This page is dedicated to everybody in the United States who habitually spends weekday afternoons reading, writing, walking, talking, ditch-digging, tea-dancing or otherwise not watching television programs, for Aloise B. Heath, between whom and her duty nothing is allowed to interfere, just happens tobeina position to tell all these lucky people what they are spared.
The first program these privileged people don’t see on weekday afternoons is a painful little comedy called My Little Margie, which, last Wednesday, showed in approximately fifty-four labored little scenes how Margie and Daddy were having this feud and how they each had a lawyer to tell them their legal rights and how Daddy stopped Margie’s allowance on advice of counsel and how Margie sent Daddy a bill for her housework on advice of counsel (everything was on advice of counsel, see?) and then Margie rented a room to a seal-trainer and then… Well, I did find out that it’s from Margie that the Heath children got that revolting habit of saying “buddabudda-budda,” when they’re caught in flagrante delicto, so it was with. equanimity, say, that I settled down to A Day in Court at two o’clock.
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