CURRENT COMMENT

Taranaki Daily News, 2 December 1933, Page 1 (Supplement)

CURRENT COMMENT

OTHER POINTS OF VIEW

(By

M.O.S.)

The golden fleece. * *

And, touching Parliament’s bonus, there seems to be a different sort of fleece in the offing.

It is enough to make the taxpayer wonder what on earth Parliament will dare to bonus for next.

“The “Faith of Australia” delay could have been avoided perhaps if the ’plane was equipped with an umbrella.

Dunedin’s celebrated nudists, in this land of propriety, seem to be looking for a place in the shun. « * * #

This week’s juicy story: The Patea fire-engine that stopped at a garage for benzine on the way to a fire.

If. Eltham really does start another opposition lunch club, we trust that no one will suggest calling it the counterlunch dub.

The Taranaki farmer, we are led to believe, would like England to stop talking about quotas, and make the price of Danish and Russian butter absolutely tarrific.

An old proverb will have to be altered to conform to modern conditions, for if you give American mobs too much rope they hang—not, themselves but someone else.

The papers are so full of Germany’s varied activities that we suggest renaming the days of the week, Hunday, Gunday, Jewsday, Weddingsday, Herrsday, Spyday, Saarday.

The Hawera resident -yvho went out to his garden late at night to protect his lettuces, from slugs and found that the lettuces had been stolen, must have felt like slugging the intruder.

The Ohara croquet club recently staged a "vice-versa” dance when the smart frocks’ worn by the "ladies” were equalled by the stylish attire donned by the "men.”—lt is understood that there was a commendable freedom from the spectacle of ’ young ladies being forced to consume liquor in motor-cars, and that none of the men, moreover, were hooped.

I was out at Okato the other day and met a farmer. After we had duly cursed the weather, which was both too dry and too ■ wet, the Central Bank bill, the Government for its treatment of Crown tenants (which the farmer described as d crowning shame) and the price of butterfat, we got to talking about Mr.Ulm and aeroplanes. Growing tired, and thinking to change the subject I asked him if he knew RossAlbert Ross—l woke up in the hospital. ' # * • Attaboy! (The Post and Telegraph department is attempting to make us say "Oh” instead of “nought” when asking exchange for a number.) “In the. good ol days, believe me or believe me not,” said Hiram, “the Government of a country was a highbrow institootion that thought it couldn’t be the bee’s knees unless it used long snoopy words that would give a bullfrog the blues. Instead of. getting together and having a real good heart-to-heart chat about the lil ol wurruld, the Governments had a lot of stiff-necked "conferences” and good ol Ramsie-boy would say to ol pal Hitler some sort of fluff like this:

“My Government, having given due consideration to the paramount need for mutual understanding between the nations, not forgetting, however, the need for sustaining the status quo and the recognition of the substance if not the letter of the Locarno pact, is prepared to open negotiations with Berlin as a preliminary step to the preliminary step of the exchange of views ’.between the individual governments to prepare the ground, on which the Disarmament Conference might attempt to resume the attempt to base the preliminary draft of a new convention which would be acceptable to both parties.” Wai now, I swann to Moses how in the name of jumping Jehosophat could the lil' ol wurruld ever get chummy like that.' Say if you wanna get matey with a guy wal you give him the glad-hand, give the ol mitt a good ol pump and say “It’s on me big boy, you’re the goods.” And that’s why I’m so doggone glad about this noo Post Office wheeze about pronouncing nort as O. I kinder reckon that that’s first step in jazzing us folks along a lil bit faster. Say, I wanna say right here and now that we wanna cut that dignity bunk and get right back to the good ol homely English language. Do you get me ? The Post Office has got the right dope and I’m rooting for ’em as hard as I can root. Attaboy ! * # * * - I Want to be a Platypus. . Oh, take me away, I’m tired of it all, The dullards that rise and the dollars that fall. Conversion of motors and tariffs and quotas' Are topics I find are beginning to pall. ’l want to be a platypus a-quacking at the moon . With a brood of platypussies to be nourished with a spoon; I want to be a platypus and platypush my way To a platyperfect heaven where the skies are never gray. Oh, take me away for it gives me the blues To study the wrongs they are doing the Jews, And murders and pinchings and riots and lynchings Are horrible things to regard in the news. I want to be a starfish in the middle of the sea With a starfishwife to love me and make eyes at me at tea; I want to be a starfish with a starfilled sort of soul And a starfilmstar to cheer me when the mournful billows roll. Oh, take me away for it fills me with grief To hear nothing but babble of mortgage relief; I don’t care a button for murder or mutton Or cockies or credit or battles or beef. I want to be a parsnip in a pleasant garden plot- . With a dainty little marsnip whos aware of what is what; I want to be a parsnip with a pars-; '" niplacid mind And .a parsnipretty lady who’ll be very very kind.