Wildlife is frolicking or resting around a sleepy mountaineer at the start of the Walter Lantz cartoon “Pass the Biscuits, Mirandy.”

The hillbilly wakes up and starts a-firin’ his rifle.

The animals freeze in panic for 19 frames (see first drawing below) while he shoots off another bullet. Then they get out of the scene. These are consecutive drawings, one per frame.

Paul Smith is the only person to get an animation credit.

The name “Mirandy” in the title song of the cartoon seems to have been inspired by Mrs. Marjorie Edith Bauersfeld, a former Chautaqua gospel singer and Mack Sennett comedienne who played Mirandy on a Los Angeles radio show in 1930 as a member of the singing Beverly Hill Billies. She later appeared on other radio shows as a kind of Ozark philosopher, as well as with the Gilmore Circus, and was an early star on KECA TV, hosting a gardening show. A dark red rose was named for her character in 1948 (Marian Jordan, radio’s Molly, played Mirandy on the National Farm and Home Hour in the late ‘20s; Bauersfeld apparently took her place).

The song “Pass the Biscuits, Mirandy” was penned by Carl Hoefle and Del Porter. The pair sold the song to Republic for use in the film “Hi Neighbor” (Variety, April 21, 1942). Walter Lantz then bought it for final Swing Symphony cartune of 1942-43 series (Variety, January 18, 1943). Bugs Hardaway was editing the story by February (Variety, March 1) and the short was due to be released in July (Variety, July 8) but apparently didn’t get a national release until August 23rd. Porter was with Spike Jones’ orchestra, among the many who recorded the song. Porter sings on the cartoon and the goofy-sounding chorus is provided by the voice of Goofy, Pinto Colvig.

100% Failure rate

As of yesterday’s post, every one of my submissions is accounted for. Every single one of them a rejection. Every single one of them a form rejection, some not even bothering to put my name.

To everyone who sent me a rejection, fuck you. I hope your eyes get pecked out by sparrows (it will take longer than crows). And that you contract some hideous disease that causes your skin to tighten and tighten until it eventually rips and falls from your sick flesh. Actually, the sparrows can do their work at that point because I’d like you to see that, like the guy who saw his face peel off in Poltergeist. Then I hope you get… hmm… a paper cut. But a really bad one that stings. Then gets infected with maggots that eat away at your bare flesh until you eventually die an agonising death. But not before I give you a card that says I apologise for the stock response but your pathetic life has been rejected. I can’t see a market for it. But I wish you success in your eternity in whatever hell you’ll be going to.

Unless they reject you too.

If that doesn’t happen, I’m going to find out who each and every one of you are and keep photos of you with me for the rest of my life. And some day, maybe many years from now, I’ll spot you on the street from that cardboard box I’ll be living in. And, when you pass, I’ll put out my leg and trip you up. If I’m lucky, you’ll graze your knee but, at the very least, you’ll look like a tit.

And, then, when I’m close to death, I’ll take each one of those photos and write ‘FOOD’ on them. Then, when the inevitable zombie apocalyse comes and I rise from the grave hungry for human flesh, the only memory I’ll have is that you, each and every one of you, are my food. And I will eat your brains. I can’t imagine your brains would give me much sustenaince but then a zombie doesn’t digest food anyway. And, in a way, it’s fitting – just like now, what little brains you have will be utterly useless. But I’ll eat them anyway.

Fuck each and every one of you. The least you could have done was do me the decency of writing a proper letter. And putting my name on it. Gobshites.

I think I’m taking this rather well.