I can't resist this.
Here is an account of Dorothy Parker vs Winnie the Pooh:
(And, with only one more quote, I promise to shut up about it...just I love the books, and Dorothy Parker)
"Pooh Too Hummy
by Steve King
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On this day in 1928 Dorothy Parker, under her pen name, Constant Reader, reviewed A. A. Milne's The House at Pooh Corner in the New Yorker, with predictable results. The first Winnie-the-Pooh episode had appeared on Christmas Eve of 1925 in the Evening News, and was radio broadcast throughout Britain on Christmas Day. Over the next three years, Milne's children's books -- When We Were Very Young, Winnie-the Pooh, Now We Are Six -- had dominated the best seller lists. Parker had panned Now We Are Six the previous year, even while acknowledging that "to speak against Mr. Milne puts one immediately in the ranks of those who set fire to orphanages." The House at Pooh Corner proved to be one pot of honey too many, especially when Pooh revealed that he added the "tiddely pom" to his Outdoor Song "to make it more hummy": "And it is that word 'hummy,' my darlings, that marks the first place in The House at Pooh Corner at which Tonstant Weader fwowed up."
Parker did not have a special grudge against Milne. She says in her review of Now We Are Six that, "Time was when A. A. Milne was my only hero," but that "when Mr. Milne went quaint, all was over. Now he leads his life, and I Iead mine." At this point, the life Parker lead was so full of personal disaster that any show of sentimentality was bound to draw fire. Constant Reader's review of a book titled Happiness described it as "second only to a rubber duck as the ideal bathtub companion":
It may be held in the hand without causing muscular fatigue or nerve strain, it may be neatly balanced back of the faucets, and it may be read through before the water has cooled. And if it slips down the drain pipe, all right, it slips down the drain pipe.
Nor was Milne as syrupy as many contemporary children's writers, or as addicted to "hypocorisma" -- this is the technical word for the use of pet names and baby talk. Books like the 'Normous Saturday Fairy Book and Marion St John Webb's The Littlest One cashed in on the habit, the latter featuring a series of verses in the voice of a six-year-old boy, complete with lisp and cute spelling. And Parker was not the only one to scoff: a contemporary Punch cartoon has Nanny saying to her darling, "Look, Dickie, what a dear little bow-wow!" and Dickie replying, "Do you mean the Cairn or the Sealyham?""
That is from Today in Literature.
And, here is Pooh's revenge:
"Smells Like Pooh
by Michael Butzgy
[Written for a contest in Inscriptions, a defunct e-zine for professional writers. Their specs:
Dorothy Parker once suffered from writer's block. "Not too long ago I tried to write a story. I got my name and address on the sheet; a title, which stank; and the first sentence: ‘The stranger appeared in the doorway.' Then I had to lie down with a wet cloth on my face." Well here's your chance to finish her tale. Take the sentence, "The stranger appeared in the doorway..." and turn it into a short story.
My effort (replete with a title that really stinks), was based on Dorothy Parker's classic 1928 review of The House at Pooh Corner. The story won 1st Prize.]
The stranger appeared in the doorway. She was lying on the couch, facing away from him, a large martini resting precariously on her midsection. “Is that you, Robert?” she cooed.
The stranger cleared his throat and spoke tentatively. “Miss Parker?”
Not recognizing the voice, she snapped her head around, and peered over the arm of the green chintz sofa, ready to face this unknown intruder. In the process she almost spilled her drink, the olive floating dangerously close to the edge of the glass.
But there was no one there. She sat up, and then looked again,
It appeared to be a small child, but as she examined him more closely, she realized it was a stuffed animal of some sort—a toy bear. She briefly closed her eyes, then opened them for a second look. Definitely a toy bear. “Damn bathtub gin,” she muttered.
The bruin cleared his throat and then spoke again. “Miss Dorothy Parker? You write book reviews for The New Yorker—something called ‘Constant Reader?'”
“No. It can't be,” she thought.
“My name is Edward Bear. My friends,” he gestured behind him, looking back through the doorway, “call me Winnie-the-Pooh. But you,” he intoned with no small amount of menace, “are clearly not one of my friends.”
“Y-Your friends?” she stammered.
At this, the bear snapped his fingers. Several more small stuffed animals tottered dutifully into the room. She could make out a pig, some sort of burro or donkey, a rabbit, a kangaroo, an owl, and an extremely agitated orange and black striped tiger. “These are my friends,” said the bear. “We work for a Mr. Milne, A. A. Milne. I believe you've heard of him?”
Her mind was frozen by fear.
“Let me refresh your memory, Miss Parker. Rabbit?” The hare produced a battered magazine, handing it to the brownish-yellow bear. He thumbed through a few pages, and then found the passage he was seeking. “In last week's New Yorker, you wrote a review of Mr. Milne's latest work of genius, The House at Pooh Corner. In this piece, you directly slander Piglet,” he nodded towards the pig, “Eeyore,” nodding towards the burro, who was playing with his tail, “and myself. After these baseless attacks on our character, you conclude the review with the line, and I quote, ‘Tonstant Weader Fwowed up.' Is this accurate?”
Maybe she could break the ice with a joke. “Well, actually, I only had a stomach-ache.”
The bear lost control of himself, spinning wildly, knocking over the owl in the process. He finally came to a stop, but instead began screaming. “Do you think this is some kind of a freaking joke?” he bellowed as he pointed at her. The tiger slowly edged closer.
She knew this was a bad situation, and began desperately searching the coffee table for anything she could use as a weapon. Of course. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked innocently.
“The condemned prisoner always gets a final wish,” he chuckled, making a dismissive wave with his paw. “Puff away.”
She selected a cigarette from a dish, put it between her lips, and briefly touched the bright flame from her heavy table lighter against the tip. She deeply inhaled the calming smoke, mentally preparing herself for what might be her only chance. She had to keep the nut talking, keep him distracted. “It's a free country. What do you care what I think?”
The bear sniffed contemptuously. “Mr. Milne was about to ink a deal with a major Hollywood animator. It would have made me the most famous cartoon character in the world.”
“You are forgetting the studio's star actor,” the pig mentioned cautiously.
The bear snapped back, “Shut up, Porky! Accidents happen, even to famous mice. I'm taking care of that problem with the help of an extremely ambitious duck who's not afraid to take chances. Maybe he would make a better number two. What do you think, bacon boy?”
The frightened pig began stuttering. “I was just k-kidding. You c-can c-count on me, boss.”
The bear mused for a moment, then turned back to her, seeming to come to a decision. “I won't let anyone stand in my way, especially a writer.” He spat the final word out, as if he was referring to an earthworm. The bear stared into space for a moment, and then slowly fixed his two black button eyes on her. “I could've had all the hunny I wanted, for the rest of my life, but your review blew the deal.”
She mockingly blew a cloud of smoke at the bear. “Things are tough all over, hunny.”
He tensed for a moment, but then seemed to relax. “Especially for you, Miss Parker. I've enjoyed our little exchange, but I'm afraid I must now bid you adieu. Tigger?”
This was it. As the big cat lunged, she rolled to the side, spilling the contents of her martini glass on his neck and back. She could feel his hot breath on her face as she took her other hand and jammed the glowing cigarette into the wet fur.
The tiger instantly burst into flames, burning brightly. He danced to and fro, and higgeldy-piggeldy, but finding no relief from the excruciating pain, he frantically dived through a nearby window, glass tinkling as his body fell with a thud onto Sixth Avenue.
She stood brandishing the table lighter. “As my friend Ogden Nash might say, ‘liquor is quicker.' Any of the rest of you vermin what a piece of me?” she asked defiantly. “C'mon, let's tango!”
The animals began to nervously back out of the room. Perhaps this writer was tougher than they had suspected. “You win this time,” the bear said menacingly. “But we'll be back, tiddely-pom!”
“Tiddely what?” she asked incredulously.
“Pom. I put that in to make it more hummy. Mark my words, you'll never be rid of us!”
And we never were."
Now, as you were, atheists and christians.