Funny Letters From Famous People

by Charles Osgood

  I have also tacked up soap dishes, coat hangers, and put some brads in a quaking chair. I say “tacked up” advisedly. We’ll still only be here two months and I see no reason why I should waste energy, which I am bound to need in later life, actually nailing up fixtures. Should anything collapse, through some faux pas of a guest, one of those “Oh, I didn’t know it was tacked up” incidents, I shan’t feel obliged to worry about it. We are doing our best to discourage guests. My brother spent the weekend with us and left tonight ill from exposure and undernourishment. If he will only get mad enough to talk about his experience around home, we may be able to scare off any prospective cadgers and callers.

  I addressed the mice, on the day of arrival. I put it to them squarely that it was up to them to look to the Maine Society for the Preservation and Culture of Rodents for sustenance. I have no intention of having a lot of those sneaky mice pimping in the kitchen. I’ll keep them out if I have to go downstairs at night and mew for an hour or so before going to bed. I have put a scarecrow in front of the package of bran since learning that crows, faced with a corn shortage, have turned to puffed rice, and other breakfast foods.…

  I hoped to write several scenes here but my aunts are coming for a rest which I need more than they do and then [wife] Portland’s kid sisters are coming which means a period of bedlam and waiting to get into the bathroom. Life is futile and the man who wears a toupée should take his hat off to no one.…

  Allen’s letter to the New York Insurance Department reads like a detailed treatment for an elaborate slapstick sequence in a Buster Keaton movie:

  June 18, 1932

  Dear Sir:

  The soullessness of corporations is something to stun you.… I went around last Sunday morning to a new house that is being built for me. On the top floor I found a pile of bricks which were not needed there. Feeling industrious, I decided to remove the bricks. In the elevator shaft there was a rope and a pulley, and on one end of the rope was a barrel. I pulled the barrel up to the top, after walking down the ladder, and then fastened the rope firmly at the bottom of the shaft. Then I climbed the ladder again and filled the barrel with bricks. Down the ladder I climbed again, five floors, mind you, and untied the rope to let the barrel down. The barrel was heavier than I was and before I had time to study over the proposition, I was going up the shaft with my speed increasing at every floor. I thought of letting go of the rope, but before I had decided to do so I was so high that it seemed more dangerous to let go than to hold on, so I held on.

  Halfway up the elevator shaft I met the barrel of bricks coming down. The encounter was brief and spirited. I got the worst of it but continued on my way toward the roof—that is, most of me went on, but much of my epidermis clung to the barrel and returned to earth. Then I struck the roof the same time the barrel struck the cellar. The shock knocked the breath out of me and the bottom out of the barrel. Then I was heavier than the empty barrel, and I started down while the barrel started up. We went and met in the middle of our journey, and the barrel uppercut me, pounded my solar plexus, barked my shins, bruised my body, and skinned my face. When we became untangled, I resumed my downward journey and the barrel went higher. I was soon at the bottom. I stopped so suddenly that I lost my presence of mind and let go of the rope. This released the barrel which was at the top of the elevator shaft and it fell five floors and landed squarely on top of me, and it landed hard too.

  Now, here is where the heartlessness … comes in. I sustained five accidents in two minutes. One on my way up the shaft, when I met the barrel of bricks, the second when I met the roof, the third when I was descending and I met the empty barrel, the fourth when I struck the barrel, and the fifth when the barrel struck me. But the insurance man said that it was one accident not five and instead of receiving payment for injuries at the rate of five times $25, I only get one $25 payment. I, therefore, enclose my policy and ask that you cancel the same as I made up my mind that henceforth I am not to be skinned by either barrel or/and my insurance company.

  Yours sincerely and regretfully,

  Fred Allen

  This letter by Allen to syndicated gossip columnist Earl Wilson is practically a succession of one-liners, all in Allen’s bizarre typography:

  dear earl …

  sorry I can’t write a guest column for you. column writing isn’t my metier. (metier is french for racket) i could never be a bistro balzac, a saloon sandburg, or a diva de maupassant.

  An m.c. on a quiz program once told me that einstein knows more about space than any columnist. i told him that a columnist fills more space in a week than einstein can hope to fill in a lifetime. einstein keeps going for years with one lousy theory. to weather a day, you need two columns of facts.

  and what facts! i could never take your place.

  with gay abandon you write of falsies and girdles and elaborate on their contents. i blush when i see breast of chicken on a menu. the first time i saw jane russell i wondered how she got her kneecaps up in her sweater.

  … you are welcomed at all of the fine eating places. mr. billingsly, they say, carries you over the threshold of his stork club nightly.

  the last time i ate in lindy’s the tongue in my sandwich gave me the raspberry through a small hole in the top slice of bread. when i complained to lindy he put his head in the sandwich and gave me another raspberry through a small hole in the bottom slice of bread.

  when you walk down broadway, you meet scores of interesting people.

  when i walk down broadway I meet jack benny or some other actor who is out of work.

  the nights you go into toots shor’s, oscar levant, between sips of coffee, is bellowing epigrams. to wit: “i ran myself through an adding machine today and found that i didn’t amount to much.”

  the nights i go into shor’s toots is generally talking to himself in a low voice. i can’t even hear what he is saying. the only time i could hear him, toots was mumbling, “why you big crum bum, you’re so stupid you think yellow jack is chinese money.”

  when you go to an opening, noel coward stops you at intermission and regales you with the story that is currently sweeping london. to wit: the one about the young innocent girl whose father told her about the flowers but neglected to tell her about the b’s. the girl went to hollywood and made three bad pictures.

  the last opening i attended (life with father) a guy named dwight gristle, who was selling black market tassels, told me a broken down gag about a new cheese store—it was called “limberger heaven.”

  how could i ever get enough good jokes together to be “earl for a day?”

  last night, i walked around town. here’s what happened to me.

  at the health food store, on 50th street, i saw a sign “hubert frend has switched to yogurt.”

  at the copa, jack eigan told me about the latest in hollywood styles: an undertaker is featuring a suede coffin.

  at the automat, jack haley told me about the picture star who thought he was a banana. his psychiatrist found the picture star had a split personality. his is the first banana split personality on record.

  you can see, earl, the whole thing is futile. i can never be a columnist. I know the wrong people. i hear the wrong things. i go to the wrong places.

  i will end up like the old man who lived in the cannon for twenty years—he was always hoping to be a big shot, but he never quite made it.

  sorry to have let you down with the guest column.

  regards …

  fred allen

  In May 1945, as World War II was winding down, Allen wrote Broadway director and hit comedy writer Abe Burrows, on the occasion of Burrows’s resignation from the Duffy’s Tavern radio program.

  dear freelance …

  we read that you had resigned from the duffy’s tavern enterprises. i think you have made a smart move. like the infantry frank loesser mentions in his song about roger young, there is no glory in radio. if norman corwin had done the work he has done in radio in any other medium he would
have morganthau’s hand in his pocket and a standing in the theater or in hollywood that would be enviable. the excellent work you have done in radio, apart from the satisfaction you have gotten, the money you have earned, and the opportunity you have had to experiment with ideas to perfect your technique, is transient. in pictures, or in the theater, you can work less, make as much money, and acquire a reputation that will mean something. a radio writer can only hope for ulcers or a heart attack in his early forties. with few exceptions radio is a bog of mediocrity where little men with carbon minds wallow in sluice of their own making. for writers with talent and ideas, after it has served its purpose as a training ground, radio is a waste of creative time. good luck to you in new fields of endeavor, mr. b., long may you gambol!

  recently a hollywood reporter mentioned that a mr. abe burrows was cutting a social dove-wing out there and that claudette colbert wouldn’t think of giving a party without a caterer and this burroughs. we assume that with this nature spelling you are attending claudette incognito. i hope you have the piano shawl in the act. if you can’t get one of those shawls you might get a navajo blanket. an indian blanket with a. burrows sewed on in birchbark would attract attention before you gained the piano. i am working on a new cellophane sheet of music. this will enable the pianist to look through his music and see how people are reacting to his efforts. many times an entertainer is singing his heart out and behind his music guests are holding their noses or doing acrostics. with the cellophane music sheet the guest will know that the soloist can see him and he will act accordingly. I have another invention you may want later. this is a time stink bomb that explodes in the foyer as guests walk out on the singer. the odor drives the guests back into the room until the artist concludes his program. let me know if you are in the market for any of these parlor devices.

  yours until hitler’s body is found …

  f. allen

  now that mussolini is dead the devil at least has a straightman.

  Groucho Marx and Fred Allen

  DURING THE EARLY 1950s, Groucho Marx and his friend Fred Allen had quite a wily exchange of letters, mostly revolving around their involvements in the radio and the advent of television. Like all great correspondence, these letters really take on a life of their own. Here are some priceless excerpts (note that Allen continued to make highly erratic—and characteristic—use of capitalization):

  Groucho wrote, on March 20, 1950:

  I am beginning to regard myself as the kiss of death to any branch of the amusement industry. When I reached big-time vaudeville it immediately began to rot at the seams. During the days when I was a movie actor, no theater could survive unless it gave away dishes, cheese and crackers, and, during Lent, costume jewelry. I remember one midnight leaving the Marquis Theater in Hollywood after a triple feature with two pounds of Gold Meadow butter, a carton of Pepsi-Cola, and 12 chances on a soft water tank.

  And now I am having the same effect on radio.… I am now 5th in the national ratings, but who the hell is [getting polled]? I can’t find anyone who admits they still have a radio, let alone listens to one. Luckily, my sponsor’s employees are on strike so he has no way of knowing whether I am selling cars or not. The rich people, or potential car buyers, are the ones who have the television sets. The paupers, or schlepper crowd, still hang on to their portable radios, but unfortunately they’re not the ones who buy Chryslers and De Soto station wagons. So my guess is that as soon as the strike is settled, the Chrysler Corp. will ask me to move over to television. Little do they know that in a few short months I will have this new medium croaking its death rattle.

  Fred Allen’s reply, in part:

  i do not think you are the asp that has bestowed the kiss of death on vaudeville, the picture industry and radio. vaudeville committed suicide, the picture business ran out of adjectives and radio was thrown to the cretin. at the present time, your radio show is the only one that is mentioned by critics and listeners who, because they have dirty windows and cannot see the aerials of their neighbors’ roofs, do not know about television and still listen to radio. if you want to give television the buss of rigor mortis you had better hurry. after a few recent shows, dogs in this section have been dragging television sets out into the yards and burying them.

  In May 1951, Groucho wrote to Fred, taking more than a few hilarious jabs at the Easterner’s perception of California as a backwater:

  I was just about to answer your letter when word was flashed through Southern California that you were soon to arrive for one more assault against the motion picture industry, this time with Ginger Rogers. Well, if you have to go that’s the way to go.

  If you do come alone be sure to bring some fishing tackle, for my cellar leaks, and we can have a high old time down there, swapping stories and exchanging worms.

  … The May wine is just beginning to acquire its full body. You see, because of the difference in time, the wine you drink in the east early in the spring only comes into its full maturity here during the winter solstice. And the crops have been beautiful. The Lord, Fred, has been mighty good to us. We harvested enough corn not only for us, but for the [live]stock as well, and the syrup has been flowing as though it were possessed. Mother says I am blasphemous, but we all have to have our little joke. We look for a hard winter, for only yesterday I noticed an extra growth of fur on the left side of my upstairs maid, and that means the storms will soon be upon us.

  Other than this there is nothing to tell you. As you know, we miss the clump of your hobnailed boots on our eiderdown, and can only hope and pray that ere long Ethan Allen will give up that silly siege of Fort Ticonderoga and send you back to us. Well, I’m fagged out now so I guess I’ll turn in. Last night I spent almost the whole night shucking corn and mother says I’m not shuckin’ as well as I used to. I guess I must be getting on. Mother also said I’m not getting on as often as I used to. Well, that’s the way it goes.

  Love,

  Groucho

  P.S. The brood sow is with pig again.

  Later that year, Fred wrote to Groucho, chiding him for the irregularity of his correspondence:

  Dear Groucho:

  i know that you must derive much more pleasure dashing off a note to some old bag you hope to tree on your next trip east than you do writing to … me. there is an old legend written on the wall of the men’s room at the martha washington hotel. it reads—it is better to marry a young girl and satisfy her curiosity than to marry a widow and disappoint her.…

  Groucho retorted:

  Despite the fact that I regard myself as an extremely glamorous figure, I rarely receive any mail that would indicate that the fair sex, as a sex, has any interest in me. No cravats, no Johnson & Murphy shoes, no expensive stogies ever darken my mailbox. The following is a brief sampling of what nestles in my wastebasket this morning.

  The first envelope I opened was from a quack cruising under the pseudonym of Dr. Bendricks. Apparently he has seen me on TV, for he wrote that he could equip me with a new set of atomic glands. He calls his method the “Chemistry of Natural Immunity.” He said he was confident that these new glands would do the trick. I am not sure what trick he was referring to but it certainly sounded encouraging. Unfortunately, I have no idea who Bendricks is. Is he a reputable scientist? The whole thing is too much for me.…

  The next letter was from the proprietor of a Beverly Hills liquor store, and a gloomier prophet I have rarely read. He warned me that liquor prices were going sky high and that I had better lay away 30 or 40 cases of hard booze before war is officially declared. Since my drinking these days is confined to swallowing a thimbleful of cooking sherry each night before dinner, his letter left me in a fairly calm condition.

  The third letter was from the Continental Can Company, pleading with me to spend my proxy on my 100 shares of stock which, incidentally, have gone down seven points since I bought them. The letter pointed out, rather querulously I thought, that I was a stockholder in a giant and growing corporation, but that i
ts officers were helpless to proceed with the business at hand unless I was willing to cooperate and send in my proxy, and pronto. The whole company, they implied, was going to hell. Thousands of stockholders were sitting in a drafty auditorium in Wilmington, Delaware, unable to unseat the present officials unless they were morally strengthened by my proxy.

  The next letter was from the Electric Bond and Share Company (in case you’ve forgotten, this is the uptown equivalent of Goldman-Sachs). In 1929 this outfit reduced my bank account by $38,000. Unfortunately, through some confusion in the bookkeeping department, I find myself 21 years later, still the owner of one-half share. In case you are not too familiar with current Wall Street prices, an entire share can be purchased for $1.10. They, too, were after my proxy. I have tried many times to dispose of this shrunken security. One year in desperation I even sent them the half share, special delivery and registered, but a few days later it came back—this time to make matters worse, with six cents postage due. One year I destroyed the God-damned stock, but it didn’t faze EB&S one bit. I am on their books and apparently they are determined to keep me there—at least until the next market crash.

  The next was a letter from AFRA. They pointed out that I was some months behind in my dues and unless the money was forthcoming in the near future they were planning on pulling out the musicians, stage hands, cameramen, electricians, studio policemen, and an ex-vice president of radio who stands in front of NBC giving away free ducats for Spade Cooley.