When Bob and I got done with our last film, I said "You know, I think we should slow down with the 'On the Road' series. Your nose is getting too long, and I'd rather golf. Golf and sing."
Bob said, "You're right, Bing, my nose could sure use the rest."
"Hey Bob," I said.
"What?" he replied.
"What's a crooner?"
"Yah, a crooner."
"Well, somebody called me one the other day, and I thought about smackin' him, but then I wasn't sure."
"Hmm. How'd he say it?"
"I was walking down the street, doing that babababoo thing I do, and this guy comes up to me and says 'Can I have an autograph, Mr. Crosby? You're a real crooner.'"
"Hmm. Do you give him one?"
"Well, yah, I had this autograph of Mae West...'"
"Hmm. Even though he called you a crooner?"
"Well, yah. I wasn't sure."
"What's the worst 'crooner' could mean?"
"I don't know, a man who wears one of those sandwich boards that says Eat a Lot of Meat, maybe someone who likes galoshes, it could mean anything."
"Yah..." Bob shook his head, and I contemplated that. Was he thinking 'how pathetic', or was he just trying to shake his nose off his head?
"Say Bob, what do you think I should have done?"
"I don't know, Bing, but I need a decongestant."
"On which game show?"
"Never mind, Bing. Go golf. It makes you croon."
"Thanks Bob," I said, somewhat consoled. "I love to croon."