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One blonde is complication enough
in any man's life. But three — is that
wonderful or woeful? "Both!" says
the well-qualified Phil Harris
By PHIL HARRIS
In the beginning, there was just Alice and things weren't quite so tough. But then along came little
Alice. And finally, Phyllis. All blonde, all gorgeous, and all cut from the same sweet set of goods.
I should have foreseen my fate long ago. Goodness knows, it was plain enough from the first day that Alice and Phyllis began to toddle around the house. But it wasn't until this year, after big Alice and I got back home from Europe, that I realized I'm doomed. I've got to live out the rest of my days under the same roof with three beautiful blondes. Not one, not two, but three. It's enough to curl my hair.
Already, I've learned one thing certain about blondes.
A plot, no doubt — at least that's what Phil probably suspects as he eavesdrops on a purely feminine family huddle.
No two of them ever think alike. But regardless of the peculiar ways their minds work, they always seem to get their way. Blondes, I claim, are all bom with a God-given talent for bending men to their will. With one blonde, a man ain't got a chance. With three, folks, he's ruined. He's through. He's Mr. Dead.
For instance, take what happened this summer. Alice and I went over to Europe with Jack Benny — and all in all, it was quite a triumphant tour of Switzerland, Holland, Scotland, Paris, and London (they loved me in London). Naturally, because we were moving around with a show troupe, we left the kids in Hollywood with their grandparents. (Continued on page 72)
The girls can happily indulge their tastes in coiffures, tree-climbing and culinary — and count on a proud, applauding father.
I
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