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However, the pimp's killers don't look too kindly on this new 'business', nor does the morgue's owner. When a Japanese car company buys an American plant, the American liaison must mediate the clash of work attitudes between the foreign management and native labor. Four mental patients on a field trip in New York City must save their caring chaperon, who ends up being taken to a hospital in a coma after accidentally witnessing a murder, before the killers can find him and finish the job. A man who never has enough time for the things he wants to do is offered the opportunity to have himself duplicated.

A hustling drug addict checks himself into rehab to escape trouble with the law and realizes that it's exactly what he needs. The family man Jack Butler is happily married and lives with his beloved wife Caroline Butler and their children Alex, Kenny and Megan in a suburb of Detroit.

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Jack is an engineer that works in an automobile factory with his friends Stan and Larry and they go to the work in car pool with their boss Jinx. When Jack loses his job, Caroline looks for a job and finds in the advertising agency that belongs to Ron Richardson. Soon Caroline succeeds in holding an important account in the agency and climbs positions and responsibilities.

Meanwhile Jack learns how hard the household chores and childcare are. Going into this film, I expected some trite family comedy with a lot of cheap gags involving things like the normal guy trying to change diapers. That's why I was really impressed. I enjoyed it a lot! This movie proves why it's a shame that Michael Keaton has turned to "Michael Who?

I hope to God he doesn't start doing direct-to-video crap like some once-popular actors. He is a true talent with impeccable comic timing! The script is well-written. Though you can call it predictable, it deserves to be predictable. Besides, the plot turns make sense in the context of the characters, and don't feel contrived.

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The film delivers a fine message without suffocating you with corny sentiment. And Keaton's wonderful performance keeps the film airtight. There are many hilarious moments. The gag in which Keaton plays poker with a group of homemakers, using coupons instead of money, is absolutely priceless! Plus, I felt for the characters and when you feel for the characters, the jokes are always funnier.

When Keaton gets himself into one dilemma after another, I was laughing because I felt sorry for him, and that's the key to physical comedy. You have to care for the character's intentions. Mom" is a funny, sweet, kind-hearted family comedy that doesn't cater to any particular age group. At first glance, it looks an anti-parenting film that manipulates us guys into thinking, "Geez, I'm never gonna have a kid. Go see it! A truly entertaining movie that's likable in all aspects! My score: 8 out of Start your free trial.

Find showtimes, watch trailers, browse photos, track your Watchlist and rate your favorite movies and TV shows on your phone or tablet! IMDb More. Keep track of everything you watch; tell your friends. Full Cast and Crew. Release Dates. Official Sites. Company Credits. Technical Specs. Plot Summary. Plot Keywords. Parents Guide. External Sites. User Reviews. What an uncanny intuition that man had! He was utterly wasted in a district attorney's office!

He was a naturally born "con" man! One who could tell and play a sucker better than any professional. He sent for me. Told me how sorry he was about the whole thing. How he hated to go through with it. But his duty was clear. He was under oath to uphold and preserve the Constitution … etc.

It never occurred to me then to tell him that the Constitution had been preserved so long that it was actually pickled! Instead, I felt so blue over his predicament that it almost brought tears to my eyes! It certainly was a darned shame that any scalliwag like me should be permitted to put such a nice man in that kind of stew! The situation was so tense, that I actually expected him any minute to fall all over me and weep!

I was scared.

The prison suit I had on was not pre-shrunk. A good cry and it would have been all over with it. It would have left me looking like a bell-boy in shorts! You are a pretty good sort of a fellow. Will you take my advice? I might have felt soft-hearted. But not that soft.

I am advising you for your own good. If you go through with the trial, you will be convicted. The evidence is against you. The judge will believe the inspector. He won't believe you, because you have a prison record. You would be licked before you started. In that, I agreed with him. I did not tell him so. But I knew even then how hopeless it was to buck the government without shekels or influential friends. However, I did not give in right away. He might send you away for a long stretch. Make an example of you. Judges always take the district attorney's recommendations.

And he did! But God, the judge and himself only know what he told him! I kept my end of the bargain. I pleaded guilty. Then he walked up to the bench. He handed some papers to the judge. He whispered to him. The judge glanced through the papers and took a squint at me. Then he said:. Somebody, a deputy-marshal, I guess, took me by the arm and led me out of the court-room before I had time to realize what had happened. If he hadn't done that, I might have had to face additional charges of assault and battery and contempt.

I was so mad, I was fit to be tied! A couple of days later, I and four more federal prisoners, with a couple of deputy-marshals, started on our way South to serve our respective sentences in the United States Penitentiary at Atlanta, Ga. The five Italians were discharged from custody right after my trial. There were paid their two or more months allowances as government witnesses.

They were legally permitted to remain in the United States! Can you, reader, figure that out? I can't. I have been trying to ever since, but without success. On the way South, we travelled by Pullman, had our meals in the dining-car, and lounged about in our seats like tourists. In Washington, we had lunch at a pretentious restaurant near the station.

Then we took a walk through the Capitol grounds. We would have gone inside, but were afraid to embarrass some of the boys. We did not visit at the White House either. President Taft asked to be excused. He was busy. Probably figuring how he could beat Teddy Roosevelt at the next presidential elections. But figures do lie sometimes! In Atlanta, the deputy-marshals took us to a "bar-room"?!

Something to pep us up before the ordeal of a prison commitment. The hardest stuff there, was near beer! In fact, it was so far from any beer taste that it could not have caught up with it in a coon's age. We drank it and groaned. Keeled over, almost! We found the United States Penitentiary a sight for sore eyes. It wasn't like anything we had seen before. Not I, at least. In those days, it had the reputation of being a Biltmore, a Ritz-Carlton in its line. And it lived up to its reputation too!

Why wouldn't it? It was the potential abode of every big man in the country. From cabinet members and members of Congress to national bank officials and postal clerks. From incometax dodgers to bootleggers and mail-robbers. And it stands to reason that those birds, knowing that an ounce of prevention is worth two points of cure, would take the New Willard as a pattern for "their" prison.

They probably figured that since it had to be a cage, it might as well be a gilded cage. I didn't have much trouble down there in getting myself a clerical job. I found it waiting for me. In the laundry. But my knowledge of Italian, English and French got me promoted. I was transferred to the mail clerk's office, who by the way, is now the present Warden of that institution.

Besides addressing and sealing envelopes, it was my duty to translate into English and type all incoming and outgoing mail, if written in any of the foreign languages with which I was more or less familiar. Particularly so, all correspondence from and for Ignazio Lupo and his alleged co-partners in crime. Lupo was supposed to be an early edition of Al Capone. He was doing 30 years for counterfeiting.

The same as Capone is doing eleven years for not having paid an income-tax. Actually, Lupo was doing time for all the crimes which were attributed to him. Among them, he was reputed to have ordered the killing in Sicily of Lieutenant Petrosino of the New York police force. Far be it from me to uphold murder or any form of crime. I believe that a man ought to be punished for his misdeeds. But I believe also that he should be dealt with on the level. That he should be punished for what he has actually done. And not overpunished, for a minor infraction or punished for something he never did, even if the man deserves ten times as much for other things which cannot be proved against him.

Of his other alleged crimes, I don't know anything about. I don't care and don't want to know. They are something between him and his Maker and no business of mine in any way, shape or form. Lupo approached me in the prison yard during a ball game. He asked me whether I would mind moving into the same cell with him. He said that the prison officials, acting upon instructions were giving him one stool-pigeon after another for a cell-mate. Which was true. They were driving him crazy. He wanted somebody whom he knew wouldn't be there just to hurt him. His plight was distressing.

Regardless of the fact that a man with a year sentence is not apt to prove a very cheerful companion, I told him I would ask to move in with him. We were put together. And I found much in him that I liked. He was extremely good-hearted. After I got to know more about his case, I became convinced that he had been used to further the advancement of one of the officers of the United States Secret Service. If I needed any evidence of it, I got it on my release from Atlanta. I had promised Lupo that I would call on the editors of the Atlanta Constitution and of the Atlanta Journal and give them the facts.

I kept my promises. But the editors talked and the Secret Service got wind of it. One day, two of those guys cornered me in Peachtree Street and warned me to keep my nose out of Lupo's case. Evidence of Secret Service activities was not lacking even at the prison, anyway. An operator, Italian, had been attached to the mail clerk's office as an assistant. He wore a uniform and also did guard duty. But his main function was to check my translation in general, and of Lupo's letters in particular, and forward copies to Washington. What the Secret Service were after, was evidence of Lupo's connection with other crimes.

They assumed he would be fool enough to let the cat out of the bag someday, if there was any cat in the bag. And they never stopped to think that I was his cell-mate and helped him write all those letters. Letters which I knew I would have to translate later for their benefit! Of all the dumb Alecs, they surely deserved the blue ribbon! My job kept me out of the cell Sundays and holidays. Not to work. Just to sit around the office with other clerks. To smoke, talk or play checkers and chess.

With us was Charlie W. Morse, the same who had been rubbing elbows with the Big Wigs in Wall Street. The same to whom a well-known steamship company was said to have handed a cool million dollars on his release from prison. Charlie Morse was a pretty good sort of fellow. Loaded with money. A good mixer. And extremely well versed in Wall Street finance.

He could read the stock exchange quotations backwards. One day he walked into Warden Moyer's office and asked him for the privilege to send a code wire to his brokers. The Warden, after much arguing back and forth, finally gave in. He told him not to make it a practice and send only that one wire along. Charlie did. The Warden wanted to know whom and what it was for. It seems that he had made quite a haul on a stock transaction. But Warden Moyer did not like that a bit. He declined the check and gave him hell.

He even threatened to lock him up. Charlie did not mind the blasting.


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It was like water on a duck's back for him. But he was never permitted to send out another wire. Not from that United States Penitentiary, at any rate. Perhaps, it didn't make much difference to him. He had all the money he wanted. Seven or more million dollars, they said. Anyway, he did not stay there much longer. He was doing a year stretch. But he had no intention of serving it in full. It is a matter of public knowledge that he had hired Harry M. Daugherty, of President Harding's cabinet fame, as his lawyer. Nobody knows how much he paid him. Daugherty looked after the Washington end of Morse's case.

Charlie began to eat soap and other stuff and soon developed the symptoms of locomotor ataxia or of Bright's disease. I don't remember which. And it does not matter after all. But he was certified in a hopeless condition and in immediate danger of his life. They transferred him to Fort Oglethorpe, Ga. A few months later, he was pardoned by President Taft, having served all together, a little over two years on a year sentence.

Once released, naturally he declined to die. He must've lived another dozen years or so. I remained in Atlanta till the expiration of my full term and served an extra month for the fine. I was not paroled. In fact, for some reason or other which I do not remember, I did not apply for a parole, notwithstanding my good behavior. I was released unconditionally in July No effort was made to deport me.

My meeting in Peachtree Street with the two Secret Service men convinced me that Atlanta, as the gag goes, was "no place for a minister's son. The streets of Marietta were still splattered with the blood of Leo Frank. I made myself scarce p.


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  • Why Alabama of all places? For no other reason than that Alabama was in a western direction. A few years later, astrologers told me it was all wrong. I should never have gone West. My stars pointed to the East, they said. And they were right. To become enlightened, a man ought to travel always in the direction of the sun. Every yap knows that. But, on the other hand, the eastern routes are so crowded with blue lodge members that a traveler must sit up all night to get to a railroad ticket-window ahead of them.

    Be that as it may, I landed in Birmingham. I could not miss it. That is unless I catapulted from the train. And I wouldn't have missed it if I had missed it. The only thing of interest I found there was a "quack". An old acquaintance of mine from Providence. This quack had an infirmary. Whether or not he had a license to practice is a horse of a different color. Maybe he did and, yet, maybe he didn't. Away back in Providence he did not have one. In fact, he had to leave in a hurry on account of that. But in Birmingham he might have had one. If he did, I don't know how he got it, because the only "medicine" he had ever taken in was castor oil when he was a kid.

    I saw his sign over the infirmary and was attracted by the name. It was familiar. Out of curiosity, I went in to find out whether it was a case of two practitioners with an identical shingle or of two shingles for one and the same "doctor. We talked. He was very frank about his activities. Couldn't very well have been anything else with me.

    The infirmary was a "racket," he explained. A good racket. He was cleaning up! With what? With fake claims against the coal companies! This is how it worked. He had agents scattered all over. In every mining camp. They were on a commission basis. As soon as a miner was the victim of some accident, especially a minor accident, he would be coached by the quack's agent to exaggerate the injury, to make it appear an internal injury, and to decline any settlement that may be offered by the company. Right away, or in due course of time, according to the nature of the injury, the victim would end up at the quack's infirmary.

    He would stay there weeks or maybe months, leading the life of Riley. Nothing was too good for him. The quack would report his condition to the company and vouch for any sort of internal injury. Eventually, a settlement had to be discussed. This invariably included doctor's fees and infirmary bills at figures that would have staggered even a Johns Hopkins or Mayo clinic's patient. Plus this, the company had to pay some damages to the man himself. The quack cut in on the damages too. The infirmary was always full. And why wouldn't it be? When genuine accidents were scarce, fake accidents were resorted to.

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    A miner would get his "buddy" to throw a few lumps of coal at him. They would pile up some "slack". Summon help. And report a "cave in". The miner would claim minor injuries. The quack would certify to them and collect. And that goes to show that Barnum was right.

    There is a sucker born every day, and they make him a claim adjuster for a coal mining company! It surely is "a great life if you don't weaken! I had a splendid chance to get in that accident racket. I was offered a job. Not for my superficial knowledge of medicine. Rather, for my intimate knowledge of the quack's methods and past. But I am no blackmailer.

    I live and let live. Besides, that infirmary looked to me as if it might lead me to a relapse. That is, to one of those Alabama chain-gangs. And I gave it a wide berth. I went to Blocton, instead,—a mining town with a sizable number of Italians where I figured that my knowledge of English might come in handy. In fact, I managed to eke out a living, sometimes acting as interpreter; others, helping the local storekeepers out with their books; occasionally as a male nurse to some battered miner. Life was far from dull in that small community. Between christenings, weddings and other celebrations, we had more good times than we would have in a large city.

    It was like one big, happy family. A real brotherhood of common interests and endeavors and of neighborly love. Men, women and children were all banded together by a uniform hope in and fear of their lord and master, the capricious King Coal. Gaiety ebbed or flowed in that camp at the king's whim, according to whether he was lavish or the other way, with tons of precious black mineral or with his frightful destruction of human lives!

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    It was in my capacity of male nurse that I soon discovered something was amiss in that community. There was no running water. No electric current. The water was toted from wells and springs. Candles and kerosene furnished the light. To administer first aid under those handicaps was not a cinch. Yet, it had to be done because the hospital was two miles away and the only way to get there was walk. I made up my mind that the camp must be provided with both light and running water. For the very good reason that money with me is always the last consideration instead of being the first. Why should I worry about the money?

    The money is always around to be had. The main thing is to have an idea. A plausible idea which can be dressed up and sold. All I needed for that water and power plant were a gasoline engine, a pump, a dynamo and a tank. The camp was on the slope of a hill. On top of the hill and down part of the other slope, there was another small, but more exclusive district for the native population.

    At the bottom of that slope was a creek. The whole community was organized under a charter and had some sort of a town council. It didn't take much to get a town meeting called. A notice was posted. Word passed around. And one Sunday afternoon we all gathered in the town hall.

    I was introduced and took the floor. We are all here to discuss the ways and means and expediency of providing every house in this community with running water and electric light. I have made a superficial survey of the proposition and found that it would be practical to pump the water from the creek to a tank on top of the hill and distribute it from there. The same engine which runs the pump, could also run the dynamo for the electric current. I have no figures to submit at this time as to the cost of the plant, the piping and the wiring. I have no money to pay for it. Then I will form a corporation asking each member of this community to subscribe to one or more shares of its preferred stock.

    Enough of it to pay for the cost. I intend to retain a controlling interest of the common stock for my own services and sell the balance to cover overheads and other emergency expenses of the corporation. I expect those rates to leave a reasonable margin of profit for the common stock. While I am desirous to promote the welfare of this community, I feel that I am entitled to some returns for my time, energy and services.

    I thank you. The resolution was unanimously adopted. A few days later, I was given the franchise at a special meeting of the town council. I had a power equipment company send down a couple of engineers to lay out the whole thing and give me some figures. In another month or so, the plant would have materialized.

    But … something happened to upset my plans. Something always happens! It never fails. Something so entirely unexpected that it catches me unaware. Like a flower pot that lands on a man's head from a three-story window. That time, it was an accident. Not to me. To one of the nurses at the company's hospital. Pearl Gossett was her name. She had been cooking a patient's meal on a gasoline stove. The stove exploded. She was frightfully burned.

    The entire left arm and part of her breast and shoulder were actually one mass of charred flesh. A couple of days after the accident, Dr.

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    Thomas, the company's doctor, came over to the camp. We were very friendly. He never failed to call on me whenever he was at the camp. He did not fail that day. He stopped at the house where I was staying and we drank a bottle of beer. Our conversation drifted to the nurse. Gangrene is setting in. But I can't find anybody who will give up as little as an inch of his skin for her.

    He told me he had asked everybody around the camp. He had been turned down in each instance. It did not seem fair that a young girl like Pearl should be permitted to die such a horrible death. That nurse had been so kind to her patients that it seemed inconceivable that she should meet with such ingratitude. It made my blood sizzle to think that any person could be so selfish, so cowardly as to refuse a mere inch of his own skin to save a human life. I will give you all the skin you need. You will give the whole of it?

    When do you want me? You might want to prepare for it. Sort of brace up. When can you be ready? Thomas took a good look at me before he replied. He wanted to make sure I wouldn't flinch. Evidently, what he saw in my eyes decided him. Come along," he said. Before they gave me the ether, I wanted to know from what part of my body they were going to peel my skin. And he did. When I came to, both of my legs were bandaged, from hip to knee. And sore! Oh, boy! But what's a couple of sore legs more or less between friends? Just a trifle!

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