People Are Wrong When They

An Infant Prodigy Of Nine Is Shoved Upon The Stage In White. She Starts Off In A Dismal Whine About A Dark And Stormy Night, A Burglar, Whose Heart Is True, Despite His Wicked-looking Face, Who Puts The Little Child In Doom, To Save Her Mamma's Jewel Case. This May Bring Tears To Every Eye; It Does Not Set My Heart On Fire. I'd Like To Stand Serenely By And Watch That Horrid Child Expire.

She Had Much In Common With Hitler, Only No Mustache.

Bed Is The Perfect Climate.

How About Slipping Out Of Those Wet Things And Into A Dry Martini?

People Are Wrong When They Say Opera Is Not What It Used To Be. It Is What It Used To Be. That Is What's Wrong With It.