Word: tailcoated
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...heads shaved bald, the Baroness von Berg and Frau von Natzmer were led in coarse, nondescript prison garb to the blood-caked block from which so many heads now roll in the sawdust. The headsman, incongruous in his yellowish celluloid shirtfront, his old silk hat and his red-spotted tailcoat, raised the gleaming ax. Twice it swished down to sever a lovely neck and send the blood of a German woman spouting high. According to Nazis, the Baroness von Berg was the first female aristocrat to lose her head to their New Justice...
...like a newspaper man as a caricaturist would of a movie version of one. In addition I should like to ask the few readers who have not yet tired of this review how, many of them have ever seen a city editor at a Broadway first night in a tailcoat, or, later another evening, at the opening of a most ultra night club on New York's riverfront. No, it all seemed a bit too movieish for a news-man's life. (The rest of you can stop now if you want to; this is going on for some time...
...collars and shivered in the Cologne prison yard. Down below the Rhine steamers hooted mournfully. A door clanked. Out marched brownshirts, prison guards and the official executioner -a Cologne butcher on other days. Hoarfrost formed on the nap of his official top hat, on the shoulders of his official tailcoat. The door banged again. Out marched the prisoners, six of them with necks shaved and prison blouses open at the throat. One by one they knelt at the red-painted wooden block. Six times the executioner's broad sward flashed in a silver circle to crash down...
...trustees of Huxley College have been so haphazard as to select Groucho. thinly disguised under the pseudonym of Professor Wagstaff, for this honor. He is discovered on a rostrum, where the retiring president of Huxley is addressing the faculty and student body. Attired in a mortar board, with a tailcoat over his arm, Groucho is shaving his false mustache in a portable mirror while puffing a stogie. The retiring president asks him to throw away the cigar. Groucho Marx casts a look at the faculty of Huxley and says: "There'll be no diving for this cigar." He goes...
...theory that the social historian of the future will find rich lore in its crudely drawn and colored cartoons. Accordingly, some future pundit may glean from last week's 20th Anniversary page the impression that anniversary gifts consist mostly of earthenware, that after the party the host (in tailcoat, grey cravat, purple vest) is lapidated by his wife while he loudly cries: "Maggie?please save a cup fer coffee in the morning...