W. C. Fields : his follies and fortunes (1949)

looking very serious, and send for Magda Michael. Then, without changing expression, they would dictate horrifying letters, profane and blasphemous, to the most notable figures in the land. It is tragic, Miss Michael feels, that these scenes were lost to posterity. Fields and Hardy played them with all the artistic finesse at their command, and each sharpened the other's skill. "Sit down, will you, Miss Michael?" Fields would ask gently, his tone full of significance. "Thank you, Mr. Fields," she would reply, with a good idea of what was coming. Fields, wearing his bathrobe, its pockets stuffed, as usual, with thousand-dollar bills, would shuffle through his papers, then consult Hardy in an undertone. "Do you have those notes we prepared?" Hardy was an impressive-looking man, and his demeanor on these occasions would automatically have got him bids to many corporate boards. "I believe I returned them to you, Mr. Fields. Some of them were carried over from our last meeting." "Ah, yes," Fields would say. "Here they are. Will you take a letter, Miss Michael? To Mr. Henry B. Meyer, Moronic Pictures, Hollywood, California." He would go on for a few minutes, perhaps breaking off for portentous whispered conversations with Hardy, then say, "Now, let's see, will you read that back, please?" Miss Michael, whose expression also had not altered since the session began, would clear her throat bravely and read, "Dear Mr. Meyer, you ignorant son of a bitch, I wish to take this opportunity to tell you what I think of your goddamned movies. If I ever catch you out on the street, you thieving horse's ass, I'm going to break both of your legs. Of all the low-down bastards You stopped there, Mr. Fields." "On bastards?" "Yes, Mr. Fields." "Read all right so far?" 277