Title: Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 3, No. 29, January, 1922
Author: Various
Editor: W. H. Fawcett
Release date: May 29, 2020 [eBook #62279]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
Whiz Bang’s greatest book—The Winter AnnualPedigreed Follies of 1921-22—hot off thepress. Orders are now being mailed. There willbe no delay as long as the supply lasts. If yournews stand’s quota is sold out—
PIN A DOLLAR BILL
Or your check, money order or stamps
To the coupon on the back page.
And receive our 256-page bound volume ofjokes, jests, jingles, stories, pot pourri, mail bagand Smokehouse poetry. The best collection everput in print.
REMEMBER, FOLK
Last year our Annual (which was only one-fourthas large as the 1921-22 book) was sold outon the Pacific Coast within three or four days,and not a copy could be bought anywhere in theUnited States within ten days.
So hurry up! First Come will be First Served!
Pin your dollar bill to the coupon and mail tothe Whiz Bang Farm; Robbinsdale, Minn.
Don’t write for early back copies of our regular issues.
We haven’t any left.
Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang
America’s Magazine of
Wit, Humor and
Filosophy
JANUARY, 1922Vol. III. No. 29
Published Monthly
W. H. Fawcett, Rural Route No. 2
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota
Entered as second-class matter May, 1, 1920, at the postoffice atRobbinsdale, Minnesota, under theAct of March 3, 1879.
Price 25 cents$2.50 per year
ONE DOLLAR FOR THE WINTER ANNUAL
Contents of this magazine are copyrighted. Republication of any partpermitted when properly credited to Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang.
“We have room for but one soul loyalty and that isloyalty to the American people.”—Theodore Roosevelt.
Copyright 1922
By W. H. Fawcett
Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang employs no solicitors.Subscriptions may be received only at authorized newsstands or by direct mail to Robbinsdale. We join in noclubbing offers, nor do we give premiums. Two-fifty ayear in advance.
Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran anddedicated to the fighting forces of the United States
After an extended trip of two months,which led me throughout the NorthAmerican continent, it was a rare treatto settle down again to routine duties on theWhiz Bang farm. The main street of our ownlittle “Gopher Prairie” looked mighty good toa tired and worn out farmer. ’Twas indeed apleasure to view the Howard lumber yard, withits red fence and shed, and to grasp the sturdyhand of our village postmaster and storekeeper,Bud Nasett. J. J. McCormick, who is depotagent and telegraph operator, not to mentionbaggage smasher for genial drummers, greetedme at the station.
“How are you, Bill, you old son-of-a-gun?”or words to this effect, was the whole-heartedway that Mac welcomed back a wayward andprodigal pilgrim.
Arm in arm we walked along Main Streetto Gus Urban’s meat market to inquire as tothe price of livestock. Mr. Urban, in his usualjovial embonpoint manner, informed us thatcows brought five cents a pound, but that bullwas priceless. I disagreed with Gus, insistingthat my recent journeys in quest of the pedigreed[4]animal had left me “flat broke.”
Directly across the street, neatly encased inimitation granite blocks of concrete, is our onlybank, the Security State of Robbinsdale—and ithasn’t gone “bump” for nigh onto four years.In the reorganization which followed the lastcrash, Joe Roche was selected as cashier andJoe has since successfully piloted this financialbulwark of our happy little village. Joe alsomanages the Robbinsdale baseball nine. Aftermaking a small “touch” at the bank it was homeand the farm.
My welcome back was so pleasant that thewords of that rural gem—“The Little Old HomeTown”—went Whiz-Zing through my jadedmind.
Bobby Nelson, our neighbor’s boy, isthe worst kid in the world for betting,and the unusual feature of it is heusually wins. Bobby’s father took the matterup with the school marm to see if she couldn’tbreak him of the gambling habit, promisingher a reward if successful.
The other morning when Bobby came toschool he wanted to bet teacher she had a warton her right knee and the school marm, knowingbetter, and thinking she had an opportunityto win a bet from Bobby and by so doing, discouragehis betting habit, accepted Bobby’schallenge. After school that evening teacherproved Bobby was wrong and won the twodollar bet.
She then called on old man Nelson.
“Mr. Nelson, I have broken Bobby of thebetting habit. It was a little embarrassing,but this is how it was—Bobby bet me two dollarsI had a wart on my right knee and inorder to make him lose and cure him of thebetting habit I accepted his challenge.”
“Lady! Lady! Why did you do it? Bobbybet me this morning ten dollars that he wouldsee your knee before the day was out.”
In naughty old New York you need cold cash to havea hot time.
The other day I went to an Irish weddingand the people who attended were veryill mannered. Why, I never saw suchimpolite people. We were all seated aroundthe dinner table and when they brought theturkey in to serve, everybody made a grab forit, but the two legs I got tasted very good.
Out in Idaho it is reported that the nativesare making booze in this manner—womenchew corn and then “gob” it into ahollowed-out section of a tree trunk. Water isadded and the mess allowed to ferment, afterwhich it is imbibed to intoxication. Some drink,we would pause to remark!
A friend of mine told me the other nighthe slept in a wagon standing in an alley,and when he woke up in the morning hehad nothing but a dime in his pocket. He wasthirsty and he also needed a shave, so hedecided to toss the coin to see whether he wouldget a shave or a drink. He tossed up the dime,and when it came down he missed it and itrolled near a sewer grating, coming to astandstill just half over the edge of the grating.
“Gee,” he exclaimed, “that was a close shave.I guess I’ll get a drink.”
We asked Gus what he thought of Helen ofTroy, but he said that he had stopped runningaround with those laundry girls.
Our Robbinsdale druggist insists that MinnesotaSwedes are the most advanced settlersin this country.
“Formerly we thought the Swedes werecrazy for drinking pure alcohol,” he said, “Butpresent day events prove them to have beenabout twenty years in advance of the rest ofus.”
A stranger got off the train at ourneighboring town of Coon Creek andwent up to the town druggist and askedfor whisky.
“We’re only allowed to sell spirits formedicinal purposes,” said the druggist.
“That’s what I want it for,” the strangerinsisted, “this town gives me a pain.”
On my way to the Pacific coast last monthI traded a Whiz Bang to a kid at thedepot in Fresno for a package of raisinswhich the boy was selling on the depot platform.On the way back I saw the same kid.
“Say, kid, those raisins were punk.”
“So was the book” he replied.
Now, Fellow Soaks, we’ll touch a few highspots in this grand and glorious continentas we ramble about with wry faces inpursuit of the elusive Scotch and Bubbon. SanDiego and its fashionable suburb, Coronado,were tough spots for a thirsty Minnesotafarmer. Nothing but a concoction commonlycalled “sympathy” gin to be had by a meek andlowly stranger. But, glory be to Mexico, Tiajuanawith its old time western bar-rooms andmusic halls, is but an hour away.
We spent one grand and glorious afternoonand evening in this unique village. It remindedme of slumming expeditions of a quarter centuryago. Visions of Omaha’s famous Arcadeat Capitol Avenue and Ninth Street, and ofDuluth’s “Minnesota Point” in its palmy days,not to mention the cribs of Dupont Street inFrisco, went flitting through my frappe’d brain.
In one solace of joy we sat at a table forHaig and Haig “service,” said service being deliveredby jaded janes who divided their timebetween waiting on customers and jazz dancingto the tinny tunes of a tin pan orchestra.It was a wild place and a wild night. Later wedined at the Sunset Inn. The inn was flankedby rooms filled with scores of roulette wheelsand faro tables. My sporting blood surgedhither and thither but to no avail, for theMexican government had placed a temporaryban on this style of gambling.
Alcatraz Island, that silent citadel thatillumines the skyline of Frisco’s bay like ableak battleship, is the temporary home ofabout five hundred United States soldiers whohave become ensnarled in the tough and tediousred tape of Uncle Sam’s court martial system.Prisons and morgues are two places I abhor,but it fell my lot to visit both in one night inSan Francisco.
It happened like this: While entertainingsome new found Frisco friends in my room inthe St. Francis Hotel, I was pleasantly surprisedby the head director of the Jewish WelfareBoard, Shea Swartz by name, whorequested on behalf of the Board, that my pedigreedbunk be spread on the rocky soil ofAlcatraz. The five hundred boys gathered inthe barrack auditorium and gave the WhizBang a grand and glorious welcome. It wasone of the bright lights of a very enjoyabletour of the coast.
Later in the evening, accompanied by GeorgeDuffy and G. W. DeLano of the district attorney’soffice, we inspected the famous SanFrancisco morgue. It was a gruesome visit,I’ll admit, but some of the curse was removedby the marvelous furniture and apparatus usedin the handling of the unfortunate.
From the morgue we glimpsed a view of thecity jail, through the kind offices of Walter C.[10]Schiller, who is bond and warrant clerk in theHall of Justice.
It was next to Chinatown where we weremet by the sergeant in charge of the Chinatownvice squad. Two of his operatives conductedour party through a score or more ofChink gambling and hop joints that hadrecently been raided. We sincerely thank thesquad, but regret not having seen one or twoplaces that had not been raided.
It is the hour of dusk that Chinatown padsto and fro noiselessly. In the little tangle ofcrooked streets, blue lozenges of lights, sittinggods and queer smells that babble of Orientaltalk is incessant at this hour. Women paradein gaudy headdress and beads of jade. Themen wear their gaudiest silken robes. Thereare dried-up men whose faces are old with theage of eastern lore, young women who walkwith mincing steps and Oriental grace, cherry-cheekedbabies tottering uncertainly.
We passed up Honolulu until later in theyear and made a transcontinental jump to NewYork to try and “Get Gertie’s Garter.” Don’tbelieve I’ll ever be contented “down on thefarm” after all the wonderful people and wonderfulsights of the past two months. But heregoes for Lil’ Ol’ New Yawk, as seen throughthe eyes of a farmer.
In the old days we used to hear startlingtales of the decadence of the Paristheatre. It is no longer necessary to crossthe pond to have one’s aesthetic (?) sensesstirred. The New York stage will do it for youthis season. Right behind the Broadway footlightsyou can see everything done in the nameof Art from witnessing a young lady actuallyclimb in a bed already occupied by a male toobserving a squad of girls play strip pokeruntil—
But let us go back to the beginning. Theysay that it is a dull season in New York andthat no one is spending money—at least fortheatre tickets. Hence the frantic effort towhet the jaded appetites of the elusive theatre-goers.
Let us list some of the more sprightly attractions.Bear in mind that some of themhave excellent qualities. There is, for instance,Somerset Maugham’s “The Circle,” telling ofan old couple who have broken all the conventionsand of a younger couple about to followin their footsteps. It is told with lively cleverness.No, indeed, the young people do not find[12]a moral in the experiences of their elders. Atthe end they dash away to investigate theillicit love-in-a-cottage stuff themselves andMr. Maugham points out that in life it doesn’tmatter “what you do as much as what you are.”And also that “you can do anything in thisworld if you’re prepared to take the consequencesand consequences depend on character.”All of which is excellent mental food for the1921 flapper.
Then there is Cosmo Hamilton’s “The SilverFox,” a little epic of a philandering wife witha penchant for young men and abbreviatedsocks. Clever, too, but decadent.
Also we might note “Ambush,” the opus ofa young woman who likes pretty things andwho is aided and abetted by her mother. Papais a poor commuter who wakes up whendaughter introduces a flip and married gentlemanfriend. When he protests, daughter slapshis face and snaps “Damn you!” Still, thereis some excuse for “Ambush.” At least it iswell written.
Here we turn to the plain every day effortsto be insolently sensational at any price.
“Getting Gertie’s Garter” (note the chastetitle), was one of the earliest of the sexlystimulants. But garters have lost their vogueand, anyway, the short skirts have ruined theirnovelty. So the piece did not seriously upsetNew York.
Then there’s “Lilies of the Field,” for instance,a demi-mondaine treatise anent certainlilies who “toil not neither do they spin,” orhowever it was that the Good Book let downthe gold diggers of the old days. This is especiallyrecommended for the eighteen-year-oldflapper.
With which we arrive at the real blushproducers of the year. Consider “Bluebeard’sEighth Wife.” Here a young woman, newlymarried, invites her old sweetheart to herboudoir at midnight, gets him squiffy and persuadeshim to undress and climb into bed.And undress he does, right down to his B. V.D.’s in front of the footlights, the appreciativeheroine and the audience. Said heroine thenclambers in—and friend husband appears. Yes,it’s all to teach hubby a lesson (one must makesome concession to the police) and the B. V. D.person gets the air.
Broadway had been busily getting out itsshekels to see Bluebeard and the B. V. D. youthwhen along came Avery Hopwood’s “The Demi-Virgin.”Now, Mr. Hopwood’s demi-virgin isnot the demi-vierge of the French, from whomthe noun comes. Since this is a family paper,we will explain demi-vierge as a young andambitious lady who is broadminded up to acertain point. Mr. Hopwood’s heroine, however,is a movie queen who deserts her husband,another movie idol, on their wedding night.[14]Although the husband finally succeeds incapturing his demi-wife in her boudoir andthereupon starts out to—well—anyway the realincident of the piece is the aforementionedstrip poker party, where a half dozen filmfillies discard garment after garment in a gamedesigned to be thrilling. It isn’t a mere strippoker party but a “strip cupid” affair, the firstto arrive at the cupid state to be the winner—orloser. The game progresses until it is amere matter of a card’s turn who is to be cupidwhen, of course, the thing is ended.
This, then, is the state of the New Yorkstage at this moment. Meanwhile, film fanssee life on the screen through the eyes of littleRollo while, just around the corner, six youngwomen are in the act of taking off their pinkenvelope thing-ums while an appreciative audienceapplauds. Not, of course, that we’re forcensorship anywhere. But the New York stageproducer seems to be able to get away withanything.
It is making it awfully hard for the musicalcomedy producer. Years ago he reached a certainlimit in bare revelations and now thedrama comes along and wins away the tiredbusiness man. Of course, the musical comedymaker isn’t giving up without a fight. Nowand then he has an inspiration, as when, in thenew Greenwich Village Follies, he reveals alady to personify Art dressed exclusively in[15]three golden leaves, each placed with fine discernmentand discretion.
The next step on the New York stage willprobably come when the musical comedy producerraises—or lowers—his limit. Despite ouryouth, we can recall—vividly—when he madethe step from tights and stockings to bare legs,the only thing left is for him to ape theParisian producer and have costumes stop theirupward trend at the waist. We shall see, weshall see!
Speaking about high-brow poetry, we havefrom the Saturday Evening Post (page 26,October 15th), real classy lyrics on how to eator drink something. The poem isn’t quite clearas to whether Mr. Bloodgood was eating arotten apple or merely taking a shot of moonshine,but anyway, it’s high-brow stuff—
The prisoner threw the magazines across hiscell in disgust and swore eloquently. “Nothin’but continued stories,” he raged, “an’ I’m to behanged next Tuesday.”
Three southern gents of color were engagedin an argument.
First Darkey—“My wife is some cook!”
Second Darkey—“My wife is not much of acook, but she is some wash-woman.”
Third Darkey—“My wife is not much of awash-woman and no cook, but she shuh cankiss!”
First Darkey—“She can, she can!”
Third Darkey—“Wat’s dat?”
First Darkey—“Can she? Can she?”
“That helps a good deal,” remarked thepoker player as he drew the fourth ace.
Sportsman (to friend at track meet)—“Soyou like to watch the runners, old man?”
Sport—“Yes, I surely do. That plump girlover there has two in one stocking.”
“What’s all that growling I hear?”
“Oh, that’s the ‘Hot Dog’ I just ate.”
They just caught Roy Gardner!
Where was he standing?
On Hightower watching Fatty Arbuckle beforehe visited Richmond, Virginia.
The man getting his hair cut noticed thatthe barber’s dog, which was lying on the floorbeside the chair, had his eyes fixed on his masterat work. “Nice dog that,” said the customer.
“He is, sir.”
“He seems very fond of watching you cuthair.”
“It ain’t that, sir,” explained the barber.“You see, sometimes I make a mistake and snipoff a little bit of a customer’s ear.”
It was washing day and John had been keptfrom school to look after the baby. Mothersent him into the garden to play, but it wasnot long before cries disturbed her. “John,what is the matter with baby now?” she inquiredfrom her wash-tub.
“I don’t know what to do with him, mother,”replied John. “He’s dug a hole and wants tobring it into the house.”
Here’s a good story on a Minneapolis chiropractor.He started his treatment on the newpatient by rubbing his back. Then he turnedthe patient over and applied the treatment infront. The patient stood the tickling as longas he could, then with a look of content in hiseyes he sez, “Kiss me, Doc.”
A nice young man called on a nice younglady and spent the evening recently. When hearrived there was not a cloud in the sky, so hecarried no umbrella and wore no goloshes normackintosh. At 10:00 o’clock when he arose togo, it was raining pitchforks and grindstones.
“My, my, my!” said the nice young lady, “ifyou go out in this storm you will catch yourdeath of cold.”
“I’m afraid I might,” was the tremblinganswer.
“Well, I’ll tell you what—stay all night; youcan have Tom’s room, as he is visiting uncleand aunt up in the country. Yes, occupy Tom’sroom. Excuse me a minute, and I’ll just runup and see if it’s in order.”
The young lady fled gracefully upstairs tosee if any tidying was necessary. In five minutesshe came down to announce that the roomwas in readiness, but no Charles was in sight.In a very few minutes, however, he appeared,dripping wet and out of breath from runningand with a bundle in a newspaper under hisarm.
The nice young lady greeted him with:“Why, Charles, where have you been?”
“Been home after my night shirt,” was hisreply, as he hung his hat up to drip.
That train smokes a lot.
Yes, and choos, too.
Dear Capt. Billy—What is the Goozes PimpleGlide dance?—Washer Iggle.
This is done in the following manner: Whilestepping on the ballroom floor with your partnerkeep time with the music by stroking herbare arm with the front and back (alternately)of your hand.
Dear Capt. Billy—What is meant by “Aman ahead of the time?”—V. Havan Oisteh.
The fellow who carries his watch in his hippocket.
Dear Capt. Billy—While crossing from KeyWest to Havana on one of the gin rickey boatsI noticed a streak of oil on the water. Couldyou tell me what that was from?—S. LoppBoal.
Oh, that’s where the road went across the icelast winter.
Dear Captain—We are going to give a cleaning-showerfor a bride-to-be. Can you suggestan appropriate gift?—Mid Riff.
A bath mitt.
Dear Cap’n—I am giving a home-brew partyto some jolly boys and girls. What is theproper hour to have the musicians play “HomeSweet Home?”—Roll Myowne.
Just before half pash stew.
Dear Captain—I am alone a great deal atnight and am afraid. Can you suggest somekind of protection?—Belle R. Peeling.
Take the bark of a dogwood tree and leaveit outside your bedroom door.
Dear Cap.—Can you suggest some inexpensiveamusement that I might indulge in whenmy husband is away?—Dottie.
Take a bath and then spend half an hour orso playfully trying to locate the soap.
Dear Cap’n Billy—I have just purchasedseveral new gowns and no one seems to noticethem. What can I do?—Ophelia Bumpus.
Try standing on a street corner with a tincup in your hand and wear a sign “I am dumb.”
Dear Cap. Billy—How can I cure my husband’shiccups?—Ada Banana.
Don’t try. It is a mark of distinction.
Dear Captain—When my husband takes meto a dance he prefers to jazz with all the girlsexcept me. What can I do?—Gladys Swetz.
Make him wear shoulder braces.
Dear Capt. Billy—In all your travels, wheredid you receive the most hospitality?—Al Hambra.
It was when in California. A gentlemancalled me into his room, handed me a goblet inone hand and a demijohn in the other andturned his back.
Dear Capt. Billy—My dearest boy friendjilted me and now refuses to marry me. Pleasegive me your best dope.—Sally Patica.
Dear Sally—Always hate him and bringyour children up the same way.
Dear Captain Billy—I am fondly in lovewith a young girl in our town, but also havestrong sympathies for a dashing grass widowof thirty. My age, too, is thirty, and I wouldlike your advice as to whom I should considerseriously.—Gloomy Gus.
Always deal with an old established firm,young man.
Pat and Mike hesitated at the gate of thehome they intended to rob, because of a barkingdog.
“Go head, Mike,” said Pat, “You know abarking dog never bites.”
“Maybe so,” replied Mike, “you know thatand I know it, but the dang dog doesn’tknow it.”
Pounding on the door of the attractivemulatto girl, the soldier bid fair to rouse theentire neighborhood, till a head was thrust outof an upstairs window and a voice cautiouslyasked:
“Hush up dar, yo’ soldier! What yo’ want?”
“Wanta come in,” hiccupped the warrior,who had evidently left the shrine of Bacchusto worship at that of Venus.
“H’m! Does yo’ b’long to de United StatesMarines?”
“Nope; but wanta come in.”
“Does yo’ b’long to de Third Massachusetts?”
“Nope.”
“To the Second Noo Hampshires?”
“Nope.”
“To the Fourf Noo York?”
“Nope; but wanta come in, all the same.”
“Well, yo’ can just go away fum dar, yo’triflin soldier; I’se a very partickler woman, Iis.”
The selection of the Cast for “Why ChangeYour Beeveedees?” the snappy cinema spectaclewhich the management of the Snore-On Theatrehas been persuaded to show commencingtoday, was a task calling forth all the brainsof that superior author-scenarist-director-producer,Whatin L. Isit. The difficulty lay ingetting a star acceptable alike to the garmentworkers, buttonhole makers, laundry operatorsand health authorities.
M. T. Dome, who plays the leading male rolein Wanta Daddy’s latest paramour picture,“The Questionable Residence,” adapted fromGimm E. Vice’s play by Seena Lott, is thenewest addition to Hollywood’s film colony.Dome came all the way from New York toCalifornia just to play the part of PowerfulPercy the Panderer’s Pal in the picture. Hewas last seen on the screen as Glorious Love’sleading man in “The Passionate Plumber.”
Brother Toole of the Kablegram writes: “Ihad all kinds of trouble at the Blank Hotel lastnight. It was the first time I ever stoppedthere. When I returned from the theatre, Ifound that the clerk had put two women in myroom. I went downstairs and raised all kindsof trouble about it. I couldn’t do a thing withthe manager at first—but finally he put one ofthe women out.”
By Walter Wolf
Rough-neck Western Yankee—Watcher principaltrees here in England?
English Cockney—Hoak, helm and hash.
They had met at a dance, he and she. Hehad wooed and won her while dancing to jazzharmony, that’s why they were all “jazzed” upnow. She got to shaking her shoulders, so he“shook” her for good and got a divorce. Nowthey’re apart and do their dancing withdifferent partners. She gets stepped on and hesteps on others. Some day when “Home SweetHome” is played they will wander hometogether again and call it “The Last Waltz.”
“My wife,” said the henpecked one, “is awoman of few words—but she uses them overand over again.”
By Whursmuhwhiski.
I stopped in a Music Store the other day,and while looking around, I saw a stack of sheetmusic called “Toyland Sketches.” The firstone I noticed was called “The Arrival of theTeddy Bears.” Needless to say, I didn’t lookany further.
Would “When Mother Plays a Rag On theSewing Machine,” necessarily be a sister songto “When Father Plays a Chord On the Wood-pile?”
Tenant (to janitor)—What was all thatcursing and swearing going on Sunday morning?
Janitor—Oh, that was Mrs. McFadden. Shewas going to church and she couldn’t find herprayer book.
How did Sal treat you?
Sal who?
Sal Hepatica.
Oh, she worked me to a frazzle.
“Oh, Ralph, I haven’t a thing to wear.”
“’S’all right. I’ve a Sedan.”
Ikey—Papa I’m in lof. Ain’t it a fine feelings?
Papa—Dat’s nice, Ikey; who is de goil?
Ikey—Ah papa, she’s a peaches and cream.She’s good looking, she’s a good housekeeper,her papa’s got lots of money and—
Papa—Vat’s her name, Ikey?
Ikey—Alma Rosenbloom, ain’t she a daisy?
Papa—You mean de clothing man’s daughtair?
Ikey—Dat’s de goil, papa. How do you likeit?
Papa—Ikey, I’m very sorry but it cannot vas.
Ikey—It cannot vas, papa, for why?
Papa—You see, Ikey, ven I vas a young manI was married before and Alma Rosenbloomiss your sistair.
After a lapse of time Ikey comes in again,all smiles and joyfully greets his father withthe announcement—
Papa, I’m in lof again.
Papa (anxiously)—Who iss de goil dis time?
Ikey—Ah she’s a fine buxoms, she’s a goodmusician, she can cook, she’s good looking, herpapa’s got lots of money, and—
Papa—Ikey, tell your papa, who is de goil?
Ikey—It’s Rosa Lipshuts.
Papa—You mean de pawnbroker’s daughtair?
Ikey—Dat’s de baby, ain’t she a fine catches?
Papa (shaking his head in the negative)—Ikey,I’m very sorry but it cannot vas.
Ikey—It cannot vas, papa, for why it cannotvas?
Papa—You see, Ikey, ven I vas a young manI vas married twice and Rosa Lipshuts iss yoursistair also.
At this Ikey could no longer contain himselfand gave vent to his feelings in an outburstof boo-hooing. To hide his disappointmenthe sought refuge in his room where hismother, attracted by his sobs, came to consolehim.
Mama—Ikey, for vhy are you crying?
Ikey—Oh, mama it’s too terrible, it’s tooterrible.
Mama—Tell your mama, Ikey, for vhy do youcry?
Ikey did.
Mama (patting her boy on the head)—Dat’sall right, Ikey. You go an marry de goil. She’sa good goil, she’s got lots of money, and—
Ikey (between sobs)—But, mama, it cannotvas.
Mama—Yes, it can vas, Ikey. You see vena young goil I vas married before also and yourpapa is not your fathair.
THE BATTLE OF GARTER RUN.
The architect was standing before one ofhis newly completed creations. Its mistress,plentifully sprinkled with diamonds at elevenin the morning, turned to him and said:
“It’s grand, and I’ve just decided not toemploy a landscape gardener. I know just whatI want myself. Banked up right against theporch there I want a real thick border—nowwhat is that name? You know; those brightred flowers that look so dressy—yes; now Ihave it—saliva.”
The architect was staggered for a moment,but soon recovered and came back enthusiastically.
“The very thing,” he agreed. “And rightin front a nice row of spitunians.”
Dark—Going to the dance tonight, Sam?
Darker—Naw, I ain’t got any razor.
Clancy chuckled.
“What’s the joke?” asked Mooney.
“Sure,” replied Clancy, “Casey bet me tendollars he could shoot a peanut off my headwith a shot gun and oi took him up because oiknew he’d miss it.”
He wouldn’t supporter, so she stole hissuspenders.
Little Shannon Day, a ZiegfeldFolly girl, is out west playing in a Laskypicture. Monte Katterjohn, Lasky scenariowriter has been seen with Miss Shannonvery frequently during the past two years, bothin New York and in Hollywood. He went sofar as to take her to a formal Authors LeagueDinner last year and the speeches and the minutesof the meeting and the pleas for unpaiddues were such a tax on Shannon’s mind thatshe was caught dropping off to sleep manytimes before the tiresome evening was over. “Ican’t see nothing to authors” quotes Shannonas she smoothes a new dress which MammaDolly of the famous Dolly Sisters team madefor her just before she left New York.
While Geraldine Farrar stayed in SouthernCalifornia last month, fulfilling herconcert engagements she kept herselfmuch secluded in her bungalow at the HotelMaryland in Pasadena. Her parents were withher. Many of her former friends in the filmcolony attempted to see her in vain and it issurmised that Miss Farrar wished to keep to[30]herself until the matter of her pending divorcefrom Lou Tellegen has either been granted orrepatched.
The weekly calendar of a well knownchurch in Los Angeles printed the followingquestions soon after the Arbuckleaffair spread itself forth in the newspapers:
“What would you do if you were in Mr.Arbuckle’s predicament?”
“Is this a day of judgment for the movies?”
“Was Miss Virginia Rappe of aristocraticblood?”
“How much do we know of Henry Lehrman,the lover of Miss Rappe?”
Another wedding in the Pickford familyis predicted. It is whispered that LottiePickford is soon to marry Alan Forrest,popular and handsome young leading man ofthe films. Lottie Pickford was formerly Mrs.Rupp, wife of a Los Angeles broker, whom shedivorced about two years ago.
He (driving up to the curb)—Hello, littlegirl, wanta go for a ride?
Sweet Thing—Nothing doing, I’m walkinghome from one now.
She—“I wish God had made me a boy.”
He—“He did. I’m he.”
A stranger, walking along the road, passedan old darkey. He began talking with him andfound out that he had known George Washington.
“I suppose you remember when Washingtoncrossed the Delaware?” he asked.
“’Deed, boss, I steered dat boat,” was thereply.
“And do you remember when he took a hackat that cherry tree?”
“’Deed I do,” the darkey replied, “’case Idrove that hack myself.”
Ah’s so tough ah scratches de enamel offde tub when ah takes a bafth.
Thousands of lonely women are staring atfaded photographs when they might be kissingthe faces of children.
“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”
Jazz life seems to agree with Americans.We not only live faster than our great-grandparents, but, on the average, we alsolive eight years longer. So says the CensusBureau.
Some day the centenarian will be the rule,not the exception. That will come as a resultof health education, not from eating monkeyglands.
A popular song had this refrain: “He maybe old, but he’s got young ideas.” That appealedto popular fancy because it caught the subconsciousmind, which probably knew what thecensus now reports:
That marriages of persons beyond fiftyyears of age are steadily increasing in numbers,already being frequent. Out of 100 Americanmen and women, 80 are married beforethey reach 45, while 10 take the leap afterwardand 10 remain single.
Divorces among those who have passed 45are also becoming more common. This, however,is not making us a cynical people, for the[33]census finds that the majority of divorcedpeople try marriage at least a second time,many making three or four ventures.
Figures—which never lie, though liars oftenfigure—show that the span of life is lengtheningduring the Jazz Age.
The strain at times gets on our nerves. Frequentlyone of the contestants howls and goesto pieces. But, on the average, the real effectsof the Jazz Age will not show up until ourdescendants of one hundred years or morehence.
In Dr. W. A. Evans’ column in the Minneapolis Journal,“A. G. M.” writes, under the heading of the Artistic Sex:
“I have a son, seventeen years old, who is and hasbeen for ten years, obsessed with a strange desire. Hewants and feels that he ought to be a girl. Ever sincehe was seven years old, and probably before, although Ihad never noticed it, he has thought of himself as a girl,acted like one, desired to be regarded as a girl, and has,whenever he could worn girls’ clothing.
“His mother and I had a terrific struggle to allow hishair to be cut like a boys’, when he was six or sevenyears old. He withstood us until he was nearly ten,when, for the sake of peace, he consented to have itbobbed. Up to that time he had worn it in a great massof curls, away down over his shoulders, regardless of theridicule of his playmates. He wore his hair bobbed untiltwo years ago, when he finally had it cut after a fashionsimilar to other boys. This is just one incident, but itmay serve to show you something of his frame of mind.
“He attended a gymnasium class until he was fourteen,and he invariably wore bloomers and a bow of ribbon inhis hair.
“In fact, he is far more at home in girls’ clothingthan he is in boys’, for he has always insisted on wearingdresses and gowns when in the house. His bedroomis a real girl’s boudoir, with dressing table, powder puff,etc. He has as few boys’ clothes as he can get along withfor going out. Playing with dolls was his favorite amusementuntil he was about thirteen. He is about five feeteleven and one-half inches tall, good looking and possessedof a remarkably good mind. He never has given anysigns of mental deficiency, unless you term what I haveabove described as mental deficiency, or rather insanity.I would be grateful if you would tell me your opinion.”
(Dr. Evans’ answer): This is a case of third or intermediatesexism. You will find a fair amount of literatureon the subject. Such subjects are not in any sense feeble-minded.In fact, many of them are exceptionally bright.As a rule the stage, music or painting offers the best fieldsfor men and women of this group.
Wonder what our friends of the theatrethink of Dr. Evans’ advice? Probably theywould feel the same way as the Army officialsfelt towards certain chiefs of police whoparoled the bums and the crooks on conditionthey join the Army.
Dear folk: We have some dandy stuff in store for you.Among the masters who are writing for Whiz Bang thecoming year are J. Eugene Chrisman, author of “Poppies,Hell,” with his “Chi Slim,” “Keyhole Stuff” and others;H. A. D’Arcy, author of “The Face Upon the Floor” withhis “Trapper’s Story,” “Charlie Wong” and others; FrankB. Lindeman, the prospector-poet with his ode “To a MountainRat” and others; and last but not least, some almostforgotten masterpieces of James Whitcomb Riley, whose“Passing of the Old Smokehouse,” was one of the many hitsof our Winter Annual, Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22.
By Gifford and Whitney.
By Budd L. McKillips
By Edward E. Paramore, Jr.
As originally published in Vanity Fair.
A mud-spattered dough-boy slouched intothe ‘Y’ hut where an entertainment was inprogress and slumped into a front seat.
Firm, kindly, and efficient, a Y. M. C. A.man approached him, saying: “Sorry, buddy,but the entire front section is reserved forofficers.”
Wearily the youth rose.
“All right,” he drawled, “but the one I justgot back from wasn’t.”
On our recent visit in Los Angeles we became contaminatedwith Ham Beall’s filosophy. (Note to the boys:This was written just before Ham went on the wagon.)
BY REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL
Pastor, People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.
Allah be praised! Here I am in Alexandria,the city founded by Alexanderthe Great. Yet Alex. could never conquerthis part of the world today—the smellswould put him to rout. This polyglot port isin “Lower” Egypt, and its dives are among thelowest found anywhere. The Rue des Soeursis a street where crooked people go straight toperdition. Gambling hells are overflowing.Sailors and soldiers from the four corners ofthe globe crowd the cafes, where guitars twang,pianos jangle, drunks bawl, booze flows, chorusescheer and women leer. Fleshy Fatimas,overpainted and underclothed prowl about thestreet seeking whom they may devour. Fromlighted windows come droning nasal songs—
All aboard for Cairo, city of the Caliphs,and I felt like taking a board and spankingthe exposed anatomy of the Arab youths whoposed along the railroad tracks to shock andmock the passengers.
Leaving the black sheep tourists at “Shepherds”Hotel, I visited the mosques which areas numerous in Cairo as mosquitoes in NewJersey. There may be a thousand; I visitedfive hundred, more or less. Sometimes I tookoff my slippers at the outer door, and at othersI wore a kind of moccasin over my touristshoes and shuffled and slid over the old floors,wondering how in the name of everythingsacred I could profane anything with a good“sole” like mine. In my fling about the city Ivisited the Whirling Dervishes who whirledand dervished for me to my heart’s contentwith a poetry of motion a Sitka Indian couldnever attain. My head grows dizzy and mystomach faint when I think of them and theirmusical accompaniment of tambourines andflutes which were a cross between an ungreasedsaw and the breathing of an overdriven horse.I left before these human tops stopped spinning,and I carried away the memory of theirtomato-can hats, bell-shaped robes, half-closedeyes, drooping heads and extended arms. Istill see the uplifted right palm catching ablessing from Allah, the left hand turned downto bestow it.
Cairo’s amusements are varied: you mayattend the opera house and listen to Italianmusic or see a French farce; take a turn at thehippodrome and have a circus; or stop at anopen air play on the Esbekeeyah; or, if religiouslyinclined, take in the convent with itsdancing dervishes and barbarous music; watchsnake-charmers, glass-eaters, sword-swallowers,long-haired fakirs, chibook-smokers and munchersof scorpions; sip cafe noir (that looks andtastes like sweetened Nile mud) in a little shopwhere the waiters and loungers are as thick asthe drink; or see Arabs gamble with dice andcards, much as they do in America; go to a kindof vaudeville, where a stringed band of lady-performerstry to beguile travelers, with Americanairs and Persian dances, into buying drinksfor them at the rate of one or two dollars abottle, and poor stuff at that; or meanderthrough the Fish Market at midnight wherestreets are filled with citizens and sight-seers,sidewalks with roystering soldiers, bazaarswith shrewd traders, dens with drunkennatives, and miles of houses with women outcastsfrom all quarters of the globe, leering,lurking and lustful, caged like wild beasts behindiron-barred gratings which are necessaryto keep them from murderous assault on themorals, money and lives of the passersby. Iwas held up in an alleyway by a beautifulGhawazee girl who said, with outstretchedhand, “Me backsheesh to give God.” She would[45]need a bank-roll to get full pardon for her multitudinousmistakes. The resorts where nakedwomen invite you to see the “Danse du Ventre,”a Terpsichorean exercise not noted for its modesty,and the mahsheshehs, or hang-outs wherehasheesh smokers stimulate themselves intoidiotic talk and laughter and stupefy theirbrains into a narcotic nepenthe of poverty, hungerand dirt, may seem quite unethical to theOccidental tenderfoot, but they are Christianplaces of entertainment compared with thoseinfamous joints in the Fish Market where men,dressed up like women, carry on. These bordelshad their prototype of old in the Egyptian templesof Isis.
I entered a Cafe Chantant where, before anentranced audience, two daughters of thedesert, with incandescent kohl-stained eyes andsin-stained souls, were going through thesinuous undulations of the “hooche-cooche.”They moved their necks to and fro like cobrasbefore a snake-charmer, and the motion of hip,breast and abdomen thrilled the spectators.These Egyptian dancers show a laxity of musclesand morals, and dance in a way that makesit unnecessary to attend a gymnasium. Thedishes served were delicate, but the songs wereindelicate, to say the least. There was a verypathetic one which I translate:
The Oriental orchestra was made up of adarabooka drum, made of a wooden cylinderover which is stretched a parchment; the tar,a sort of tambourine; the kemengeh, a viol oftwo strings with a cocoanut sounding-body; thekanoon, a stringed instrument held on theknees and played with the fingers; the ’ood, aguitar with seven double strings; and the nay,a reed flute blown at the end. The music producedis most unspeakably unspiritual andnasally noisome. It outranks the obligatoserenade of a love-sick tom-cat. The melody isold as the Libyan hills. Is this what MarkAntony heard when he fell for Cleopatra? Ifso, what a fall there was, my countrymen!
Here I bade adieu to the country which hasall that was, is and ever will be. Good-bye,Egypt! Land of faro-banks and Pharaoh mummies—ofbacksheesh, bad smells, sphinx andblase globe-trotters! Paradise of palm trees,pyramids and postcard-venders! Desert domainof donkeys, dirt and dervishes—of tombs,temples, turbaned thieves and veiled vampires!Home of camel, crocodile, can-can and Cleopatra!Farewell, till we meet again!
Even cultivated girls sometimes grow wild.
Be sure you are right and then keep still about it.
I don’t like girls that bob their hair, userouge or powder, wear short skirts or roll theirsocks.
I haven’t got a girl, either.
Every right-minded woman is cheered by thethought of having pretty undies on—even ifnobody sees them.
In the battle-scarred words of the cave-man:“I want my wine weak and my women strong.”
To eat your meals in front of a looking glassand think you are having twice as much.
If a corset cover covers a corset, what does a corsetcover?
“Our buckles won’t hurt you.”
Our Robbinsdale bootlegger refused to sellme absinthe because he said it is against thelaw.
Hello, there, old fellow, where’d you get thenew hat?
Oh, my wife didn’t expect me home untiltwelve last night and I got in a little earlier.
In the immortal telegram of Ikey Goldstein:“Twins arrived; mine died.”
Hall Caine’s description of women:
“Women are like sheep’s broth. If there’s ahead and a heart in them they’re good, and ifthere isn’t you might as well be supping hotwater.”
Says the pail to the milk, “You look awfully pale.”
Says the milk to the pail, “If you’d gone through whatI have, you’d be pale, too!”
Our idea of nothing is a bung hole withouta barrel.
These shoes are too tight. Be jabbers, oi’llhave to wear them a couple of times before oican get thim on.
Let us now sing the old familiar ballad, “When agoat is right behind you it’s no time to lace your shoe.”
A handkerchief and a sock, by chance met ina tub at the laundry.
“How did you get in here?” asked the sock.
“Oh, I was blown in,” replied the handkerchief.
“I was scent,” said the sock.
“I’ve got to hand it to you,” quavered thecitizen as he passed over his pocketbook to thehold-up man.
Columbus was walking down the main streetof Spain one day when he saw Queen Elizabethriding along in her new Henry super four.
He called to her, saying, “Howd’y Bella.”She said, “Hello, Colum, hop in.” They wereon pretty intimate terms, at the time, and therewas quite a bit of scandal going around concerningthem.
After a little Columbus said, “Say, Bella, Ibelieve if I had a couple of schooners I couldsail over and discover America.” She answered,“All right, Colum.”
Soon after, Columbus sailed away and sailedfor years and years. One day one of his menhurried below and in an excited voice said,“Columbus, I see land.”
On landing, they found the Indians all linedup and down the shore waiting for them.Columbus stepped ahead and said, “Hello, isthis the United States?” “Yes,” said the chief,“we got your cablegram and have been waitinghere to be discovered.” Whereupon Columbuserected a post and put up a brass tabletgiving date of discovery, etc.
After that, he moved to Ohio, and anyonepassing can see Columbus in Ohio.
She—Did you get a commission in the army?
Private—No, I just got a straight salary.
Clara Smith Hamon, now Mrs. JohnGorman, is no longer in possession of her$2,500 automobile. The car was recentlyattached for payments overdue. Her picture“Fate” was given its final death blow as amoney producer when the Arbuckle affairroused the censorship broil anew.
Because his old friend Claire Windsormet Charlie Chaplin at the depot in LosAngeles on his recent return fromEurope, the newspapers hinted a new romance.However, Whiz Bang’s astute investigators didnot go to the depot, but upon taking a chancepeek into Charlie’s drawing room, discoveredamong a very few close friends, little MayCollins and her mama.
Evidently the little Collins-Chaplin romanceis still on. Pretty foxie, Charlie!
Married men out west are having anawful time. You know the cleveresthold-up men and crooks in the U. S. A.beat it for California every fall to keep abreastto the tourist wealth which goes west as well.[52]These desperadoes often take an auto of anevening, drive into the suburban towns ornear the lonely stretches of Pacific beach, andhold up loving couples who are spooning inautos along the roadside. Now, you see if youhappen to be married and are out with thepretty steno or an extra girl, and you are heldup, relieved of diamonds, watches and money,you can’t very well report it to the police, canyou? Reporters have an annoying way of gettingnews from police chiefs and, regardless ofyour rage against thugs and hold-up men, yousurmise it would be better to swallow your loss.
Domestic note—Alice Brady, who in privatelife is Mrs. Thomas Crane, has retired fromstage and screen, it is said, in anticipation ofan interesting family event.
From “location” to a “one night stand” inthe county jail was the recent plight ofTexas Guinan, film beauty and formermusical comedy favorite. Approximately fifteenhours the movie star basked in the bastile,and all on account of an unpaid old grocerybill.
The turnkeys are glad she is out. They arewilling she reign on Broadways if she willkeep herself out of prison row. The tank heroesshaved themselves as never before, donned Sundayneckties and bartered keepsakes for standingroom back of the great steel doorway where[53]they might perchance catch a glimpse of Texas.However, they were disappointed, for Texaswas temperamental and made no appearance inthe downstairs “prison drawing room.” Nosegaysand noes arrived, but Texas announcedfrom her “dressing room” that she never “received”before noon. According to rumors, Mrs.Peete and Madalynne Obenchain displayed realprofessional jealousy.
By James Whitcomb Riley.
The oil field filosopher reports the following:
My father got rich selling tickets at themoving picture show. When a man came up tobuy a ticket he would throw down a two dollarbill or a five. Father would blow his breathin his face and say, “How many?” The manwould say, “Oh, never mind, keep the change.”
Just because you’re a ham, you needn’t thinkyou’re Swift. That’s all the jokes I know, butthere Armour.
Steamer Captain—Save yourself! Thevessel is going down. Here, sir (to indifferentpassenger), what are you passing that hat forin a situation like this?
Passenger—I’m just providing a sinkingfund for our widows and orphans, captain.
“I’ve got the fastest typist in the city.”
“Well, that’s the only complaint I haveagainst mine.”
Some marriages make one wonder why aman should want to keep a cow when free milkis running down the gutter. A ladle costs lessthan a cradle.
“Good mornin’ this evenin’, how do you dotomorrow?”
“Got any good drinking water?”
“Would you mind giving a poor man a drinkof liquor?”
“I’m so hungry, I ain’t got nowhere to stayall night?”
“Dat may all be,” reckons Raspin’ Rastus,when told that the Good Book says the lionand lamb lie down together, “But ah cain’tfin’ no place where it says dat lamb eber gotup.”
“Act as if the destiny of the universe dependedon your acts.”
My girl is so pretty that whenever sheboards a street car, the advertising is a totalloss.
During the Middle Ages rich men condemnedto death would hire substitutes to diein their places. Many poor people made aliving in such manner.
Say, dear, how’d you like to open my pay envelope?
A mission worker on the lower East Side,New York, was telling the story of Adam andEve to a group of tough kids. When he wasthrough, one boy asked Hard-boiled Muggsywhat it was all about.
“I’ll tell yer,” said Muggsy, “there was aguy and a ‘broad’ in a garden. They ‘snitched’an apple; a snake ‘peached’ on ’em, and Godsaid tuhel with ’em.”
(From Zanesville Times-Recorder)
Miss Mayite Collins has sued John L. Nelson at Columbus for$5,000.00 damages as the result of an accident on the bathing-beachtoboggan at Buckeye Lake last July. Miss Collins says shepicked up a splinter while sliding down the toboggan, severelywounding her dignity.
(From Omaha Bee)
More ladies wanted for decorating pillows at home. Experienceunnecessary.
(From the London Post)
T. B. (Maiden Lane)—Very many thanks—and more power toyour elbow. Best wishes to Madame and “her wicked sister.”
(From the Nashville Tennessean.)
Account husband traveling and being uneasy at nights willrent one or two rooms to congenial gentlemen at moderate ratein modern brick home; easy walking distance. Apply in person,1506 McGavock.
(From the Jersey Journal.)
WANTED—Stout model and perfect medium figure for corsetpromenade for three evenings. Apply at once, 162 Monticello Ave.
A fool friend can wield a hammer as effectivelyas a bitter enemy.
An old colored mammy whose husband hadjust successfully sued for divorce came slowlydown the court-house steps, talking to herself:“Dar ain’t no justice in dis heah wo’ld. Datuseless ol’ husband of mine he got his divorce,he got de house, got de money, got mah freechil’en and dey ain’t none of ’em his’n.”
Perhaps Luther was right when he said thatGod is a piece of white paper upon which everyman draws a picture of his own face.
Lotta—“What gave George that awful cold?”
Bull—“I don’t know, but I saw him out onthe lawn with a mighty thin girl last night.”
(From Our Navy)
“The rifle is the marine’s best friend,” hesaid. “He must never neglect it. He musttreat it as he treats his wife and wipe it overwith an oily rag twice a day.”
A dainty little blonde miss of twenty-twostepped into a phone booth. She drew forthfrom a small trunk (called a vanity case) anickel. She placed the nickel in the slot withthe softest, white and well kept hands thatanyone has seen. She took up the receiver andwith a soft sweet voice of a great singer spokethe number to the operator. She waited andwaited and waited and waited, first on one footand then on the other. She had waited anawful long time. All of a sudden she bangedthe receiver down and hissed between herlovely, pearly teeth, a well sounded “Damn it.”
The fellow who asks a girl for a kiss doesn’tstand half a chance with the live wire whokisses a girl first and then asks her how shelikes it.
Wife (to attractive husband)—“Have youkissed the new cook yet, William?”
Husband—“Why—er—no.”
Wife—“Well, stupid, what are you waitingfor? You know what a hard time we had toget her.”
People who live in rag houses shouldn’tthrow bones.
Hear John West got two years for stealinga horse?
Yes, serves him right. Why didn’t he buyit and not pay?
Preacher—Don’t you know it’s wrong to putworms on that hook and insert it in a fish?
Johnnie—These aren’t worms, but that’swhat the other suckers thought.
The strength of a kiss is generally measuredby its length.—Byron.
“Why is it,” asks the exchange man of TheArkansas Gazette, “that a man rarely grows tooold or too religious to get a thrill out of tellingwhat a devil he was in his youth?”
Man proposes, woman supposes, marriagecomposes and divorce exposes.
BY THE GEORGIA CRACKER
As the music began, the lights grew softand dim. I watched the couples as they passedlike phantoms in the darkness.
Then I saw her, dancing with some wretchednovice who could scarcely keep on his feet. Howlovely and how wretched she looked.
“Kathleen!” I exclaimed, half aloud, andadvanced.
“May I break?” I asked, and took her intomy arms.
Her dancing—how can I describe it? Shemoved like some sprite—sure-footed languorous,as light as a summer cloud.
Drawing her to me, I suited my steps to theslow, yearning melody of the waltz. As weglided in the semi-darkness, oblivious of thepassing couples she pressed her glowing cheekto mine and breathed quickly.
“Oh”—
“Sweetheart, why cannot I hold you like thisforever? I feel that you are a part of my verysoul!”
“Hold me—oh, hold me tight!”
“I have lived always for this moment.Dearest, you are the only girl in the wholeworld—youare the whole world”—
And there, our eyes closed in ecstasy, Ikissed her.
“I love you! The universe was made forthe rapture of this moment. The stars haveshone in vain for ages that they might lightyour eyes now! All time has been but a preludeto this second! Say you love me! Just say it!”
“Oh, Jimmy, you know I do!”
“Why, Kathleen, this isn’t Jimmy!” I cried.
“And this isn’t Kathleen,” replied thestranger.
Jack Tar—Tell her that it was a balloon.
Ima Frade—If you are gun-shy, go with asoldier, then you’ll soon get used to havingarms around you.
Fumey Gait—A bully game of cards wouldbe Pedro.
Gracie—The mere fact that the tears rundown the back of a cross-eyed person does notindicate they have bacteria.
Dora Knobs—A cigarette and a bottle ofbeer are sure to make a delightful breakfastfor a lady of careless morals after a night ofarduous cavorting.
Tooth Ache Kid—When suffering from aviolent toothache in the hollow of a tooth, fillthe cavity with whisky and hold there thirtyseconds with your head cocked to one side.Swallow whisky and refill cavity. Repeat thistreatment a few hundred times and if it doesn’tgive relief, try wood alcohol instead.
Brother Eagle—When suffering from exhaustion,the patient should be put in a coolshady wine room. A Scotch and soda in atall thin glass with plenty of ice may be givenat intervals, and should a tickling ensue givepatient pink sporting page and turn onphonograph. Continue this treatment untilpatient kicks phonograph into the alley. Thisis what is known as the negative test and isproof of patient’s recovery.
Ab. Doman—Yes, married men make thebest husbands.
Kauph E. Keuler—If you can’t drink coffeeout of a saucer without scalding your nose, usea bowl.
Herr Nett—When you make a present to awoman, always leave the cost tag on it; it willsave her a trip downtown.
All Readers—I would like to know whethera zebra is a white animal with black stripes ora black animal with white stripes.—CaptainBilly.
Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow yourbootlegger may get caught.
Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang is the first magazineto have a “city” named after it.
The thriving little oil town of Oklahoma hasbeen christened Whiz Bang City. The pictureshown on this page is by courtesy of Vince Dillon,photographer of Fairfax, Okla. Upon close examination,“kind readers” note that all of thebuildings are new and that a truck standing infront of the garage bears the sign Nitroglycerine.However, there is no connection between nitroglycerineand the Whiz Bang. It is true that wehave an explosion, but ours is harmless, and usedto blow out the spleen of the American humaninstead of Mother Earth.
Well, anyway, folk, here’s wishing manyhappy days to Whiz Bang City and its livecitizens.
In addition to republication of gems of earlier issuesof Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, the first complete WinterAnnual of this great family journal contains a largevariety of brand new jokes, jests, jingles, pot pourristories and smokehouse poetry. This book, PedigreedFollies of 1921-22, contains four times as much readingmatter as the regular issue of the Whiz Bang and sellsfor one dollar per copy. It is a book which will becherished by the readers for years to come, and holdsthe greatest collection of red-blooded poetry yet put inprint. Included in the list are:
Johnnie and Frankie, The Face on the Barroom Floor,The Shooting of Dan McGrew, The Harpy, Lasca (in full),The Girl in the Blue Velvet Band, Langdon Smith’s “Evolution,”Advice to Men, Advice to Women, Our Own FairyQueen, Stunning Percy LaDue, Parody on Kipling’sLadies, Toledo Slim.
Orders are now being received and will be mailed in theorder in which they are received. Tear off theattached blank and mail to us today with your check,money order or stamps.
Whiz Bang,
Robbinsdale, Minnesota
Gentlemen:
Enclosed is dollar bill, check, money order or stampsfor $1.00 for which please send me the Winter Annualof Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, “Pedigreed Follies of1921-22.”
Everywhere!
Whiz Bang is on saleat all leading hotels,news stands, 25 centssingle copies; on trains30 cents, or may beordered direct fromthe publisher at 25cents single copies;two-fifty a year.
One dollar for theWINTER ANNUAL.
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