The funniest telegrams ever sent
Dorothy Parker, Abraham Lincoln, and other greatest hits from the wire.
Okay, let’s get to it.
I’m going to start with my favorite version of this anecdote that humorist Robert Benchley wrote this telegram to his editor at the New Yorker upon arriving in Venice for an assignment:
"STREETS FULL OF WATER.
PLEASE ADVISE."
Another New Yorker contributor was Dorothy Parker, the witty satirist who bequeathed us this wonderful telegram sent to her friend after hearing the news that she (her friend) was pregnant:
"DEAR MARY,
WE ALL KNEW YOU HAD IT IN YOU."
Next, a response from Raymond Chandler, the author of The Big Sleep, when the director making the film version, confused by the complex plot, asked him who was supposed to have killed the chauffeur. Chandler’s telegram response:
"NO IDEA."
Another author, F. Scott Fitzgerald, sent a telegram to his agent that conveys a deeply relatable feeling to many of us:
"I'M AFRAID I'LL BE TOO NERVOUS TOMORROW NIGHT TO BE FIT FOR CIVILIZED COMPANY ...
I SHALL PROBABLY SNEAK INTO A CORNER SEAT AND EXIT UNDER COVER OF DARKNESS..."
Definitely the shortest on this list, there was supposedly a telegram sent from either Victor Hugo or Oscar Wilde (or somebody) to their publisher asking for sales numbers for their book:
“?”
To which the publisher responded positively with:
“!”
Alright, this is my favorite because I’m obsessed with Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln often asked his generals for detailed reports. General McClellan was getting quite annoyed with these requests, and sarcastically wired the President with:
"WE HAVE JUST CAPTURED SIX COWS. WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH THEM?"
To which Lincoln, equally sarcastically, replied:
"MILK THEM.”
That’s all! Add your favorite in the comments, or reply to the email.
- Joe
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Poem of the week
The Enkindled Spring
By D.H. Lawrence
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.
Here’s birbs. Happy Springtime:
The last one is funny. What should we do? Milk them!