The Whiz Bang Farm,
Rural Route No. 2, Robbinsdale, Minn.
To Our Readers:
With this issue, Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang discards swaddling clothes and starts bounding on its second year of existence. In this number, which we have termed “Our Annual,” the writer has taken the liberty to review many of the stories and poems from the 12 previous issues. It is obvious that a new publication must start with no circulation. If it strikes a popular appeal in the heart-chord of human existence it succeeds; otherwise, it sinks into journalistic oblivion.
Thanks to a legion of loyal readers and volunteer scribes, The Whiz Bang has weathered the colicky and diarrhoetic stage of life. Our eye-teeth have been cut and the worst is over. This little family journal of uplift has no one to thank but its readers. It is your magazine and it is you who send in the snappy articles to fill its pages each month. Again we extend our heartiest thanks.
We are now spread from the mackerel munching macaroons of Manhattan’s bright isle to the squawking squabs of sunny California; from the wily, wicked pole-cats of Northern Minnesota to the perk and prim creoles of feverish Orleans.
On this month, the month of our birth, the editor feels as happy as a kid sucking a lollypop and smearing its chin with an ice cream cone. All we lack to complete the illusion is about three fingers in a wash-tub. Adios until November rolls ’round.
CAPTAIN BILLY.
Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang
OUR MOTTO:
“Make It Snappy”
October, 1920 Vol. II. No. 13
Published Monthly by
W. H. Fawcett,
Rural Route No. 2
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota
Entered as second-class matter May 1, 1920, at the post office at Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the Act of March 3, 1879.
Price 25 cents $2.50 per year
“We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is loyalty to the American People”—Theodore Roosevelt.
Copyright 1920
By W. H. Fawcett
Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated to the fighting forces of the United States, past, present and future.
Just one short year ago, under the above caption: “Skipping With the Skipper,” Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang exploded for the first time. It was the publisher’s idea at that time to compile a snappy joke-book for former soldiers, sailors and marines living in the immediate vicinity of the village of Robbinsdale. The demand greatly exceeded the initial press run, and we’ve been running ever since.
For the benefit of new readers, the opening explanation for our existence on this mundane sphere is herewith re-published. It explains itself, I believe:
Whiz-z Bang!!! We’re off and in our trail follows a mighty explosion of pedigreed bull. “Make It Snappy” is our motto. Snap! Pep! Ginger! Even more. The first issue of CAPTAIN BILLY’S WHIZ BANG is off the press and with its advent the editor and contributors hope to have added something really worth while to brighten the atmosphere of human existence. Captain Billy’s only and original WHIZ BANG will explode in every issue. No “duds” allowed in our monthly Literary Indigestion. Today we are the Cherry Sisters[4] of journalism with the fond hopes for “Big Time” sometime.
As the old saying goes, “Laugh and the world laughs with you, near beer and you drink alone.” If we dance we must pay the jazz band; no matter what we get we must “put up or shut up.” Doctors of Dope and Doctors of Divinity must have the price of our life and love and the undertaker smiles with a self-satisfied grin as our mortal flesh and bones are delivered to the charnel house.
Therefore the motto of the WHIZ BANG will be: Be happy while you live; live a full life and while you are living, live on the square so you may be able to follow that quaint western philosophy and look every man in the face and tell him to go to Hell.
Please do not get the impression from the title page that the WHIZ BANG is to be a military publication only. There will be 100 laughs for the service man and 97¼ laughs for the civilian. We will give the soldier, sailor and marine the benefit of two and three-quarters per cent because we believe he is fairly entitled to it. (Brewers please note.)
THE WHIZ BANG is only in its infancy, so look for the November issue. Then we will burst out and explode into a full-grown bull. We will be fatter, lovelier, snappier and juicier and—oh, girls, we just hate to tell you. Watch for Mr. November and see if we don’t make[5] Bill Bryan’s Commoner drier than an Algerian caravan in the Sahara desert, 20 miles from the oasic grog shop and the Cliquot Special two weeks overdue. The bull is only half grown and he surely will be some lively animal next month when we sling him over to our readers.
Those of us who have lived through the past five years have the satisfaction of knowing that we have seen the mightiest and most stirring five years in history, and we are watching from day to day the unfolding and ending of the colossal drama. Never has there been such a crashing of empires, such a falling of thrones, such righting of wrongs and deliverance of the oppressed, such vivid demonstration of the wickedness, the folly and the weakness, the nobility, the wisdom and the courage of which human nature is capable.
As a grand finale, an alleviation from the terrific strain, Billy’s WHIZ BANG will come as a relieving Balsam—an ointment on the checkered skein of life. Please remember that the oldest truths are the freshest. They are rich with the blood of humanity. As the apple tree in your yard may be a sprout from the apple tree in the Garden of Eden, so the idea that just came to you may be the same that struck King Solomon. Thoughts are deciduous, as trees, and appear green and fresh to each generation, and like desert soil, we are unfurrowed and unfettered. THE EDITOR.
By SKIPPER BILL.
This is a story of a major in the Motor Mechanics brigade, Signal Corps, U. S. Army,—A. C. Rebadow, by name. He hails from the city of Buffalo, N. Y., where he was employed in an automobile manufacturing plant and received his commission because of the supposition that he was a motor sharp.
“Soldiering” and gambling go hand in hand. The greatest indoor sport of the military man is to riffle the “pasteboards,” while his outdoor pastime consists of blowing on a pair of galloping dominoes as he prays for a “natural” to rear itself heavenward. Rebadow is neither soldier nor gambler but a dyed-in-the-wool squawker.
The “major’s” system was simple. If he lost he merely issued checks on his bank at Tonawanda, N. Y., and then “Stopped Payment,” on them. So simple, in fact, that his racial instinct led him promptly to the telegraph office to void the payment.
The Major relied upon military discipline to save him from his outraged victims. He believed that none would have nerve enough to make complaint against his ungentlemanly and indecent behavior, but at least on one occasion he reckoned without his host. That[7] was at Camp Hancock, Georgia, where Rebadow lost $400 during several days’ indulgence at craps. The victim, however, took the matter up with the superior officers.
Rebadow was traced to an air post far behind the whiz bangs’ zone where he possibly imagined himself safe from his debtors as well as from the Jerries. This is a letter which compelled payment. It was written by one superior officer to another, the commandant at the air post where Rebadow was then situated:
“1. It is requested that the Commanding Officer of A. A. A. P. No. 1 take this matter up personally with Major Rebadow, as the following are the facts in the case, as can be supported by the record of the Motor Mechanics Brigade, which records I have personally inspected. Several months ago an exhaustive investigation of the merits of this case was made and it was shown that Major Rebadow was entirely in the wrong in this matter and was dropped on account of an indorsement he signed in which he stated he would make good the amount of these checks, approximately $400.
“2. The unprincipled manner in which Major Rebadow now treats this matter is considered so reprehensible that effort is being made to secure the forwarding of the personal file of Major Rebadow and he may be informed that unless this account has been settled by the time those records are received that this office will make all efforts to have Major Rebadow brought to trial as a result of his derelictions.”
Needless to say, Major Rebadow cowered before the eye of his superior officer and forthwith repaid the broken pledge.
I look back on my days in the ranks, where a man was a man, true blue and shorn of falsity, insolence, domineering and double-crossing ways. They were the days when we got paid together, painted the town together, and went broke together, where every man “shot square” with his “buddie.”
As for this crap-shooting major, he is in civies again and military discipline will afford him no protection for such breeches.
Every time we see an article offered at an uncommonly low price—whether it be shoes, prunes, fountain pens, wood blocks, or a personal service of some kind—we are reminded of Chief Big Smoke.
The owner of this picturesque name was a copper-colored native employed as a missionary to his fellow smokes out in Oklahoma. A tourist once asked him what he did for a living.
“Umph!” said Big Smoke, “me preachum.”
“That so? What do you get for preaching?”
“Me get ten dollars a year.”
“Well,” commented the white man, “that’s d——n poor pay.”
“Umph!” replied Big Smoke, “me d——n poor preacher.”
Women want marriage and a home. They should. And there are more women than men. Even before the war there was, in Europe and America, an extra sixth woman for every five men, and the sixth woman brings competition. She bulls the market, and makes feminine sex solidarity impossible. And, of course, added to that is the woman who requires three or four men to make her happy, one to marry and support her, and one to take her to the theatre and to luncheon at Delmonico’s, and generally fetch and carry for her, and one to remember her as she was at nineteen and remain a bachelor and have a selfish, delightful life, while blaming her.—Mary Roberts Rinehart.
Bridget failed to get up one morning to cook breakfast for the Smith family. Instead she yelled downstairs that she was “pretty sick.”
Mr. Smith promptly summoned his family doctor who gave the “sick” servant a thorough examination. The doctor was unable to find anything wrong with Bridget.
“My good woman,” he said, “you’re not sick at all.”
“I know I’m not,” Bridget replied, “but the Smiths owe me $20 and I’m going to stay in bed until they pay me.”
“Well, if that’s the case, move over; they owe me $50.”
BY REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL.
V. C. in Vera Cruz stands for Venereal City. “El Dictamen” is the leading newspaper. It has only four pages, yet whole columns are filled with advertised cures for scrofula, syphilis, locomotor-ataxia and all the rotten ills that licentious Latin-America is heir to. The space we give to weather reports on the front page, or to special news with extra headlines, is given up here to nauseating advertisements. The first thing one sees as he enters the plaza are billboards, walls and buildings with sure-cure advertisements.
L. A. in Latin America stands for “licentious animals.” In Vera Cruz the principal male pastime is to talk about girls and not of God. From 4 P. M. to 2 A. M. men sit in the plaza portales drinking, smoking and talking about the women who pass by. The leading subject of “town talk” is girls, the one they went to the movie with last, the other one the night before, and the one they hope to get tonight.
The people make themselves a sewer for immoral filth, court the devil Lust that eats and burns up their blood; are spendthrifts of body and soul; waste their[11] inheritance to purchase dirty, loathed disease; pawn their bodies to a dry-rot evil; make themselves patients for Lust’s rendezvous, a hospital, where their bill of fare is pills, not beef, and the doctor’s bill is longer than the moral law they have violated. What I have written here about Vera Cruz morals applies to the rest of Mexico where conditions are the same or worse.
The Ten Commandments are little in evidence in the country and free love prevails with the fruit of seventy-five per cent of illegitimate births. A respectable bachelor is not qualified to enter society until several children call him “papa.” Few men are without a separate establishment for affinities.
The Hawaiians are out and out in their dancing. They do not gloss it over and wear no hypocritical fig-leaves. They do not throw masks or mantles over their viciousness, under the guise of religious charity balls and philanthropic society parties. The hula is a hip dance, but the Hawaiians are not “hip”—ocritical in doing it. The dance is not sad or hippish but one of joy.
I have seen many dances—the Apache in Paris, du ventre in Cairo, the can-can in Buenos Aires, and with money here in Honolulu one can arrange with a chauffeur or at a hula house to see a hula combining all these vile and violent exhibitions. It is a composite of the compost of all dirty dances, most delightfully depraved, innocent of decency and shame, the dancers being quite careless about the exposure of their legs, arms and charms. What captivating indelicacy, so[12] disturbing to the looker-on. But this it not the native hula. There is sufficient of the sun and volcano without it. The whites have taken away the native naivete and added their own nastiness. As a physiological study the dance is informing. In antiquity these antics were a religious service, combining poetry, pantomime and passion. The old edition of the heathen hula dance has been expurgated, but Christian foot-notes suggest more.
At one hula house I witnessed an unscheduled fight between several sailors who had quarreled over the charms of a hula girl with the result of broken heads, hearts and furniture. The native proprietor welcomed us with characteristic Hawaiian hospitality—we could eat, drink and stay as long as we pleased—all night in fact, with his hula girls for company. I thanked him for his ancient, beautiful and unbounded generosity but told him I was married and a minister, although he seemed unable to understand why that should make any difference with me, since it made little to some of the local clergy and laity.
One day at high noon, not night, I saw several native women bathing at Waikiki beach. All they had on was a holoku night-gown that was as good as nothing when wet. Three white, male strangers sauntered up from the nearby hotel, waded in, threw their arms around the girls and were guilty of “divers” familiarities. The girls didn’t object to the conduct of the boys. I couldn’t help seeing or thinking whether the fishes swam away or stayed and blushed all colors. Here was a “freedom of the seas” I refer to the naval board for diplomatic discussion.
God’s righteousness is like the great mountains. I often thought, as I marvelled at the islands’ scenery, that there are sermons in stones, but men do not listen; summits preach high ideals and purity, but people are deaf; and nature’s green only looks down on the mud and mire of lucre, lies, lust and laziness.
Havana is a fool’s Paradise—a lunatic limbo for people with loud clothes, lots of money, loose morals and light heads. It is the place where bad folks go to have a good time. The more disreputable a city is, the more popular it is to high society.
I have visited Havana many times and found the H in its name stood for Hell, not Heaven. On a recent sojourn I asked a traveling companion what the state of religion was and if Havana’s morals were improved. “Oh, yes, there has been a great reformation.” He had scarcely made this gratifying statement when a young man came up to me and showed some vile postcards and postals which he offered for sale. This did not happen in a side street at night, but in Central Park at noon.
Havana has reformed! The city has no “segregation,” but you may walk for miles along streets to the waterfront and find every other house with a seductive senorita at the door or window with extended hand or winsome voice urging you in broken Spanish or English to forsake the counsel of your mother’s Bible. Regular saloons and concert halls had scores of the women of the town at the tables sitting with motley men, while glasses clinked and phonographs scratched[14] their screechy music. This was all bad enough but the lowest hell was reached when I saw a woman standing in the doorway offering to sell a girl of about 14 who stood by her side. At the end of certain streets the police were on watch to keep the women off the sidewalks, and so maintain an appearance of decency and order. Other places were unwatched and free.
Havana has reformed! The sporting women of the town advertise in several of the local magazines, where you find their photos, house address and some such paragraph in Spanish or in English for the benefit of the American tourist: “Tourist! Do you wish a good house in Havana, with plenty of women, pretty and elegant? Go to —— street, No. ——, ask for Helena. Go today.” Here’s another: “Artistic Academy. If you want a place for pleasure and a good time, go to ——, plenty of nice girls.” Another want ad reads: “Ladies from all nations,” and still another, “Violeta has moved to —— street, and with her Parisian arts welcomes the Havana public.”
Poor pleasure-seekers, whose law is fashion and folly their pursuit! Bubbles on the wave of pleasure, a tracery on the sand which Time’s tide will soon erase. Every year the siren voice of Havana calls, “Come in your private yacht on the Gulf Stream of gold; come with full purse and empty head and heart; come, you ‘best’ society, that you may be seen at your worst; come, all ye who would desert the temple of your mind and soul for this Circe’s palace of fleshy pleasures!”
Hamlet found something “rotten in the state of Denmark,” but it was sweet compared with what I discovered[15] in Central America—the land of eruption and corruption, of dirt, disease, destitution, darkness, dilapidation, despots, delay, debt, deviltry and degeneracy, where a conservative estimate makes 90 per cent of the women immoral, 95 per cent of the men thieves, and 100 per cent of the population liars.
While strolling about the sultry seaport of Amapala, Spanish Honduras, and thinking of Morazan, the great Honduran liberator, two deceitful dames sought to enslave me. I was a stranger and they tried to take me in—their home nearby. Fortunately a policeman came up and warned me in broken English that these girls were “always—very—bad—to—everybody.” Each one took my arm and I thought it was time to take to my legs and get away. Anticipating my flight, one of them sprang upon me, wrapped her nether limbs about my waist and her arms around my neck. Thus in broad daylight in the heart of the town and in full view of the passerby I was attacked and assaulted. What a shipwreck of character might have happened had I landed at night! I hurried back to the ship and sought the seclusion my cabin afforded. The captain congratulated me on my narrow escape and informed me that on nearly every trip to this port native women of the town attempt to smuggle themselves at night on board to exchange their morals for the sailors’ money.
The last time I visited the Panama Canal it was closed, but the town was wide open. Former streets called straight were crooked and some rescued territory had relapsed. Just off the main street the scarlet[16] woman and the red light flourished and flaunted. Posing as bar-girls these women came out boldly with the bar-sinister of their profession, came with forbidden fruit from the “Cocoa Grove,” and exposed it for sale on West Sixteenth street, contaminating the young. The groves may have been God’s first temples, but not this Panama “Cocoa” one. Here Satan conducts services every day of the year and passion-fruit is offered all who walk its thoroughfares. One finds all colors, classes and conditions of carnality. The U. S. soldiers are the police because the Panamanian police hate our boys sober or drunk, and when our boys had a fight the Panamanians beat them up. There are dens of high and low degree, full of filth, profanity, drunkenness, disease and debauchery, I know, for I saw, and I saw because I was there for local color and it was black enough.
Panama is famous for its canal, the wedlock of the oceans, but the city Panama is infamous, knows little of the family word “wedlock” and its red light “Cocoa Light” would make the fabled Daphne Grove wither up with envy. From the first to the fifteenth of each month the U. S. soldiers receive their pay and spend a large amount of it here in wine, women and song. In this pandemonium of profligacy, one may see, at any hour of the day or night, a brave soldier boy, intoxicated with love or liquor, sitting in a doorway with a half-dressed, bare-legged girl in his lap. These girls are o. k.’d by an M. D. twice a week and pronounced all right. Our soldiers cannot leave camp and visit them without a card certificate of good character. After they have made a night of it the boys repair to the[17] “House of Lords” in the district and receive a bath and inoculation of anti-venereal dope. If they fail to take this treatment and are contaminated, they suffer more ways than one, being compelled to pay a fine. This is all too bad. Pleasures pure and simple should be given them at camp or in barracks. As it is, many of them are “shot to hell” before they ever go to war. If they have any extra money, strength or inclination, they may hit the opium-pipe, buy a get-rich-quick lottery ticket, or on Sunday attend a bullfight. A modern St. Anthony would find it difficult to withstand the temptations of this zone. More than one Pan-American religious conference is needed to make the moral atmosphere as pure as the city streets are clean. It is a bigger job to kill the devil than to exterminate the yellow-fever mosquito.
What causes the majority of women to be so little touched by friendship is that it is insipid when they have once tasted of love.
A party went to the opera and occupied a box. One of the men saw a raveling on the shoulder of one of the ladies. He picked it, and it kept on coming. He pulled and pulled till he had a tremendous mass, which he threw behind the door. Some days after the men met and talked it over. One of them said: “My wife had a good time, but she cannot figure out how she lost her union suit.”
At present, partly owing to what is very modestly called “barefoot” dancing, a severe season of clothelessness prevails; and the aforementioned exercises afford the public quite a fair idea of “the most admirable spectacle in nature”—that is to say, bowlegs, knock-knees, thick ankles, spray feet, shoulders scraggy or pudgy, knees bony or lumpy, and weirdly shaped legs.
The modernist poets also have been seized by the mania for nudity—but let us hope that with them it is rather theory than practice; for the average literator is not usually “a dream of form in days of thought.” One mocking rhymester thus makes game of such poetic aspirations:
One of these modernist bards puts her own fancies into the brain of an old-time lady, stiff in pink and silver brocade, as she walks in a prim garden awaiting the coming of her suitor. She would like to leave “all that pink and silver crumpled on the ground”; for,
Thus divested of raiment, “I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,” and her lover, seeing her, would pursue “till he caught me in the shade.” A writer of free verse is more candid; it is herself she would disrobe. “Since the earliest days I have dressed myself in fanciful clothes,” she says, trying to express herself in this manner; but now she is weary of putting “romance and fantasy into my raiment.” She realizes that “my clothes are not me, myself”; hence the stern resolve:
Doubtless she would; but perhaps not exactly as she means it. Wandering “unclothed into people’s parlors,” if police vigilance could be eluded, might be a way of seeing ourselves as others see us, since the owners of the parlors would probably be startled into candid comment, instead of, as usual, waiting until the unclad back of the visitant was turned. It would be a happy arrangement if only the truly symmetrical would indulge in semi-nudity. Such exhibitions are a form of female vanity; but if the average woman will but realize it, she owes any admiration she may excite to the saving graces of clothes. If she is wise she will foster the illusion. As a poet of another era expressed it, “Oh, the little less, and what worlds away!”
The dreamer is with us. From early youth there comes anon a time when the sense of great loneliness and mysticism leads one out to the wilderness of the Dream God. Conceptions of dreams and of love are two difficult tasks, but Robert W. Chambers seems to have made greater headway than other authors. In his book, “The Danger Mark,” he thus describes the feelings that passed over poor, troubled Geraldine:
“We’re pretty young yet, Geraldine.... I never saw a girl I cared for as I might have cared for you. It’s true, no matter what I have done, or may do.... But you’re quite right, a man of that sort isn’t to be considered,” he laughed and pulled on one glove, “only—I knew as soon as I saw you that it was to be you or—everybody. First, it was anybody; then it was you—now it’s everybody. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” she managed to say. The dizzy waves swayed her; she rested her cheeks between both hands and, leaning there heavily, closed her eyes to fight against it. She had been seated on the side of a lounge; and now, feeling blindly behind her, she moved the cushions aside, turned and dropped among them, burying her blazing face. Over her the scorching vertigo swept, subsided, rose, and swept again. Oh,[21] the horror of it!—the shame, the agonized surprise. What was this dreadful thing that, for the second time, she had unwittingly done? And this time it was so much more terrible. How could such an accident have happened to her? How could she face her own soul in the disgrace of it?
Fear, loathing, frightened incredulity that this could really be herself, stiffened her body, and clinched her hands under her parted lips. On them her hot breath fell irregularly.
Rigid, motionless, she lay, breathing faster and more feverishly. Tears came after a long while, and with them relaxation and lassitude. She felt that the dreadful thing which had seized and held her was letting go its hold, was freeing her body and mind; and as it slowly released her and passed on its terrible silent way, she awoke and sat up with a frightened cry, to find herself lying on her own bed in utter darkness.
In France, we are told, the English officers stepped about as though they owned the whole d——d country, whereas
The Americans walked about as though they didn’t give a d——n who owned the country.
New York liquor spotters have discovered liquor in baby dolls. That’s nothing new. Lots of baldheads have been buying wine for baby dolls in New York for generations!
Dear Captain Billy—I am 15 years old and have a sweetheart who is just 18. He owns a flivver and wants me to go riding with him. Should I?—Lizzie.
Walking is healthier.
Dear Captain Billy—I have a girl friend who insists on writing to me and demanding an answer. What shall I do?—Charlie.
Tell her to enclose a stamp.
Dear Captain Billy—My husband is going out with another woman all the time. What can I do to keep him home nights.—Mrs. Brown.
Take the other woman in as a boarder.
Dear Captain Billy—I am a young lady attending a church college. Do you think it would be all right for me to wear skirts 15 inches from the ground.—Marie.
That depends on your height. If you are six feet tall it would be all right, but if you are only 29 inches “tall,” Not Yet Marie.
Dear Captain Bill—What would you call the unoccupied side of an old maid’s bed?—Simple Susan.
No Man’s Land.
Dear Captain Billy—My daughter has a sweetheart who just got back from France. He talks to her in French and says: “Villa vouz promenade,” or something like that, and then they go to some park. What does that mean?—Anxious Father.
That’s all right, old man. Your daughter’s sweetheart was only asking her to take a walk.
Dear Captain Billy—What’s good for cooties?—Returned Soldier.
Bread crumbs.
Dear Captain Billy—Please explain the uses of salpeter.—Tommy.
You are hereby referred to any soldier who will tell you its principal usage is in the manufacture of high explosives.
Dear Captain Bill—What’s worse than a cow with the cooties?—Hi Ball.
A horse with a buggy behind.
Dear Captain Bill—We are organizing a new lodge in ’Frisco to be known as the “Ancient Order of Modern Cavemen.” Will you kindly suggest a motto for our lodge? Yours truly—Rough on Cats.
My suggestion is: “Catch ’em young; treat ’em rough, and tell ’em nothin’.”
Dear Captain Billy—Why do they use castor oil in racing automobiles and aeroplanes?—Eunice.
To make them run, of course, Eunice.
Dear Bilious Billy—What would you write about if the country went wet again and you didn’t have the dry reformers to poke fun at and kid about?—Reginald Pewter.
We cannot tell a lie—we wouldn’t be able to write during the first few weeks.
Dear Whiz Bang—My husband, a returned soldier, did not get home until 3 o’clock this morning. He said he was at the Fort all night playing golf. Do soldiers play golf in the middle of the night?—Worried War Bride.
Yes, Worried Wifie, they do. One of the favorite sports of the naughty doughboy is the game known as African golf. Two galloping dominoes are used in place of a small ball. Instead of the greens, the latrine floor is usually garnished with greenbacks and set off in silver. “Big Dick” and “Little Joe” act as caddies and there is more cussing at a “flock of box cars” than a minister foozling a putt. I indulged in a friendly game of dancing dominoes last night with my old buddy, Mr. “Eighter from Decatur.” “Jimmy Hicks” and “Long Legged Liz” were there, but before I got through I had “fever in the South” and “crapped” out several points under par.
Dear Captain Bill—Please tell me what is golf?—Ignoramus.
Well, Ig., golf is a game where old men chase little balls around when they are too old to chase anything else.
Dearest Billy—What’s the difference between a bachelor and a worm?—Andy Gump.
Somebody told me there was no difference—the chickens get them both.
Dear Captain Billy—I have been married a year and am the mother of triplets who are now three months old. My husband has asked me to take dancing lessons this winter because he says he cannot afford to have any more children and that dancing will keep one’s mind off maternal cares. What do you think about it?—Triple Trixy.
Dancing’s all right, Trixy, providing you tango in the morning, fox trot in the afternoon and hesitate at night. Fine exercise, I say.
Dear Captain Bill—I am struggling with myself to keep from falling in love with a handsome football player because I heard that football players were so terribly rough.—Troubled Tillie.
Move to the South Sea islands where it’s too hot to play football, or else to Norway where the summer sport is fishing and in winter it’s too cold to fish.
Dear William—I recently met a cute little second lieutenant on the train and am very anxious to get in touch with him. He said his name was Joe Latrino and that he was in the Sanitary Corps. How may I find him?—Winsome Winnifred.
Write to him in care of the Captain of the Head, U. S. Navy.
Dear Captain Billy—What is the difference between Spanish Flu and Spanish Fly?—Swede Harriet.
Spanish Flu is a disease. Spanish Fly is a drug, technically known as cantharides and is used as a plaster to cure rheumatism.
Dear Billy—I am infatuated with a handsome young man from Akron, Ohio, but when he comes to visit me in a neighboring village he acts so embarrassed and appears always to be in a mood of deep thought. Do you suppose he wants to pop the question but hasn’t the nerve?—Hellenic Helen.
Now, Hellenic Helen, how in Hell’s Gate or Helena do I know? Overlook his seeming taciturnity and remember that “deep rivers move with silent majesty; small brooks are noisy as hell, and actions speak louder than words.”
Dear Doctor Billy—Please give me the definition of the spinal column.—Slippery Lizz.
It’s a long disjointed bone, covered with knots—your head sits on one end and you sit on the other.
Dear Captain Bill—What is meant by “bigamy?” Dandy Dillon.
Bigamy is a form of insanity which causes a man to pay three board bills instead of two.
Dear Billy—What’s the definition of a “humdinger?”—Iva Hangover.
A man who can make a deaf and dumb girl say: “O, daddy.”
Dear Bilious Billy—I was married last June and my wife wants me to obtain some polish in my manners so suggests that I take music lessons. What do you think about it?—Silas Hopkins.
It’s a very good idea, Si. You’ll soon gain a musical education by playing second fiddle. But beware of the jazz.
Dear Skipper—Why is a certain specie of beans called Navy Beans?—Battle-Axe Liz.
I dunno, Liz. You might as well ask me why I labelled The Whiz Bang an “Explosion of Pedigreed Bull.” No reason at all.
Dear Bill—They say there are germs on money. Do you think, then, it is safe for a poor working girl to carry her salary home in her stocking?—Sadie Woolworth.
Perfectly safe, I’d say. A germ couldn’t live on a working girl’s salary.
By JACK ANDREWS
Rubbernecking via the bally-ho wagons has received a terrible set-back in the beautiful city of the Angels. No more will the gossip-hungry tourists be fed on the scandal of the movie colony from a megaphone in the hands of a husky-voiced “spieler.” An edict has gone forth forbidding these caterers to wet the appetites of the unlearned and seeking visitors of Los Angeles to exploit the “affairs” of the celebrities in press agent fashion.
Los Angeles officials contend that it is no nice way to entertain their guests where skeletons are said to exist in every closet in Hollywood.
There is no question but what the moving picture business has a lot of deserving people in it, and some of the most admirable characters to be found are of the cinema crowd, but we have recently had a few stellar lights before the international eye in roles that were disgusting.
Here are some of the utterances the city fathers say should be dispensed with:
“To your right, folks, is the home of Charlie, now used exclusively by Mildred and her mother, who is also her business manager.”
“On your left is the home of Lottie, sister of Mary, who has a standing offer to fight any woman in the business.”
“Jack, who is also one of the family, was living in the bungalow on yonder hill before his wife came back from New York. He left for Arkansas on the advice of his doctor the day before she arrived. He was also in the service during the war.”
“Now folks this beautiful chateau on the right covering ten acres is the possession of an illiterate cow-puncher, whose salary is greater than the President’s.”
“To your left is the former home of Mable, when she wasn’t at Vernon, and who is credited with staging a “come-back” after the star of Sennett passed below her horizon.”
“The one who was once called “America’s Sweetheart” used to live in sweet simplicity in the white bungalow on the right. She used to be the idol of all children, but the page of her book is closed that the youth should learn aright.”
Is it any wonder that these “rubberneck” wagons did a thriving business in Los Angeles? It is said that each “spieler” tried to outrival his competitor and from all reports the tourists were well supplied with scandal.
Girls should remember that when they confide in a married woman they are probably confiding in her husband also.
As you show so shall we peep.
A shimmy dancer has to struggle for a living.
Many a rough neck is hidden by a silk collar.
Be it ever so homely there’s no face like your own.
You can’t feather your nest running after chickens.
Keeping whisky in your home is no crime—it’s an art.
Never slap children on the face; Nature provides a more suitable place.
Close the saloon and save the boys; close the garage and save the girls.
Sign in dry goods store: “Our woolen underwear will tickle you to death.”
A man called for hair restorer at the drug store. The new clerk gave him something to apply. In the course of time the man returned with a complaint. He declared the stuff powerful enough for some purpose but not to grow hair. His head was as bald as ever but he was getting two big lumps like cocoanuts on the top. The clerk looked at the empty bottle and turned ghastly pale as he exclaimed “My Gawd, man, I’ve made a terrible mistake. I gave you bust developer.”
A colored woman and her husband were conversing together when the latter happened to express curiosity as to the meaning of the word “propaganda” which he was constantly running across in the newspapers.
“Well,” said his wife, “ah is not sure, but ah thinks ah know what propaganda is. F’r instance, wif mah fust husband ah had one chile, and two wif mah second. You’re mah third husband an’ we hain’t got none at all. Now, I’m the propah goose, but you ain’t the propahganda.”
“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”
Is the theater becoming immoral? The majority of critics claim it is. The WHIZ BANG disagrees on this point. We claim the motion picture development has stopped the sporadic growth of suggestive plays on the legitimate stage.
The immoral, or at least suggestive plays made their first appearance in any large number twenty years ago. Witness “Three Weeks,” “Sappho,” “Du Barry,” and others, and still today you will find these plays in oblivion. Together with them, the women who starred in such plays are almost unheard of today. Most prominent among these is Olga Nethersole.
She was an English governess in the ’80’s and startled London with her portrayals of “The Transgressor,” “Magda” and other productions of like character.
Twenty years ago Miss Nethersole shocked two continents with her “Sappho Kiss.” She always maintained that playing the parts of these easy women would “make” her. Witness her interview of more than five years ago, in which she is quoted as having said:
“People have not understood that I chose to play[33] prostitutes because I have felt it my work to aid the world by showing the suffering in it. If I felt that I had not been chosen for this task I should never have given my life to it.
“Do you know the story of Alexander Dumas, the younger? He was an illegitimate son, whose father refused to wed his mother. Thereupon the son gave up his life to the cause of woman and wrote his plays with the suffering of woman uppermost. ‘Camille’ will live forever.
“I have felt that if I could show the suffering and the misery that illicit passion causes I could do something for the world, could point a way toward removing the evil.”
And today, Olga Nethersole’s prediction has fallen flat. Her name, or the names of her mimics, no longer are blazoned on the electric signs of Broadway. Olga Nethersole, and the principle for which she stood, are in oblivion.
This is the era of keepers, too. Our collective national appetite has been entrusted to the keeping of four Bills. I refer to Bill Bryan, Billy Sunday, Bill Anderson of the Antisaloon League and Billy-Be-Damned. Those of us who once owned thirsts rapidly are becoming reconciled to the prospect of seeing about every other man in this country established in the role of his brother’s keeper—not his barkeeper, perish the thought—but the sort of keeper who keeps his charges locked up in an iron barred cage and whacks them across the nose with a steel rod of sumptuary discipline[34] should they manifest a desire once in a while to indulge in a little personal liberty.
It has become the custom for many police departments to resort to underhanded methods in obtaining evidence wherewith to bring guilty persons to trial for certain offences, the plan adopted being the employment of what is commonly known as “stool pigeons”—go-betweens who act in direct conjunction with the police. Concerning those who allow themselves to be so employed there is little to be said other than that they are not fit for decent society. It is a sneaking way of securing a living and those who lend themselves to it ought to be ostracized by citizens who believe in conforming to the ordinary decencies of life.
Moral reformers are altogether too ambitious. They want to abolish vice but they cannot do it. Vice is not crime, although the two things are often confounded. The word “vice” literally means a fault or error. A crime is a deliberate violation of the law of God or man.
Why should we be so serious and so violent in our attitude toward human vice? The root of the evil is in the weakness or wickedness of human nature. What is needed is to invigorate humanity with that moral strength which resists the inroads of vice. There are periods in the history of every nation when certain forms of vice are particularly flagrant. This was so when civilized Greece had lost her pristine manliness. It was so when pagan Rome was near her fall. It was so, unhappily, in England in the nineties of the last century, which saw the popularity of such literary and artistic decadents as Oscar Wilde and Aubrey[35] Beardsley. Wise reformers will not ever deceive themselves by thinking that they can eradicate vice. They will try to lessen vice by moral suasion and by removing the economic causes which are the promoters of evil living. To put wretched people into jail is not the best way to reform them. It is better to make them see that a life of virtue pays better than a life of vice. This may be a low utilitarian standard, but it will appeal to those who are altogether guided by considerations of profit or loss.
The alimentary canal of the business world needs a physic. It’s the same in business as with the human system, when things get clogged. We’ve been gorging the system of the business world until its tripe needs scraping. We’ve kept the hopper too full for a healthy elimination, and we need calomel and rhubarb for a change. Capital has allowed its cormorant-like propensities to assume the proportions of a boa constrictor in trying to swallow not only the calf but the whole herd. Labor, following closely in the wake of capital and profiting by its example, has pulled the bridle off of the horse and started it down the road of reason for a head-on collision with the captain of industry, who is stepping on the tail of his big Packard, and both will be injured. Cornering the earth and setting the price of all things required for man’s welfare has come home to roost in demands for wages double and treble what they used to be, and both capital and labor must be purged of this overload on the liver of righteousness or the undertaker will have an unusually thriving business very soon.
The tendency of present-day writers and authors of fiction stories to deal in suggestiveness is perhaps explained in the popularity of the magazines which cater to these outpourings. Gouverneur Morris is one of these, and who can say that Mr. Morris is not one of the foremost writers of the day? In his latest masterpiece, “The Wild Goose,” which appeared recently in Hearst’s, he writes, for instance:
One of the shoulder-straps of her night-gown had slipped so that Diana’s left breast was almost wholly bare. At her husband’s next words she hastily pulled the night-gown back into place, as she might have done if he had stepped suddenly into view.
“I could crawl to you on my hands and knees,” he said, “if I could lay my head on your breast just one little moment.”
“Frank,” she exclaimed, “I am so sorry! But please, please—this is no time to discuss what’s been and gone and happened. Do go back to bed.... Count the sheep going over the hurdle.... Don’t you know I’d do anything—anything—anything—except the things I can’t do?...”
There was a long silence. Then the man spoke again.
“Do have pity,” he said, “for Christ’s sake!”
Then we have Arthur Somers Roche who quite often reveals much truth in his fiction. Writing recently in the Cosmopolitan, Roche, perhaps unconsciously, reveals a time-worn trick of the woman of the street in “working” a male victim. He writes:
The difficulty with the Waiters’ Union had resulted[37] in the engaging of girls as waitresses at the Central. An extremely pretty girl had just served Mr. Dabney with something. Inspiration had come to him as he started to tip her.
“Worth just fifty cents, m’dear, if I put it in your hand. Worth five dollars if I put it in your stocking. What say?”
The waitress essayed coyness, but failed in her endeavor. Five dollars was five dollars. She turned slightly to one side; her skirt was raised; into her stocking-top Dabney slipped the five-dollar bill.
No invention of modern history has ever been acclaimed with the enthusiasm that greeted Mr. Dabney’s strikingly original idea. There was a yell from Mr. Ladd’s table; as explanation shot about the room, hilarity reached its highest pitch. Immediately a dozen girls stood close to tables, while unsteady hands that held bills fumbled at the tops of stockings.
“What sort of tree is that?” queried a Chicago girl, touring California.
“Fig tree,” replied her escort.
“My goodness, I thought the leaves were larger.”
A. W. O. L. means, according to officers who ought to know, “After Women Or Liquor.” Usually it’s both.
(As told by a French-Canadian).
By Charles C. Walts.
By George D. Brewer
(With Apologies to Captain Billy’s “Explosion of Pedigreed Bull”)
By Oscar C. Williams.
By Charles C. Walts
By Carrie Blaine Yeiser
A bumble bee backed up to me and pushed.
When things come to a head it will be some tale.
She—I’ll have you understand I got my musical education from abroad.
He—I got worse than that from abroad.
“Oi, Oi, Ikey, I’ve got a joke on you. You forgot to pull your vindow curtain down last night and I could see you and your vife all de time.”
“No, No. Abie, the joke’s on you. I vasn’t home at all last night.”
Kissing a woman is like taking olives out of a bottle—get the first one and the rest come easy.
It has been said that the only possible way to get some men to the front is by kicking them in the rear, which reminds us of the Russian Jewish battalion in the recent Polish invasion that was cut off in the front while running to the rear.
A few months ago the girls ran away from a drunken man—now they run after him to see where he got it.
You tell ’em, locomotive; you’ve got a tender behind you.
Arabella: “Children are such an expense nowadays, I don’t see why you have so many.”
Mrs. Murphy: “Well, you know there are moments in the lives of all great men when they don’t care a darn for expenses.”
Youngblood, arrested in St. Paul, on trial:
Police Judge—“Who brought you here?”
Youngblood—“Two policemen.”
Judge—“Drunk, I suppose?”
Y. B.—“Yes, both of them.”
Father said: “My boy, when I was your age down on the farm, I retired with the chickens.”
Son replied: “That’s nothing, dad, so do I.”
She may be a moonshiner’s daughter, but I love her “still.”
Sunday School Teacher—Which bird did Noah send out of the Ark to find out what the weather was like?
Small Girl—Please, teacher, a weather-cock.
It is never too hot to dance, if you are that young.
(Sign on Minnesota Farmer’s Fence)
NOTIS: If any man’s or woman’s cows gets into these here oats, his or her tail will be cut off as the case may be.
(Sign, Casey’s Store, Golden Valley, Minn.)
Annual sale now on; don’t go elsewhere and be cheated; come here.
(From the Southampton Times)
Wanted, by a respectable girl, her passage to New York; willing to take care of children and a good sailor.
(From the Alton Eagle)
Wanted small cottage for a small family with good drainage.
(From the Dubuque News)
Will the person who took pair of pants off Main street car Friday please return to this office?
(From the Buffalo Courier)
Wanted—Permanent gentleman boarder, with or without car, in refined ladies’ own private home, with garage. Address Refined Home, Courier.
(From the Keokuk Gate City)
For Sale—A good modern house on the south side with eight rooms and full cellar for $2,600. Van Pappelendam Brothers.
(Lusk Herald)
Owing to the lack of space and the rush of the Herald’s prize contest several births and deaths will be postponed until next week, or until a later date.
(From the Lakefield Pilot)
House wanted by lady with large front porch and spacious rear veranda; sun parlor and no bedbugs.
(From Johnson (S. C.) Leader)
Wanted—Girls to strip in a tobacco factory.
(From the Philadelphia Ledger)
Watches for women of superior design and perfection of movement. Bailey, Banks & Biddle Co.
(From the Detroit Free Press)
Room with two meals daily in one of the prettiest private homes in city for one permanent gentleman with every convenience imaginable.
(From Petaluma (Calif.) Courier)
I want to dispose of a lot of fancy chickens. Always home nights.
A lady boarded a crowded train and rushing up behind a bald-headed man, kissed him on the top of his head. He turned to look at her, and in an embarrassed and flustrated tone, she said: “I—I beg your pardon. I thought you were my husband. Your head behind looks just like his behind.”
The nice things of life are not always naughty, but the naughty things are invariably nice.
When we hear a woman say that all men are alike we wonder how she found it out.
A furrier was selling a coat to a woman customer. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, “I guarantee this to be genuine skunk fur that will wear for years.”
“But suppose I get it wet in the rain?” asked the woman. “What effect will the water have on it? What will happen to it then? Won’t it spoil?”
“Madam,” answered the furrier, “I have only one answer: Did you ever hear of a skunk carrying an umbrella?”
“So you deceived your husband,” said the judge gravely.
“On the contrary, my lord, he deceived me. He said he was going out of town and he didn’t go.”
He was a rather feminine young man, but he got into an argument with his male companion. Said the other fellow:
“Do you know, a company in Cincinnati named a soap after you?”
“No, is that right?” asked the feminine youth, in a high-pitched voice, “What is it called?”
“Fairy-soap,” was the reply.
A young lady on whose lap a bug had just lit, exclaimed:
“Oh, look at that funny little bug; what kind of a bug is it?”
Her Escort: “That’s a lady bug.”
Young Lady: “My but you have good eyesight!”
Wouldn’t Omar Khayam be sore if he was here. He’d change his immortal “Rubiyait” to this:
Here’s another ditty from the Jazz Review:
She came down to breakfast very late and her mother scanned her severely.
“Did that man kiss you last night?” she asked.
“Now, mother,” said the sweet young thing, blushing, “do you suppose he came all the way from the Great Lakes to hear me sing?”
Negro Woman to Drug Clerk: “Misto drug clerk, do you all exchange things here?”
Drug Clerk: “Why, yes madam, we do.”
Negro Woman: “Well I was jist wonderin’ if yo’ would take back this here good fer nuffin rubber thing an’ give me a bottle of Mellen’s food instead.”
A girl’s heart is like her vanity bag—overflowing with tender little souvenirs of love; a man’s is like his pipe—carefully emptied after each “flame” has gone out.
Footman: “My lord, a lady waits without.”
Lord Wunckleberry: “Without what?”
“Without food or clothing, your lordship.”
“Well, give her some food and send her in.”
A story is told of an agent who accompanied a prospective buyer to the vast granite quarries south of St. Cloud, Minn. While there a cat passed them and seemed to be in a hurry. The P. B. noticed it, but said nothing. In a few moments another cat appeared and ran in the same direction. The P. B. looked at the agent, but he seemed to be paying no attention to the cats. When the third cat finally flew by and vanished in the distance, the P. B. could no longer withhold his curiosity.
“What in the world is the matter with those cats?” he asked.
“Nothing the matter with the cats,” answered the agent, unconcernedly, “but it’s nine miles to dirt.”
Most women are pure and chaste—the less pure the more chased.
Skipper Bill:
May you grant me the privilege of expostulating to the tune of a jazz strain, which is indicative of life, the melody of the living and the nemesis of the dead, and dying.
Under the cloak of religion there are too many one-cylinder brains functioning to the detriment of our country, creed and constitution, and the space you allotted to the vituperations of an ecclesiastic ass, yclept Rev. J. Herbden Walters, was just two pages too much.
Women have always been enigmas so far as man is concerned, and it doesn’t require any brand of spiritual interpretation to convince us mortals that such a condition is in keeping with Allah’s plan of things.
No man who ever fell for the charms of a woman can point an accusing finger at her. When she makes herself “sweet to look upon” she is but fulfilling her destiny on this earth, and the power of man was created for the sole purpose of battering down her resistence—that’s God’s law; it’s the same in all forms of life.
No, Bill, his dose is diarrhoetic and we are not seeking purgatives. His mentality is sadly lacking and[59] his virility could well be questioned. Personally, such festers on our social cosmos sort o’ rankles me, for I try to atune myself to the Greater Law.
In closing, and ere I sign my John Henry to these sentiments, let me enlist the eloquence of Alexander Smith, whose brain gave birth to these lines:
One of the male specie,
E. W. WELTY.
1819 West Seventh St., Los Angeles, Cal.
Mary D.—No, Mary. Do not worry. Bank examiners will not inspect your “First National.” I fear when we reach that day there will be more candidates for bank examiner than for president of this good old U. S. A.
Knuts Gazoobus—If you are certain your pet skunk has fleas there is but one remedy I can suggest and that is the tying of a good hefty chunk of dynamite to the tail of the animal. I’ve been up against the polecat of Northern Minnesota and the flea of dear old Frisco and the devil save me from meeting both at the same time.
Beautiful Katie—This is the army recipe for hash: See that the dog is a fairly fat one. Hit him over the head with an axe and allow him to boil three hours. Chop into mince meat and mix in a lot of potatoes, onions and sage. Serve hot. Cats take only 20 minutes.
Dan M.—Should you accidentally upset a cup of coffee on the tablecloth, do not stare at it in consternation and exclaim “This is a hell of a note!” Laugh it off pleasantly and apologize to the hostess.
Daffy Dill—Your question is rather absurd and my answer is NO, I have never heard a porcupine for its mate. But I have seen a gopher go for a gopher.
Oliver Towne—I can’t quite agree with you as to the world’s greatest historical event. How about the time that Antony made a date with Cleopatra?
J. C. R.—Yes, you are correct. The women’s wearing apparel nowadays are held up by nothing more than a string of beads on one side and the kindness of heaven on the other.
Happy Harriet—It is quite true that a teakettle full of water sings, but whoinel wants to be a teakettle.
James B.—I am not positive as to the number of years the government has been trying to obliterate moonshining in Kentucky. I do know, however, that they’re taking in lots of territory now.
Hubby: “Let’s name our darling baby ‘Prohibition.’”
Wifelets: “I should say not. He’ll never be a ‘dry’.”
Brumbaugh—“I can’t see why Bert Kitchins married that ugly Miss Vanderpeel. Her money would not have been an inducement to me!”
Gimble—“No? Well, her father’s shotgun might have persuaded even you.”
Pelican: “Did you hear about the arrest of William Jennings Bryan?”
Belican: “No, what was it all about?”
Helican: “For feeling out the women delegation to see if they were wet or dry.”
A father, wishing to satisfy himself as to the future prospects of his son, decided to make the following test:—“Now,” he said, “I will put here, where he will see them the first thing when he comes in, a Bible, some money, and a bottle of whiskey. If he takes the Bible he will be a preacher, if he takes the money he will be a business man, and if he takes the whiskey he will be no good.” Having thus decided on the plan, he arranged the articles and concealed himself to await the son and watch results. Presently in came the boy, saw the money and put it in his pocket, took up the bottle of whiskey and drank it, put the Bible under his arm and walked out whistling. “My gracious!” exclaimed the father, “he will soon be a United States Senator.”
A farmer friend of mine was standing in the road with a gun tucked under his arm and an old dog at his side. He was directly in the path of a motor car. The chauffeur sounded his horn, but the dog did not move—until he was struck. After that he did not move.
The automobile stopped and one of the men got out and came forward. He had once paid a farmer $10 for killing a calf that belonged to another farmer. This time he was wary.
“Was that your dog?”
“Yes.”
“You own him?”
“Yes.”
“Looks as if we’d killed him.”
“Certainly looks so.”
“Very valuable dog?”
“Well, not so very.”
“Will $5 satisfy you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, here you are.” He handed a $5 bill to the man with the gun, and said pleasantly, “I’m sorry to have broken up your hunt.”
“I wasn’t going hunting,” replied the other as he pocketed the bill.
“Not going hunting? Then what were you doing with the dog and the gun?”
“Going down to the river to shoot the dog.”
Too many women look upon a marriage certificate as a license to operate a holdup game.
A lady entering a crowded train, requested a little boy if she might put his basket, which he had beside him, up in the rack so that she might sit there. He assented willingly.
A short time later the lady remarked, “Sonny, I’m afraid your pickles are leaking.”
Little boy, disgustedly, “Them ain’t pickles, lady, them’s puppies.”
Speaking of society, we heard a good one the other night. A dude and his lady friend were tripping lightly back from the reception room when a rather stout lady whose gown started somewhere close to the ground and never could get strength enough to get any nearer to her shoulders, bumped into him. The dude was peeved and said aloud to his lady friend: “Like Balaam’s ass, some people are always getting in the way.” The fat dame, quick to retort, replied, “You are wrong. It was the angel who got in the way and the ass that spoke.”
Rastus Johnsing—“Mandy, the only thing that ever kept me a good man was your won’t power and my will power.”
BATHING BEAUTIES!
Real photographs of the famous Mack Sennett water nymphs.
Just the thing for your den.
Size 3½×5½.
Positively the best on the market.
Assortment of 6 for 25 cents or 25 for $1.00.
Send money order or stamps.
Foreign money not accepted unless exchange is included.
Egbert Brothers, Dept. W. B., 303 Buena Vista Street, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Wholesale agents wanted everywhere in the U. S. Write for wholesale terms.
If
BULL
Was Music
The Whiz Bang
Might be Called
a Brass
Band
Everywhere!
WHIZ BANG is on sale at all leading hotels, news stands, on trains, 25 cents single copies, or may be ordered direct from the publisher at 30 cents single copies; two-fifty a year.
