I HATE Actresses.
They get on my nerves.

THERE are the Adventuresses,
The Ladies with Lavender Pasts.
They wear gowns that show all their emotions,
And they simply can't stop undulating.
The only stage properties they require
Are a box of cigarettes and a package of compromising letters.
Their Big Scene invariably takes place in the hero's apartment.
They are always hanging around behind screens
And overhearing things about the heroine.
They go around clutching their temples
And saying, Would to God they were good—
Would to God they were!

THERE are the Wronged Ones;
The Girls Whose Mothers Never Told Them.
In the first act they wear pink gingham sunbonnets
And believe implicitly in the stork.
In the third act they are clad in somber black
And know that there isn't any Santa Claus.
They are always going out into the night.
They faint a great deal,
And if anyone lets them get near the center of the stage
They immediately burst into hysterics.
They unfortunately never commit suicide until the last act—
It's always the audience that pays and pays and pays.

THEN there are the Musical Comedy Stars; T
he press-agent's livelihood.
They sing about love—in waltz time—
And they dance as if something were just about to break.
They end by appearing in a piece of court plaster
And an American flag,
And then the audience has to stand up.
The show isn't considered a success
Until they climb into a flower-wreathed swing,
And swing far out, over the orchestra—
O, that I might be there when the ropes break.

AND there are the Emotional Ones;
The ones who say, "I'll have two lumps of sugar in my tea, please,"
In exactly the same tones as they say
"Yes, it was I who murdered him."
They are forever tearing their hair—
I hope it hurts them.
They shriek at everything,
Usually at the hero,
And they hurl themselves on the floor at his feet
And say that they wish it were all over—
They said something.

THEN there are the child Actresses
Who should be unseen and not heard.
They go around telling people about Heaven
As if they were special correspondents.
They are always climbing up on innocent bystanders
And asking them why they look so sad;
They eternally bring their fathers and mothers together,
Which is always an error of judgment.
They never fail to appear in their nightgowns
And then kneel down beside the orchestra leader,
And say their prayers to the spotlight man,—
I wish I were Commodore Gerry.

I hate Actresses.
They get on my nerves.