DEMS VS. REPS
The presidential candidates have enlisted professional athletes as vote getters. There are sportsmen for Nixon and for Kennedy out on the hustings, talking about double plays, double faults and right crosses and then slipping in plugs for their man.
Nixon apparently has cornered the market on jockeys (Arcaro, Atkinson, Longden), tennis players (Talbert, Trabert, MacKay) and golfers (Hogan, Snead, Casper). Kennedy is strong with pro football men (Unitas, Van Brocklin, Lipscomb) and boxers (Braddock, Walcott, Fullmer). The baseball vote is split: Mays, Musial, DiMaggio for Kennedy; Groat, Williams, Banks for Nixon. Nixon has no basketball player, but Kennedy has Cousy. On the other hand, Nixon has Weissmuller, and Kennedy has no swimmers.
As Harry Balogh used to say, "May the superior adversary emerge victorious."
THE KING IS DEAD
From Leipzig's Chess Olympics last week came proof the Communists cannot be all bad. The East Germans, inspired by dialectical materialism and the October Revolution, have redesigned the chess pieces. The king is no longer a king; he is a "worker reading a Communist economic plan." The queen is a "female scientist with her hair in a bun." The bishop is "a relay runner." The castle is "a factory worker with a submachine gun." The pawns are ordinary workers.
This will make the teaching of chess much simpler. To start a young chessnik off, you simply tell him that the worker reading a Communist economic plan may move in any direction one space at a time. The female scientist with her hair in a bun may move in any direction any number of spaces. The idea of the game is to line up your relay runners and factory workers with submachine guns and your lady scientist with her hair in a bun and surround the worker reading a Communist economic plan so that he cannot move. We predict a resurgence of this grand old game.
BEAST OF THE WILDWOOD
In the wilds of New Jersey the most hated animal is the raccoon. He comes on little raccoon feet in the dark of night, scavenging the succulent leavings from exurbia's festive board. Once having clattered his way into a garbage can, he proceeds to scatter the leavings all over the crab grass. He is the death of sleep.
The other night a New Jersey commuter was just starting to put on his pajamas when he heard the familiar sounds of a coon at work. The citizen grabbed up his trusty Czech air rifle and a handful of pellets. He rushed out the back door, completely nude, and drew a bead on the coon (which just sat there staring him down).