodically married and divorced millionaire playboys as carless with their lucre as their love.
<p>Some say her real name is Norma Jean Baker. Others claim it's Norma Jeane Mortenson. Her measurements have been reported as 35" 24" 37", 37 1/2" 25" 37 1/2" and 37 1/2" 23" 37". Sometimes she's 5'4" tall and weighs 120 pounds, but she may shift unexpectedly to 5'5 1/2" and weigh in at 118.</p>
Dr. Alfred Kinsey and associates have just completed a very impressive, 1,000 page volume on sex. It's jam packed full of fascinating charts, figures, tables and graphs, and represents nearly five years of exacting, objective research. The drawings on these two pages are on the same subject and represent almost no research what soever. Dr. Kinsey makes sex seem very, very serious and oh, so scientific. Virgil Franklin Partch II just makes it funny as all hell--and personally, that's the way we prefer it.
Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally, he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction.
Green Eyes brought down the house. The kids had danced dreamily through I Hear A Rhapsody and clapped loud and long for Tangerine, but when the band swung into Green Eyes, with the male vocalist handling the first ballad chorus, a pert blonde singing the familiar jump version on the second, the whole place rocked. The little man in front of the orchestra was Jimmy Dorsey and these were the wonderful numbers that had made him famous.
One sunny afternoon in the autumn of the year 1861 a soldier lay in a clump of laurel by the side of a road in western Virginia. He lay at full length upon his stomach, his feet resting upon the toes, his head upon the left forearm. His extended right hand loosely grasped his rifle. But for the somewhat methodical disposition of his limbs and a slight rhythmic movement of the cartridge box at the back of his belt he might have been thought to be dead. He was asleep at his post of duty. But if detected he would be dead shortly afterward, death being the just and legal penalty of his crime.