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DEFINITIVE DRUNKENNESS . . . Been obfuscated lately? Potvaliant? Quiffy, temulentive, bosky, top-heavy, or sozzled? It's possible, you know. My, yes! That's what happens when you swill; or when you lush, bib, tipple, tope, swig, booze, bouse, guzzle, soak, sot, carouse, sacrifice at the Shrine of Bacchus, bend the elbow, drain the cup, tip the pot, crack the bottle, kill the keg, or splice the main brace. You may become tipsy, intoxicated, inebriated, in your cups, fuddled, fou, mellow, cut, boosy, fresh, merry, elevated, plastered, befuddled, disguised, flushed, flustered, lit up, high, groggy, beery, gin-happy, potulent, overtaken, whittled, tight, primed, oiled, corned, raddled, sewed up, nappy, muddled, muzzy, maudlin, crapulous, looped, loaded, gassed, glassy-eyed, paralyzed, buzzed, dead, blind drunk!
Should that happen, people will be very hard on your character to be sure. "A drunkard," they will say, "a sot, toper, tippler, rum-pot, wine-bibber, dram-drinker, soak, soaker, sponge, tun." Others will add, "A lovepot." A thirsty soul, a reveller, a carouser, a Bacchanalian, a dipsomaniac."
But you won't care! You'll have a katzenjammer, a big-head, a wallowby, butterflies in your stomach and gnomes in your head, d.t.'s, a morning after — oh, hell! The word is hangover!
PUBLIC ELATION MEN . . . Yes, all of the airlines have them. They call the newspaper and remind the city desk that the St. Mary's oofball team is coming through at 4:10 a.m. tomorrow, and to be sure to get a picture, and the more mentions of the airline the better. Another
makes damn sure that he's standing around close when the photogs mug Governor Thye of Minnesota at a big airport opening. The picture comes out captioning Governor Thye very happy to meet said paid advertiser. Each night the public elation man spends an hour and a half soaking calouses off his thumb and forefinger, the combination that holds the two-ounce glass. His wife gets out the ironing board and presses out the foot-prints of magazine, newspaper and radio execs from the seat of his pants. They open a can of 24-point, bold-face Bodoni italics, heat it on the fire of his over-worked imagination, and eat on a table of new schedules going into effect Tuesday which have already been changed.
Airlines public inflation men have funny bones where other people have ribs and skulls and stuff. Take 'W. R. (Bob) Moreland of Mid-Continent Airlines. He is sure to pounce on you in the Rendezvous of the Muehlebach or some other far off the path, unsuspecting place and ask you confidentiallly, "Do you think the airplane is here to stay?"
Clay Irwin of TWA strokes his chin sagaciously, strides to the window, spends five minutes in profound thought, and then solemnly informs you, "T still think your best bet is a horse." Hal Grayson, also of TWA, adds, "I can't get you a reservation, but I have a lot of nice pictures."
Mr. Shepherd of Braniff has a stock excuse for everything, including the scarcity of Scotch. "I guess there's mechanical trouble in Dallas."
Mr. Buchanan of Continental ('/2 fare for kids) insists that "Despite whatever