People Are Wrong When They Say Opera

My Life Really Has Been One Long Extravaganza.

Wit Is Like Caviar - It Should Be Served In Small Portions And Not Spread About Like Marmalade.

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.

Of Course, The Age-old Tradition That A Star Must Appear Even If He Or She Is Practically Dying Is An Excellent One, But It Can Be Carried Too Far. I One Played A Performance Of The Knight Of The Burning Pestle With A Temperature Of 103 And Gave Sixteen Members Of The Company Mumps, Thereby Closing The Play And Throwing Everybody Out Of Work. There May Be A Moral Lurking Somewhere In This, But I Cannot For The Life Of Me Discover What It Is.