Full text: The little review (12 (1926), 1)

39 
“Extra, extra, latest out, comely chorus girl kills married 
banker. Read all about it. Rich hot spicy stuff. Extra, extra, 
get a extra this one.” People pushing, elbowing, squeezing 
through the changing crowd of life to buy the extra hot spicy 
rich double life stuff. Two airplanes collide three thousand feet 
up, one falls into the street the other on top of a skyscraper. No 
one hurt, another modern miracle. 
Two pretty blonde women get into a fight and have a regular 
hair pulling contest before a big crowd of graded life’s rubber 
necks. Said one, “You’ll go to hell for this, damn you, don’t you 
know he’s married?” And the other said, “O, rats, to hell with 
it, that’s nothing, I am married too.” Two cops rush up and 
rush in and pinch the two blondes with a free auto ride, and soon 
another extra is out, another triangle hair pulling contest. Little 
Italy the boot black on the corner did a rushing business brush 
ing unfortunate men clean, guilty and innocent, of blonde hairs. 
In and out the crowd were giddy girls, freakish dudes, bums, 
beggars, drunks, society women, bankers, merchants, junkmen 
and icemen this hot day. 
In the crowd was an old gray haired crippled woman bent 
with age and in her misery, among good and evil the acts of life 
mostly double sham. She had by her side a dirty white panting 
dog that wandered in among the wandering crowd of life acts 
of good and evil mostly sham. 
A freakish dude youth with his pretty face blonde girl with 
freckles, foggy blue eyes, an artificial form on flimsy loud rags 
come walking along the street nearly down town where traffic 
and human life was jamming and jagging fast and slowly along, 
came to the changing crowd of life, stopped and worked their 
way into it alongside the old woman and dirty white panting 
dog. Stood there paying no attention to the singing, but rub 
bered around and were talking foolish like two born illfated 
fools of lost destiny. The dirty dog rubbed against his creased 
white pants, he kicks and curses it, takes his silk handkerchief 
wipes the dirt off then his mouth off, turns around and said to 
freckles his giddy blonde gal, “Come on, that woman in there 
singing is a little bit off and funny. She’s a nut.” His blondy 
gal freckles with foggy blue eyes, an artificial form on flimsy 
loud rags giggled loud and cruel then said, “That’s so, come on.” 
Just then a drunken bum bumped into her and nearly bumped 
her down and she said, “Away you old dopey stew or I’ll have 
your crazy nibs pinched.” 
The freakish stormy dude with his giddy gal was the son of 
the old gray haired cripple woman bent with age aside the dirty 
white panting dog and the giddy girl with the freakish stormy 
dude was the daughter of the woman singing, her mother with
	        
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