WILCOX:

The Johnson's Wax program.

MUSIC

WILCOX:

The makers of Johnson's Wax and Johnson's self-polishing Glo-Coat present "Fibber McGee and Molly."

MUSIC:

INTERLUDE

WILCOX:

A few weeks ago we announced a sensational new labor-saving product, a double-action cleaner and wax polish for automobiles called Johnson's Car-Nu. C-A-R-N-U. Since then, unsolicited letters have been pouring in from listeners everywhere who say that Johnson's Car-Nu is even easier to use, gives more wonderful results, than they believed possible. Some of these comments are from women who wax-polish their own cars without help. Now, if you want your car to take on a brilliant gleaming polish, you want the finish to look as bright as it did the day it was new, then get a can of Johnson's Car-Nu at once. Remember this is a double-action cleaner: it cleans and wax-polishes your car in one simple, easy operation. The liquid is quickly and easily applied. It dries almost immediately to a white powder. Wipe off the powder and off goes the old, dirty film. Streaks and stains disappear like magic. Your car shines like a mirror without any hard rubbing. Why, the whole job can be done in an hour. Johnson's Car-Nu is for sale at filling stations, auto supply stores, garages, and at your regular wax dealers. Try it, and you'll agree your car looks like new when you use Car-Nu.

MUSIC:

BRIDGE

WILCOX:

Well, Fibber is determined to find out just what sort of guy he really is. Of course he could ask people, but Fibber was never one to stick his neck out unnecessarily. So here in the living room of 79 Wistful Vista, typing a letter to the famous professional handwriting analyst John Hancock we find Fibber McGee and Molly.

SOUND:

TYPING, FOLLOWED BY VERY LOUD GONG.

MOLLY:

My that's an awful loud bell on that typewriter, dearie.

FIB:

Yeah, used to belong to a sportswriter. He used it at prizefights.

SOUND:

TYPING CONTINUES UNDER.

FIB:

"I am enclosing a coin in lieu of 25 cents in stamps..." Hey, Molly, how do you spell "lieu"?

MOL:

Lou who?

FIB:

Not Lou anybody. I mean "lieu" as in "in lieu of."

MOL:

Oh, that. L-O-O.

FIB:

Oh. Well, that's what I got. Funny how you can spell a word correct and it still don't look right.

MOL:

Yeah.

FIB:

"Awaiting your immediate reply, I am yours truly, Fibber McGee."

SOUND:

TYPING, FOLLOWED BY PAGE BEING RIPPED FROM TYPEWRITER.

FIB:

Let's see, I'll have to enclose a sample of my handwriting.

SOUND:

DOOR KNOCK.

MOL:

Come in.

WRITER:

Fibber McGee?

FIB:

You betcha, bud.

WRITER:

Do you need a gag writer?

FIB:

No, we don't.

WRITER:

Ha ha ha. Oh no?

SOUND:

DOOR SLAMS.

FIB:

Think he got us confused with somebody else, Molly?

MOL:

No. I think we got him confused with us. (Pause) What do you expect this handwriting expert to tell you, dearie?

FIB:

Bet he tells me I'm the creative type, Molly. A dreamer.

MOL:

Ah, how wonderful. Being a dreamer and still able to do things.

FIB:

Ah, you think so?

MOL:

Sure. Anyone who can dream and snore at the same time...

SOUND:

DOOR KNOCK.

FIB:

Gee, wonder if that's the answer from the handwriting expert?

MOL:

Well, you haven't mailed your application yet.

FIB:

Oh, that's right. Come in!

BOOMER:

Well, hello there, dropstitch.

FIB:

Hello there, Boomer.

BOOM:

Just dropped in with a little proposition. A splendid investment. A plan to open a small casino on the outskirts of town, where an adventuresome citizen may do his best to repeal the laws of chance.

MOL:

Oooh, a gambling place. We wouldn't be interested, Mr. Boomer. It's again the law.

BOOM:

What a coincidence. So am I. (PFL) I have the floor plans right here. Plan to call it "Safety Pin."

FIB:

Safety Pin? Oh, I get it. Everytime it opens, somebody gets stuck. Don't you get it, Boomer, I said...

BOOM:

Sorry, we don't pay off on double zero. (PFL) Now where did I put those floor plans. Floor plans. Here's a heavy rubber band. Found it in an overcoat at a restaurant around a roll of bills. (PFL) Little dandy glass cutter, very therapeutic for jewelry store windows. Minor operation and the pane is gone. (PFL) Pair of white gloves, ducky aren't they? Made by the Snow White Glove Company. Guaranteed not to leave your "prince."

MOL:

Well, well, imagine that. No floor plan.

BOOM:

Wait till the wheel stops spinning, m'dear. Now where did I put those floor plans? Here's a gold plated shoehorn. Very useful. Never know when some heel is going to get caught in a tight spot. Ah, what's this? An invitation to an art exhibit. Must drop in and see the new sculpture. Always like to know what the other chiselers are doing. Elk's tooth - needs brushing. Maybe Bob Hope would give it a guest appearance. Greetings, chum, let's ????. Small revolver, dangerous little weapon. An old friend of mine was shot with this SIX times.

SOUND:

GUNSHOT.

BOOM:

My mistake. Five times. Well, well, imagine that. No floor plans. Wonder what could've happened to them?

FIB:

Probably the same thing that happened to the egg the little red hen dropped in the mud, Boomer. Not lost, just mis-laid.

All laugh.

BOOM:

Not a bad yolk, if you could clean it up. G'day, ???

MUSIC:

BRIDGE

FIB:

Folks, you remember our fine singer, Donald Nolan. Don, as one creative artists to another, I can't speak too highly of your rendition.

NOL:

Thanks, Fibber. What have you created lately?

MOL:

Oh, he's creating an imaginary character of himself, Mr. Nolan. He just mailed a letter to have his handwriting analyzed.

FIB:

Right. You see, Don, I just want to verify everyone's opinion of me as being the artistic type, you know, sensitive...

MOL:

(sighs)

FIB:

Emotional, and anaesthetic. (PFL) Personally I think it's a very valuable thing to get acquainted with yourself.

NOL:

Well, yes. But you meet an awful lot of strange people that way. See you later, folks.

SOUND:

DOOR SLAM.

FIB:

There's too many comedians on this show.

MOL:

Name one.

FIB:

If I get any more ribs tonight, I'm gonna open a barbecue joint. Just because a guy wants to improve himself...

SOUND:

DOOR KNOCKS.

FIB:

Come in.

MOL:

How do you do, Mrs. Uppington?

MRS.:

Ohh, how do you do, Mr. and Mrs. McGee.

FIB:

Hi, Uppy.

MRS.:

I just stopped in to inquire if you knew who's the best interior decorator in town.

FIB:

Interior decorator?

MRS.:

Yes, you see I'm having my house done completely over. I want everything done in moderne.

FIB:

Your dern what?

MOL:

She means modern. You know, the kind of furniture that looks like it was designed by an acrobat and built by a geometry teacher.

MRS.:

Oh, but my dear it is so attractive. And my house does need decorating badly. Let me see, it hasn't been done completely over since.. oh dear, let me see, I think it was four years ago, no, five! Five years ago on my birthday. I had just turned 32.

FIB: 32, huh? Careful there, Uppy, you took that turn awful fast.

MOL:

She's well banked.

MRS.:

Oh, very amusing, I'm sure. (sour chuckle)

FIB:

I'll tell you what, Uppy, I don't know where you could get any better advice on interior decorating than what I could give you.

MRS.:

Oh, really? Did you ever do any decorating, Mr. McGee?

FIB:

Did it? Remember that residential suburb that was built a couple years ago - Snob Hollow?

MRS.:

Well, yes.

MOL:

Well, McGee designed every mustache on every billboard in the whole suburb.

FIB:

I never did no such thing, Molly. I done the beards. Mort Hoops done the mustaches - he was taller than I was. But frankly, Mrs. Uppington, I've always been interested in artistic things. Now I think for your living room...

MRS.:

You mean my drawing room.

FIB:

Ye-es. For your front parlor, I'd do the upholstery in shird wall rekranzafranz with a wide edging of petit point krasnobbits. Don't you think so, Molly?

MOL:

We-ell, yes, if you're sure they'd go with the pastel bobzickey.

MRS.:

Well, good heavens. Really! I must really be dreadfully behind the times. What on earth is a goodjinjin?

FIB:

Well, that's the latest thing in davensquattles, Uppy. But you can only use them in a room that has a large planatrey completely around the krebiscite.

MRS.:

Oooh, my I'm so glad to hear that. Perhaps I'm just a silly girl but it's one of the behipsinees I shall insist on pokipkin.

FIB:

Well, I'll always be glad to help you, Uppy. That's characteristic of me - an artistic streak with a strain of uh, of , uh...

MOL:

Just make it a strain, dearie.

MRS,:

Well, I certainly will appreciate it. Thank you so much. And Mr. McGee, I do so admire your artistic restraint.

FIB:

Restraint?

MRS.:

Yes. I see you've restrained yourself from doing anything artistic with this house. (Laughs.) Perhaps you've found the persnipkin was tipple for that claywalk of your particular upper tuckahoots. Well, thank you so much. Good bye-ee.

SOUND:

DOOR SLAMS.

FIB:

I'll be she didn't know what she was talking about.

MOL:

I didn't either.

FIB:

Hmm. Me too.

HW:

Same here.

FIB:

Oh, Hi, Harlow. I'm glad you came in. I just wrote for an analysis of my handwriting. I want to see what it indicates besides initiative, imagination and dramatic ability.

HW:

Well, there's nothing like dramatic ability - the play's the thing. The show must go on.

MOL:

Yes, it sho must.

FIB:

What do you know about it, Harlow? You're the practical type -- full of hard facts, brass tacks and Johnson's wax.

HW:

Well, I've got imagination, too. Look, here's a little dramatic playlet that I dashed off.

Let's run through it and see how it sounds.

FIB:

Ah, pshaw.

HW:

Here's a part for you, Fibber. Here's yours, Molly.

SOUND:

PAPER RUSTLING.

HW:

I've got mine here. It's a one-act play laid in Ancient Egypt.

MOL:

And something tells me you should have left it lay.

HW:

Now, Molly, you play the part of Cleopaytra, I'm Marc Antony, and Fibber, you're King Tut. On stage everybody! Curtain! Music, Maestro, please!

MUSIC:

EGYPTIAN

FIB:

Ah there, Marc Anthony. Sit thee doon.

SOUND:

HANDCLAPS.

FIB:

Slave, bring Marc Anthony a hunk of ambrosia and a slug of nectar.

HW:

Thanks, Tut. Weeell, nice pyramid you've got here.

FIB:

Oh, not bad. Still workin'on it, Cy. As a matter of fact, if you come back years later you'll still find me all wrapped up in it.

HW:

Hope you got the flowers I sent you for ... Mummy's Day.

FIB:

Shall we go on? Ah, come in Cleopaytra, here's your Roman Romeo.

HW:

Hi, Cleo.

MOL:

Hi, Bud.

HW:

Say, Cleo, I saw you in your last picture, The Dance of the Seven Veils. And if you take my advice, you'll demand a recount! (Uproarious laugh.)

MOL:

Easy, Marc. I mean, none of your lip, Mr. Anthony.

HW:

Well, come on, honey, put your scarabs on and let's take a chariot ride.

I know a swell joint to eat in, it's called Nebuchadnezzar's Nook on the Nile. And baby, you oughta taste their barbecued camel.

MOL:

Oh no you don't. The last time one of you Romans took me out for barbecued camel I had to walk back a mile. Besides I refuse to ride in that awful dusty old chariot of yours.

FIB:

Uh-oh. Boy loses girl. Wax gets plugged.

HW:

Ah, Cleo, you should see my chariot now. A wise man, the son of John, brought me some precious ointment out of the west. It is called John-son's Car-Nu.

MOL:

Yes, I read about it in this morning's parchment.

HW:

Ah, Cleo, 'tis wonderful stuff. Both cleans and wax polishes in one simple operation. You just apply it to the clean surface of your chariot, let it dry and wipe it off. And there's your chariot, with a beautiful wax polish, gleaming and sparkling like the morning sun on the Red Sea.

MOL:

Ah, that's wonderful, Marc. It's very dusty on the Red Sea this time of year.

HW:

Leave it to Car-Nu to protect your chariot against the sun. And the sand. And the rain. (To FIB) Better get some yourself, cuz.

FIB:

I'll do that, Bud. But it's gonna throw a lot of slaves out of work. Well, run along, kids. And have a good time.

MOL:

Okay, pops.

HW:

Come on, Cleo, I have to be back in Rome tomorrow. We're building a dam across the Tiber River.

FIB:

What's that for, Marc?

HW:

To - hold that Tiber!

MUSIC:

"HOLD THAT TIGER"

HW:

Hold that Tiber! Hold that Tiber! Hold that Tiber! Hold that Tiber!

MUSIC:

OUT.

MOL:

My, my. Wasn't that realistic, dearie?

FIB:

No.

MOL:

Excuse me while I dump the sand out of me sandals.

FIB:

It wasn't bad, but that plot wasn't consistent. If that Anthony had used Car-Nu, you'd never have met him.

MOL:

Why not?

FIB:

When you put that stuff on your chariot, there's never a marc on it.

MOL:

Oh my, my.

SOUND:

DOOR KNOCK.

MOL:

Crawl in. Oh no, excuse me. I thought we were still in the pyramids.

OT:

Hello, there, Johnny. Here's a letter for ya.

MOL:

Well, thank you old-timer. Are you a mail man now?

OT:

Hey?

FIB:

She said are you a mail carrier now? I think it's a good job for you, old timer. With your pigeon toes, you'd make a good carrier.

OT:

(chuckles) That's pretty good, Johnny. But that ain't the way I heerd it. The way I heerd it, the moonshiner says to a revenue officer, "Saaaaay, Ted, did you get the message I sent you about that still up on the ridge?" "Yep," says the revenuer, "But I tore it up. I thought it was just another mash note." (chuckles) I know that mountain country pretty well, Johnny. Been up there collecting jokes. On the trail of the Lonesome Pun.

SOUND:

DOOR SLAM.

MOL:

Who's the letter from, McGee?

FIB:

Let's see.

SOUND:

LETTER OPENED.

FIB:

Say, can you beat this? It's an answer from Professor Hancock, the handwriting expert.

MOL:

What, already? Why we only mailed your letter fifteen minutes ago. That's wonderful service.

FIB:

Yes, ain't it?

MOL:

Mr. Farley must be running for president, too.

FIB:

Listen to this, Molly. It says "Dear Client, as the foremost exponent of graphology ..." Hey Molly, what's graphology?

MOL:

Why, that's easy, dearie. "Ology" means the study of and "graph" means a zeppelin. He's got you analyzed as a big gas bag.

FIB:

Well, can you imagine this, Molly? I was all wrong!

MOL:

What?

FIB:

I ain't artistic. He says I'm the muscular, athletic type. He says I got the same handwriting as all the great rasslers. Strangler Lewis. Stanislaus Zybisko. Man Mountain Dean.

MOL:

Hm. Well you can't make a mountain out of a molehill.

FIB:

I got half a mind to get back in training right away and make some big dough.

MOL:

What do you mean?

FIB:

Big dough. Make some big dough. Come on, get your hat, Molly!

MOL:

What's that?

FIB:

We're going down to the athletic club! One side, everybody! Here comes Mauler McGee!

MOL:

Oh, gee.

MUSIC:

SCENE CHANGE

FIB:

I wonder if five thousand bucks is too much to ask for my first bout, Molly. If we can get them up to... oh, here's the athletic club. Come on in.

SOUND:

GYM AMBIENCE. SLAPS AND PUNCHES AND ...

WRESTLERS:

Ooh! Oww! Oh!

MOL:

Heavenly days! What a place. How can these wrestlers train in all this cigar smoke, dearie?

FIB:

That's part of the training, Molly. It'd be silly to train in the fresh air and then rassle in a lot of cigar smoke.

MGR:

Is dere sump'n youse folks wanted? I'm da manager of da joint.

FIB:

Just a professional visit, bub. I'm a rassler myself. Ever hear of Mauler McGee, the Mad Mastodon of the Mat?

MGR:

Oh, yes! Didn't you used to be da heavyweight wrestlin' champeen?

FIB:

No, I never was.

MGR:

Well, for goodness sake. (Shouts) Hey, Joiky! C'mere a minute. Here's a rassler that was never the heavyweight champeen! Meet up wit Mauler McGee and his moll.

MOL:

How do you do, I'm sure.

FIB:

Well, hi, jerky.

JY:

I'm very pleased to make your acquaint HIC, very pleased to make your acquaint HIC HIC, hello, folks.

MOL:

Are you a rassler too Mr. Jerky?

MGR:

No, he works for Gabby the Grunt.

FIB:

Oh, manager?

JY:

No, I'm employed in another capaci HIC another capac HIC I'm not his manag HIC I'm not his manag HIC my job is more in the na HIC HIC in the nat HIC Say let's start over, eh?

MOL:

Why certainly. What do you do for Mr. Gabby the Grunt?

JY:

I'm his instructor in elecu HIC his instructor in elecut HIC in elec HIC I'm his groaning instructor.

FIB:

Well there's more to this business than I actually thought. Has he got someone one to teach him to make all those faces?

JY:

Oh, there's nothing artifi HIC nothing artifi HIC I mean if you were a boy you'd be born with HIC the physiognomy HIC what I mean to say is HIC wrestlers don't make faces like that HIC it's faces like that that make wrestlers. HIC. Well, I'm very glad to have made your acquaint HIC glad to have made your acquaint HIC HIC oh, I tried that before didn't I? HIC So long, folks.

SOUND SLAPS BETWEEN.

WRESTLER:

Oof! Ooh! Ow!

MOL:

Heavenly days, look at those big bruisers, McGee. Do they have to play so rough?

FIB: Oh, we get used to it, Molly.

MOL:

Oh, what's that little girl doing in a place like this?

FIB:

Got me. Hello there, little girl!

GIRL:

Hi, Pal.

FIB:

Ain't you kinda young to be hanging around a place like this?

GIRL:

Why?

FIB:

Why, you oughta be home in bed.

GIRL:

I betcha have no bed, I betcha.

FIB:

Why I bet you have.

MOL:

Certainly, this is no place for a little girl.

FIB:

I think we'd better report this to the juvenile authorities.

GIRL:

I betcha you're just the man my pop was talkin' about, I betcha.

FIB:

Huh? Who is your poppa?

GIRL:

Gus the Gorilla. And he's one of the best guys in the racket, too, I betcha.

FIB:

(Laughs.) Oh, he is, is he? (Laughs.)

GIRL:

(Laughs.) Hmm?

FIB:

I said what did you mean when you said your poppa was talkin' about me? He don't know me from Adam's own whatchamacallit.

GIRL:

Gee, maybe he didn't mean you. You're kinda bald.

FIB:

Huh? Whatcha mean, sis?

GIRL:

Well, Poppa told me if anybody made any wise cracks to me he'd their so-and-so's ears back. But your hair's too short, mister. Well, g'bye now I gotta go see if Wolf Face Denny is through with my skippin' rope.

SOUND SLAPS BETWEEN.

WRESTLER:

Oof! Ooh! Ow!

FIB:

Look at them trying to rassle, won't you? Why I could lick any two of them if I was blindfolded and had arthritis.

MGR:

So is youse been in da rasslin' game long, buddy?

MOL:

Oh, several minutes.

FIB:

Who, me, bud? Shucks, I been a rassler ever since I was born. Used to take my nursemaid 22 minutes to pin my shoulders down to my crib.

MGR:

You don't say.

FIB:

Yep, I was booked for matches all over the country. Why, when I opened up the heat was on. Book Match McGee, I was known as in them days.

MOL:

Oh, dear.

FIB:

Book Match McGee, the brawniest, brainiest brawler that ever battled a batch of beetle-browed bozos to a badly battered bunch of bruised bones, blurbed as the biggest box office bonanza in the biff-bam business, booed by billions of brainless bums from my brutal bombardment of bull-headed boobs and ballyhooed as the best bicepped bulger from Boston where I beat the best from the boulevard to Budapest.

MGR:

Say, I t'ink youse just the guy we been lookin' for. Gabby the Grunt's been lookin' for a guy to work out with.

FIB:

Oh-ho, he has, has he? Well let me in there with that guy. I'll show him some new twists. Here, hold my coat, Molly.

MOL:

Now wait a minute, McGee! After all, you're.... McGee!.

MGR: Go on, lady. Let him have his fun.

AUDIENCE:

Buzz of anticipation.

MOL:

Look at poor little McGee in the ring with that big bruiser. Looks like a ventriloquist act.

MGR:

Well, I dunno. Not wit' two dummies. (chuckle) Hey, look at 'em go, lady!

SOUND:

FIGHTING, BETWEEN.

FIB:

and GRUNT: Ooh! Aww! Ow!

MOL:

McGee, be careful! Get down off of that man's hand!

MGR:

You better stand aside, lady. He's gonna t'row him dis way!

SOUND:

SPIN (DRUM ROLL), TOSS (SLIDE WHISTLE DOWN), LAND (THUD).

AUDIENCE:

Ooooh!

FIB:

Oooooooh! Oh, my analysis!

MOL:

Are you hurt, dearie?

FIB:

Aaaaahhhh.

MGR:

Gee, that's too bad, pal. Here comes Gabby the Grunt to apologize, though.

FIB:

Ooooh. Oh, hi, Gabby. Boy are you strong! You must have been rasslin' a long time.

GABBY:

No, it's just a hobby. I have to keep in trim after sitting at a desk all day long!

FIB:

At a desk! Ain't you a professional wrestler?

GABBY:

No, confidentially, I'm Dr. John Hancock, the handwriting expert.

FIB:

Oh, pshaw!

MUSIC:

SCENE CHANGE

HW:

In the summer months, the wise woman plans her work so she can have more time to be out of doors enjoying herself. More time to spend with her family. Do you know there's an easy way to keep your floors sparkling and clean without scrubbing? Just let Johnson's Self-Polishing Glo-Coat shine your floors for you. Glo-Coat quickly gives a sleek, glossy polish that defies dirt. Wouldn't you rather rest, or read, or go to a movie than spend your time scrubbing floors? (Chuckle) Why of course you would. Tomorrow then, buy a can of Johnson's Glo-Coat. Spread this remarkable liquid lightly over the clean floor with a soft cloth or long-handled Glo-Coat applier. Then take it easy for twenty minutes while Glo-Coat dries to a gleaming polish that protects the floor from children's scuffing shoes, from dirt and stains. Ask for Glo-Coat. G-L-O-hyphen-C-O-A-T. Johnson's Self-Polishing Glo-Coat. The easy to use polish that makes floors and linoleum shine like new without rubbing or buffing.

MUSIC:

SCENE CHANGE

FIB:

Oooh. Hey, Molly. Put another pillow under my back.

MOL:

Ahh, all right, dearie. Better let me take your specs, too.

FIB:

What's the matter? Are they broke?

MOL:

No. I'll put them away until your ears straighten out again.

FIB:

G'night.

MOL:

Good night, all.

MUSIC:

OUT.