Why Is It

It is odd how far certain individuals an objective. If they wish to upset a precedent of long standing they will contend, "Because the other fellow does it that way doesn't prove that he is always right." If, on the other hand, their particular measure follows certain established lines they will argue, "If it is good enough for them it should be good enough for us."

Mistakes made by big business are eventually erased by time and subsequent successes, but let the little guy beware for his first mistake may be his last. Why is it that errors in judgment committed by big shots we generally overlooked, but let the little squirt make a mistake and it is remembered forevermore?

Why is it that some business organizations have no system whatsoever, while others have too much?

The other day I received a letter from a very good friend of mine from Akron, Ohio. In it he included several pieces of "Why Is It" copy for my amusement. I got such a big laugh out of reading these jottings of his that I thought it worthwhile repeating. I know you, too, will enjoy these samplings of his wit as much as those whose pleasure it is to know Gaston Gross intimately. - A.S.

Just as you are trying to impress your out-of-town guests that you are a man-about-town, a bon vivant, known and welcomed in all first-class restaurants and nite clubs, and you boast of your good friend Caruso and the special spaghetti he concocts especially for you, why is it that when you steer your friends to this well known spot the Raviola Impressario passes you by as if you were a counterfeit gas coupon?

It generally happens that when you own a prize dog he will invariably endanger his life by strolling out in the street under wheels of passing autos. Why is it that no sooner than you lay a fresh cement sidewalk down the pup will find the new pavement the best place to play in, thus leaving his footstep to posterity?

Why is it that customers in retail stores while eating luscious smelling peanuts and whetting the appetite of those around them will never offer as much as a teenie, weenie nugget to the salesman waiting on them? (That is 3rd degree heart burn type cruelty).

Why is it that after listening to a radio announcer laud a certain cereal to the skies, telling of its freshness, lusciousness, crispness and how healthful it is, you prevail upon your household to put in a good supply, and then in anticipation of a good breakfast, the treat of treat tastes like a dishful of wet straw?

Why is it that as you listen, fascinated by the soothing and beautiful music emanating from the little musical instrument the street vendor is peddling for a quarter, you cannot resist the temptation to buy one of these gadgets which seems so easy to play, but after you buy one and you proudly take it home to impress the old folks and children, all the music you can force out sounds like a squeak from a mouse?

Why is it that when you tie yourself to the best tailor in town, pick out a gorgeous up-to-date wool pattern, select style and cut from sketches and pictures, and the tailor assures you that you will look exactly like Adonis in the pictures, and after you don the finished masterpiece and strut before your wife or best girl you still look like a -hand me down jerk?