I'm Half Scotch-irish On Both Sides, And

The Worst Disgrace That Can Befall A Producer Is An Unkind Notice From A New York Reviewer. When This Happens, The Producer Becomes A Pariah In Hollywood. He Is Shunned By His Friends, Thrown Into Bankruptcy, And Like A Japanese Electing Hara-kiri, He Commits Suttee.

Nature, It Appears, Has Been Rather More Bountiful To Paul's Body And Purse Than To His Intellect; Above The Ears, Speaking Bluntly, The Boy Is Strictly Tapioca.

Fate Was Dealing From The Bottom Of The Deck.

Freedley: Will I Feel Better After I Take It? Dr. Fitch (coldly): I, Am A Physician, Freedley, Not An Astrologer. If You Want A Horoscope, There's A Gypsy Tearoom Over On Lexington Avenue.

I Guess I'm Just An Old Mad Scientist At Bottom. Give Me An Underground Laboratory, Half A Dozen Atom-smashers, And A Beautiful Girl In A Diaphanous Veil Waiting To Be Turned Into A Chimpanzee, And I Care Not Who Writes The Nation's Laws.