Chapter I: Part 1

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. II. No. 18, March, 1921

_Laugh Your Cares Away_

When you get home from work at night,
And puzzled what to do,
Just buy a Whiz Bang magazine,
And read it through and through.

It’ll give you joy and comfort,
Take all dull cares away;
If you read the Whiz Bang journal,
And laugh the live-long day.

+-------------------------------
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_Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang_

_America’s Magazine of
Wit, Humor and
Filosophy_

March, 1921 Vol. II. No. 18

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_

Contents of this magazine are copyrighted. Republication of any
part permitted when properly credited to Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang.

“_We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is
loyalty to the American People._”—_Theodore Roosevelt._

Copyright 1921
By W. H. Fawcett

_Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated
to the fighting forces of the United States._

_Drippings From the Fawcett_

At the close of the recent war, on my way home to the Whiz Bang farm, still in uniform, I chanced on an old sea captain friend of former days down on New York’s Battery, old Jim Edmunds.

Later in the day, returning to my hotel with old Jim in tow, I found an invitation to a formal dance and card party awaiting me for that evening. I hit upon the idea that it would be well to take Captain Edmunds along; that his stories of the sea dogs would prove entertaining to the guests.

Accordingly I persuaded Jim, after much difficulty, to buy a dress suit for the occasion. The tailor couldn’t convince Jim that the vest should be cut down, and with only one button, but finally they compromised on a two-button vest.

All went well until we arrived at the hostess’ home and I introduced Captain Edmunds to her. Jim had on a medal he won for saving a ship at sea, and my hostess, at first puzzled as to whether he was an ex-army captain or a sea skipper, noticed the medal, and exclaimed: “Captain, I see you’re naval.”

The old man blushed and blurted out: “Yes, and if that danged tailor had his way, you could see a whole lot more.”

* * * * *

The other evening I picked up my old neighbor, Bob Jaeger, for a flivver spin to see the sights of Minneapolis.

First of all we visited the National Dutch room to enjoy the cabaret. Bob was much astounded as he viewed the shapely dancers shimmying to the jazziest of jazz orchestrations.

“What do you think of it, Bob?” I inquired.

“I think you’d better ask the orchestra to play a wedding march, and play it quick,” he retorted.

* * * * *

Ignorance sometimes causes lots of trouble, and sometimes it falls upon the innocent. Witness the case of Gus, our hired man.

I went with Gus to the Shoe Palace in Robbinsdale while he purchased a new pair of boots. Now Gus suffers from a common malady—perspiration of the feet—and he’s very sensitive about it.

The clerk sprinkled some French chalk into the new shoes as he was about to try them on. Gus got up angrily.

“If I can’t try on a pair of your boots without having you sprinkle chloride of lime in them, I’ll take my trade elsewhere,” he bellowed.

It was with much difficulty that I pacified Gus and explained the use of the chalk. So now Gus has a new pair of boots, and without the lime disinfectant.

* * * * *

A few days ago, for the first time in many moons, I heard sweet strains of “Sweet Adeline” coming in a rich soprano, with bass accompaniment, from a passing automobile on the Whiz Bang farm trail, and it brought me out of my reveries and revived memories of bygone days.

Thoughts of the many times I had heard that song along the trail from town, just after the bars of Robbinsdale and Casey’s roadhouse would close, came to me sweetly.

This brand of choral singing has become a lost art under prohibition. “Sweet Adeline” as sung by a troop of celebrators who wouldn’t know whether they were standing on their feet or their heads, was very beautiful.

To enjoy it thoroughly, one had to be quite drunk himself. Jack would sing the tenor, Bob the bass and I would join in the chorus, in sentimental strain. It was all very touching. With it, nothing can compare.

In my memories I can still picture Jack’s tenor squawking “You’re the flower of my heart” and Bob’s bass refrain “Sweet Adeline,” after which came the grand finale. Ah, those were the happy days.

* * * * *

The couple that left an automobile seat at the Whiz Bang farm a couple of months ago, while they went to town to report the theft of their automobile, haven’t come back yet, and I don’t know what the deuce to do with the seat.

_Farmyard Filosophy_

Many a man’s reputation depends on what isn’t found out about him.

* * * * *

Women are divided into two classes; those who desire husbands and those who desire single men.

* * * * *

A good man who has gone wrong is in reality a bad man who has just been found out.

* * * * *

The charity that begins at home is usually a stranger elsewhere.

* * * * *

And we note that the banker continues to take a lot of interest in his work.

* * * * *

The fellow who is driven to drink will take a long ride these days.

* * * * *

Why not appoint an electrician to censor movies. He is used to shocking things.

* * * * *

Love has all senses except common-sense.

* * * * *

What has become of the old fashioned man who used to be able to hit a bullseye on the spittoon at thirty feet range?

* * * * *

Authorities have ruled that liquor can be placed in mince pies legally. But if we had the liquor, we wouldn’t wait for the pie.

* * * * *

A Minnesota man has a dog that chews tobacco and still has some sense left. But it doesn’t drink the liquor peddled these days.

* * * * *

A writer to the Whiz Bang asks, “Is marriage a success.” We’ll solve the question by letting the married folk fight it out among themselves.

* * * * *

A politician says the American people are being coddled too much. He’s right. Even the bootleggers won’t let you pour out your own drink any more.

* * * * *

The amount of money a man has is the difference between his love for that evil and his love for women.

* * * * *

Women estimate friends by the advantages to be derived from them.

* * * * *

Men suspect women too much and “THE WOMAN” not enough.

* * * * *

An old husband is an honor to his wife.

* * * * *

Balzac said: “Woman is a creature between man and the angels.” How true, if it were not for her all men would have an easy road to heaven.

* * * * *

Love may be blind, but don’t take chances and come home with a long silk stocking in your pocket.

* * * * *

Powder is the dust the gods have given women wherewith to blind the eyes of men.

* * * * *

All men are not homeless, but some are home less than others.

* * * * *

Man is often blind to virtue, but never to beauty.

* * * * *

The frail young thing who is too tired to run an errand for mother can wear out the huskiest man on the dance floor.

* * * * *

Goosey, Goosey Gander

The Smiths heard Liza Gander, their maid, in the bathroom laughing and giggling for nearly an hour.

“What’s so funny, Liza?” asked Mrs. Smith, knocking on the bathroom door.

“Lawsa me,” replied Liza between giggles. “Ize so nervous, ah caint dry mesself.”

* * * * *

Discounting a Discount

A real estate agent was offered fifty dollars, less two and a half percent discount for cash, for an option on a piece of property. Being a poor mathematician and wishing to conceal his ignorance of arithmetic from his customer, he excused himself for a minute and sought his new stenographer.

“Good morning, Miss Brown,” he said in his most expansive smile. “Delightful weather we’re having, ain’t it? Now, tell me, if I were to give you fifty dollars, less two and a half percent discount for cash, how much would you take off?”

Instead of figuring it out, the young lady promptly put on her hat and coat and went home, saying she had been insulted. Darned if we can see what there was to get insulted over. If she couldn’t figure it out, why didn’t she say so and let it go at that.

* * * * *

A Pullman porter has just compiled a book on Berth Control.

* * * * *

Too Much Smell

Mandy was gazing upon the shop window display of toilet water hungrily.

“Come on ’way from dar, Mandy,” said Rastus warily, “or yo all will be tempted to buy some.”

“Rastus, Ah’s gwine to buy a bottle ob dat toilet water.”

“Ah, c’mon ’way, Mandy. Yo’ all smell like a toilet watah already.”

* * * * *

A Carman’s Love Code

When a woman is sulky and will not speak—EXITER.

If she gets too excited—CONTROLLER.

If she talks too much—INTERRUPTER.

If her ideas and yours do not coincide—CONVERTER.

If she is willing to come half way—METER.

If she comes all the way—RECEIVER.

If she wants to go further—CONDUCTER.

If she wants to go all the way—DISPATCHER.

If she proves you did her wrong—COMPENSATER.

If she goes up in the air—CONDENSER.

If she wants chocolates—FEEDER.

If she will permit you—KISSER.

If she wants to dance—JAZZ WITH HER.

* * * * *

A New Proposal

Half in earnest, half in joke,
Tell me, maiden, ere I’m broke,
Buying booze and lunch for thee,
Tell, oh, tell the truth to me,
Ere my cash is all turned loose,
Sweetheart, is there any use?

* * * * *

Business Was Good

A gob on a furlough telegraphed his ship commander as follows:

“Sir: Just got married. Please wire me ten-day extension of leave to finish honeymoon.”

* * * * *

Why He Needs Paper

The Rocky Ford, Colorado, Gazette-Topic prints this one:

The editor met a farmer reader on the street who was considerably in arrears with his subscription and suggested that the farmer liquidate, come across, dig up a little coin, but the farmer said he had no money.

“Well,” said the editor, “bring in some chickens.”

“I have no chickens,” said the farmer.

“Then,” said the scribe, “bring in some potatoes, corn, wheat or something.”

“I have no corn, no wheat or potatoes,” said the farmer.

“Well,” continued the pencil pusher, “you might bring in some cobs, I can burn them anyway.”

“Cobs,” said the farmer, “cobs, why man if I had cobs I wouldn’t need your paper.”

* * * * *

I can shake my shoulders,
I can shake my knees,
I’m a free-born American,
I shake what I please.

* * * * *

A Choice of Evils

“Would you marry her just because she’s wealthy? Don’t you know she has a questionable past?”

“Well, what of it? If I don’t marry her I shall have a questionable future.”

_Picture Land Flattery_

_Editor’s Note: Here is a story for young girls with movie
ambitions. In fact it’s a crackerjack of a story for women in
general. I do not believe the public, outside of Los Angeles,
realizes that the favorite form for gaining a lady’s favor is
to tell her she ought to be in pictures._

_Girls strange to Los Angeles fall hard for this style of
flattery, very often with serious final result. Designing men
quite frequently bunco the fair and trusting creatures and
“those who know” declare it is surprising how the ladies like
the movie flattery._

_But here is the story, true to nature and only intended for
the eyes of the fair sex._

BY RICHMOND.

Young women who desire to break into the movies should be prepared to take a little “breaking-in” themselves unless they indeed are fortunate and bump into a man instead of some of the rat horde that infests movieland. No line of business in the world combines more petty jealousies than creep through the Picture World. Men play the women against one another; women play men and the whole bunch forever conjure to hold the upper hand.

The following recital, by a clever French woman who sought a place in Filmdom, is typical. This woman was on the point of leaving for New York, where she admitted that it would be necessary for her to wear scant clothing in front of assembled multitudes at the Winter Garden, but better she thought than performing same for the benefit of sundry individuals who pass the girls along according as new faces and opportunity offer. The woman in question was French, of superb figure and doubtful picture talent. She was a fine dancer, also a singer. She told of being invited to the home of a well known Hollywood character, Prince Troubetskoy and wife, who recently departed presumably for Europe.

Troubetskoy ranks as one of the greatest sculptors in the world and his Hollywood home saw many a high jinx, intrigue of love and gambling revel. The Prince, a good natured old fellow, cared not what anyone else did, so long as he could gamble and not be obliged to eat meat. His wife enjoyed the society of young men, though not many of them seemed to break their necks courting her favor. The Princess didn’t get by very well, not any too sweet with a little tea aboard. So our lady of Film ambition meets a number of men who lounge in and out partaking of the Troubetskoy hospitality.

Says the first:

“How comes it, Madam, with those eyes you are not in Pictures. Surely there must be some mistake. Now I am the leading man of the ⸺ ⸺ Company. I am sure I could get you a chance if you would like to try. But of course we must go out to talk it over; a little dinner perhaps tomorrow night in my apartment we—”

“But, my dear sir, what is there to be talked of?” The Leading man seems to think the lady dull and drifts away.

Then the second.

“Who—— that fellow told you he could get you a part? Why he’s only the leading man. I am a director. Leave it to me. Just you and I will go out for a little dinner tomorrow night and talk things over—”

“But, my dear sir, the leading man also asked me to go out with him to dinner, or come to his apartment so the business could be settled—”

Still a third man.

“Did he say he was the director? I am the director. He is only the assistant director. He has no say. I will fix you up, you black eyed beauty. Tomorrow night if you meet me, I’ll have a fine big car, so warm inside. We will take a little trip, you and I, oh, just to talk over some details, I—”

Madam speaks again.

“But, my dear sir, three times now tonight have I been asked out to dinner to see what shall be done for me to get a part. Does one always have to eat dinner before getting into pictures?”

A fourth man.

“Piffle, I am manager of the entire company. Those fellows haven’t a word to say about it; just bunking you. Come with me to my little cabin up in laurel canyon tomorrow night. It is quiet and we will not be disturbed while talking over the business. I—”

But still a fifth.

“Don’t let those men kid you. I have put up all the capital. My father is a rich man in South America. When it comes down to it, these fellows work for me and, though I don’t interfere much, naturally I would hate to see a girl that looks like you get left—”

The madam talks once more.

“I cannot go to dinner with you. I have been asked by the four other men. I might take a chance with the leading man because he’s half way young. Though everyone says he doesn’t count, if I had to eat dinner with someone I guess I’d pick out the youngest and let you ‘burned outs’ try your luck somewhere else. But I’m eating by myself tomorrow night.”

Two or three camera men and some publicity agents possibly invited the lady out to dine, but the ones she seemed to remember began with the leading man and ended with the fellow who said he owned the bankroll that kept the company on the map.

* * * * *

Couldn’t Understand

Bellboy—“Good mawnin’ Rastus. I’se done lost me job at the Langren Hotel and I can’t understan’ how come.”

Rastus—“What’s you don, niggah, stole sumpin’?”

Bellboy—“All I done was to go in the main dinin’ room and page a girl named Carrie Age.”

_Cherubim of Hell_

_Reverend Morrill, the Whiz Bang’s fire-eating gospelite
writer, is now touring the West Indies for this magazine.
Remember the Martinique articles written after his recent tour
to that sinful island for the Whiz Bang? His present trip
presages some more hot sermons. In the April issue, Reverend
Morrill’s story of Parisian life, “Midnight Madness,” will
appear in the Whiz Bang. Later, during the summer months, he
will deliver to our readers a carload of dynamite. Watch for
his explosion!_

BY REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL.

Pastor of the People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.

Helen never raised more hell in Troy than the island of St. Lucia did in the West Indies. It is some 250 square miles, is volcanic, and has been in constant war-like upheaval.

Our ship, the “Caraquet” has arrived here, where for 150 years the French and English have cut each others throats. From 1605, when English settlers landed in the “Oliph Blossome” from Barbadoes and were massacred in less than two months—others were smoked out by natives burning red pepper—to 1814, when the isle was finally ceded to Great Britain, St. Lucia has been seeded with hate and borne a harvest of death. In three years, from 1793 to 1796, England lost 80,000 soldiers, including 40,000 dead. This topped the loss of Wellington’s army from all causes during the Peninsular war. Add to this yellow fever, malaria, the deadly fer-de-lance snake, hurricanes, earthquakes, bush-bandits and runaway slaves the revolution set free (who kidnapped, ravished, maimed, burned and robbed) and St. Lucia’s cup of gall and gore is running over—as are the wasps, centipedes, tarantulas, mosquitoes and scorpions over the people.

This was a Pandora’s, not a Christmas box. I wonder that all the inhabitants are not like the mad woman who rushed out of the insane asylum howling at us as we entered Castries harbor. St. Lucia was a martyred maid in the time of Diocletian, and lost her money and her eyes. The island bearing her name has suffered outrage and martyrdom and may well invoke her as the patroness of the poor and blind, for its inhabitants are afflicted with poverty and eye disease.

The land-locked harbor is the military key to the West Indies. Morne and Vigie are striking fortifications, and historic hill-tops in the back-ground have been bathed in the blood of those climbing the Calvary of death. They were drenched in mist and rain when we docked. Coal and not carnage is the leading industry now. Instead of shambles, all is soot. Ships come for fuel, not to fight. As at Nagasaki, Jamaica, St. Thomas and Martinique, women do the coaling. In place of Kingley’s poem, “Men must work and women must weep,” it is, “women must work and men must sleep.”

The coal wenches are amazing Amazons. How they wiggled and waltzed with coal-baskets on their heads, sweating, swearing, singing snatches of French songs and swaying to the music of a carnival band that came down to the boat and acted like madcap strolling players standing on heads and hands. The girls made a few cents a basket; if one greedily ran ahead out of turn, there was a “switchman” to lash her back in line. What coal-black Caryatides! Wonderful models—not of manners or morality—but muscles that would give a sculptor fits. Sure Mike Angelo would have wrestled with them, but Ben Cellini would have thought twice before he dared throw them about as he did his model whom he grabbed by the hair, kicked and mauled so she was compelled to anoint her wounds with bacon fat while he stood around and “larfed.” These husky, dusky damsels would have brained him with a lump of coal, thrown him in the sea, or mopped up the island with him. This holiday work gave the begrimed beauties extra money. They like work and carry their burdens on, not in their heads, the baskets often weighing 150 pounds each.

Streets of Castries are laid out in right angles, and many of the population were laid out in the streets at all angles. Every old soak fills up. I saw a black man and woman stagger along the walk, fall in the gutter, make love and wallow there like pigs. In the outskirts darky women were dragging their drunk lovers, brothers or husbands through the mud by heels or head or spreading them out like clothes to dry on doorsteps or windowsills. The squalor was stentorious and stercoraceous. Castries was a medley of noise, music and mud. The only bible commandment followed was the eleventh. “Thou shalt get stewed.” The patron saint of the city must be Saint Amant, the French seventeenth century bacchanalian bard who received inspiration for his drinking songs by imbibing enormous quantities of spirits which resulted in ebullitions like “La Debauche.” Alcaeus said, “Wine and truth”—and it was a very naked truth we saw in the Casino on the hill. Yes, it was quite “orgiferous.” What is an orgy? Listen to Gautier:

“Oh, the orgy giving to the winds its heaving breasts, red with kisses; the orgy shaking out its perfumed hair upon its bare shoulders, dancing, singing, shouting, holding one hand out to this man and the other to that one; the orgy, hot courtezan, that yields readily to every fancy, that drinks punch and laughs, that stains the cloth and its gown, that dips its garland of flowers in a bath of Malmsey wine; the ribald orgy, showing its foot and its leg, letting its heavy head fall to right or left; the quarrelsome, blaspheming orgy, quick to snatch its stilleto from its garter; the quivering orgy, that has only to stretch out its wand and turn an idiot into a poet and a poet into an idiot; the orgy that duplicates our being, and sends fire running through our veins, sets diamonds in our eyes and rubies on our lips; the orgy, the only poetry that is possible in these prosaic days.”

The Casino orchestra was squeaking, the couples reeking; airs were lively like those of the girls. One temptress asked me to give her a good time—and my watch; another charmer wanted my gold charm; but discretion was the better part of virtue and valor. To escape with money and morals, we slid down hill after throwing them a few shillings to buy religious tracts to make tracks in a different direction. In town a crowd stood watching two women fighting and shaking their fists and naked breasts at each other till the sweet milk of kindness turned to sour hate.

I went to a local banker to change some money. He was not in his office or home, but his charming daughter was. We exchanged Christmas courtesies and coin. She said she disliked our high American exchange, the color line in United States, and praised the fact that blacks and whites in St. Lucia ate, slept and grew up together. I was sorely tried, for a long time resisted temptation, but eventually succumbed to the enticements of this Eve’s daughter. She made me drink a glass she had filled with old French rum, syrup, lime-juice and other good things. I can’t remember, except that it was eloquent of the time, place and occasion. O tempora, O mores! How blessings brighten as they take their flight. I write with a glass of water nearby, in spite of the Horatian dictum that songs are not able to live long or please that are written in draughts of water. But I am writing prose, not poetry.

The guide-book asserts that “modest sleeping accommodations can be found in this island.” If so, it is one of the few places in the West Indies where, by day and night, the traveler is offered sleeping accommodations far removed from sleep or modesty. Cricket is popular in Castries, but not the bed-bug and cockroach.

If one is socially inclined there is many a black beauty whose back steps “take hold on hell.” One is accosted noon and night. Boat traffic in the West Indies is not always legitimately commercial. At different isles girls come aboard to sell beads, fruit and themselves. A ship is often delayed in getting these moral derelicts and strumpet stowaways put off. Do not be surprised if at various ports, men board the ship and invite Americans going ashore for the night to come and stay with their sisters—a hospitality quite Mexican and Latin-American. This is “old stuff” to observing travelers, but not often referred to by the average writers and lecturers on the West Indies who profoundly inform you the sky is blue, the grass green and the water wet. True, but Columbus discovered that—is there nothing else to describe?

* * * * *

A Dog Story

Two dogs, on a trip through the Minnesota woods, came upon a skunk.

After considerable discussion “Little Dog” was chosen to engage the strange intruder at battle. When he returned, “Big Dog” asked him how he had fared.

“Fairly well in the first round,” reported “Little Dog,” “but in the second attack the son-of-a-gun gassed me.”

* * * * *

A Friendly Household

“A flirt, am I?” exclaimed Mary Ann, under notice to go. “Well, I knows them as flirts more than I do, and with less excuse.” She shot a spiteful look at her mistress, and added, “I’m better looking than you. More handsome… ’Ow do I know? Your husband told me so.”

“That will do,” said her mistress frigidly.

“But I ain’t finished yet!” retorted Mary Ann. “I can give a better kiss than you! Want to know who told me that, ma’am?”

“If you mean to suggest that my husband—”

“No, it wasn’t your husband this time,” said Mary Ann. “It was your chauffeur.”

* * * * *

Sweet Kisses

He—“Oh, dearie, please give me just one.”

She—“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s Lent.”

“Will you when you get it back?”

* * * * *

Another good drink has been scratched off our list when we make our rounds of the bootleg joints—sherry and egg, for with eggs at a dollar a dozen and sherry 90 cents a finger, we can’t make the grade. However, as McIntyre & Heath might say, if we had some sherry, we could have sherry and egg, if we had an egg.

* * * * *

He Gets a Tip

The dinner was excellent, and what made it better still was the fact that the girl who waited at table was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen in his life.

And now it was time for him to leave his host and hostess and return to town. As luck would have it, however, it was discovered, too late, that the last train had gone. There was no alternative—he would have to stay the night, but the difficulty was that the house was full.

At last a bright idea seemed to strike the hostess. “I hardly like to suggest it,” she said, “but would you mind turning in with the cook?”

Knowing full well that they kept only the one maid, whom he had already seen, he accepted the offer with almost unseemly alacrity.

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the hostess, obviously much relieved; “the bed will be quite large enough—you’ll find him quite a superior man; indeed, he’s engaged to our parlormaid.”

* * * * *

Oh, Mommer, Boil My Socks

We’ve heard a lot of boarding house jokes, but the one our hired man, Gus, tells is the prize winner.

Gus was boarding in Chicago once where they had no napkins. Whenever Gus wanted to wipe his fingers he called the shaggy Newfoundland dog and rubbed them in the dog’s hair. Saturday night the cook washed the dog and Sunday morning they had soup.

Questions and Answers

=Dear Captain Billy=—Why is a marriage performed on Friday considered unlucky?—=Hoo Dew.=

Friday is so named because alloted to Frigga, the goddess of marriage. Perhaps that is why ceremonies on that day are so unlucky.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—My husband insists on wandering about the house barefooted at night, and I’ve been wondering if the servants have been attracting him out of his slumbers. What should I do?—=Miriam DeVorce.=

A few tacks placed judiciously about the house will cure your husband’s night walking in his bare feet.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=—My fiance says she will not marry me until I have done something big in life. Can you suggest something?—=Worried Romeo.=

Why not try washing elephants.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—What is meant by a “ruined career?”—=Carrie A. Kidd.=

Bartending.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=—Who was the first jockey?

Eve. Adam entered her in the human race.

* * * * *

=Dear Whiz Bang Bill=—If a flivver ran over a farmer’s rooster, what would he be out?—=Artie Choke.=

Nothing that I know about, except possibly his rooster would be out a foot or two.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—Who was the world’s greatest female juggler?—=Soubrette Sue.=

Nat Goodwin.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—What is the meaning of the word “flapper?”—=June Peas.=

Flapper is usually applied to a girl who flaps.

* * * * *

=Captain Bill=—I am a wrestler and a very light sleeper, my wife snores likell. What would you recommend to stop her sonorous snores?—=Ima Snoozer.=

Use a strangle hold.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—What is meant by the expression “A silent partner?”—=Gangrene Gertie.=

A woman’s husband.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=—What makes the human race?—=Hammond Eggs.=

Men and women chasing each other.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—What’s the difference between a cow and a baby?—=Dunn O. Nuttin.=

Well, a cow drinks water to make milk, while a baby just drinks milk.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—How can I keep my husband home at night?—=Worried Newlywed.=

Take five pounds of fusel oil, two pounds of prunes and one pound of raisins, put it in a five gallon crock. Then for nine dreary evenings, sit beside the crock and gently lift up the cheesecloth cover and hold communion therewith. It will sing a song to you in peculiar fashion, reminding you of the olden days when you put the parlor sea shell to your ear to hear the wild waves roar. You’ll hear Eva Tanguay singing “I Don’t Care.” When the tenth day has come to pass, strain the contents of the crock into bottles and then you can telephone your husband’s drug store and tell him to come home. You should have no further trouble in retaining his company.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain=—What’s the difference between a sea gull and a baby?—=Flipflop Flapper.=

A sea gull flips along the shore, while a baby slips along the floor.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—Don’t you think that giving up drinking will assure a longer life?—=Repentant Soak.=

Perhaps you’re right. I once gave it up for 24 hours and it was the longest day I ever lived.

* * * * *

=Dear Farmer Billy=—As an honest tiller of the soil, perhaps you can tell me the difference between an apple and a girl?—=Ann Arbor.=

Sure, you have to squeeze an apple before you can get cider. But with a girl, you have to get “side” ’er before you can squeeze her.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=—I live in Milwaukee and a neighbor of mine is always making home beer. Who should I report it to?—=Adam Sapple.=

Notify the American consul.

* * * * *

=Dear Sir and Captain=—My husband, whenever he comes home intoxicated from moonshine liquor, kicks me in the stomach. What would you advise me to do?—=Abused Wife.=

Turn your back on the brute.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper=—Could you tell me who is the inventor of the loose leaf system?—=L. E. Phant.=

Eve.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Jazzbo=—I have a sweet girlie, with teeth quite pearly. I took her in my arms one night. She scratched and giggled and tried to bite. Can you guess what’s worrying me?—=Hymanjasus.=

Your poetry is punk, old trapper, and I’ll answer you, the same—You like to love but you hate to fight with a dirty neck when you monkey-bite.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=—I see where you discuss at length the brevity of girls’ attire, but I never see you object in your writings. How do you stand, anyway?—=Noonan Knight.=

Well, you don’t see me wearing any smoked glasses.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—What’s your idea of a fine sight?—=Lotta Bull.=

I suppose you think I’ll say hosiery, but guess again. My idea of a fine sight is the one I have on my bear hunting rifle.

* * * * *

=Dear Whiz Bang Billy=—What’s the most useful food?—=Fletcher Eyes.=

Chicken. You can eat it before it is born and after it is dead.

* * * * *

=Dear Doctor Billy=—What are the three great plagues of the world?—=Iva Sharpe Payne.=

My expert diagnosis reveals that the three greatest are: Water on the knee, liquor on the hip and woman on the brain. Which Paynes you most?

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper=—Do you think it possible to get intoxicated on one-half of one percent beer?—=Ringaround A. Rosey.=

Sure, two hundred bottles of one-half of one percent equals one hundred percent drunk.

* * * * *

The Deadly Mouse

“What a brave, brave girl Mary is!” said a young man in enthusiastic tones.

“Mary brave? How so?” inquired the young man’s sister.

“Why, at the dance last night,” said the young man, “she was the only girl who kept her seat and remained perfectly cool when the mouse appeared.”

“Pshaw!” said his sister. “That wasn’t bravery. Mary told me afterwards that she had her old garters on.”

* * * * *

For Private Circulation

“May I print a kiss upon your lips?”

“Yes, provided you promise not to publish it.”

* * * * *

Baldheaded Bad Luck

The transport had just been torpedoed.

After a little struggle in the moisture, Bill found himself safely within the confines of an empty lifeboat.

Realizing that he was safe himself he began to look around to see who needed assistance.

Observing several men endeavoring to keep afloat nearby, he reached over the side and grabbed two of them by the hair and dragged them into the boat.

Suddenly a bald-headed man appeared alongside the boat. Peering over the side, Bill slapped him on the head and cried angrily: “Gwan down and come up right.”

_“Wimmin”_

By Jack Andrews.

The ever perplexing, never understanding, and most ancient of mysteries—Woman—is still with us. With but slight variations she is today the same enigma as were her predecessors running back to the beginning of time.

The modern man starts out just about as the cave man did, only he believes he is more accomplished, and capable of penetrating the veil that men of vast experience in dealing with the “deadlier sex,” associate with the Unknown Origin.

It is the incertitude of what Woman will do that brings out the gambling spirit in all of us, makes wise men of some of us, and pessimists of the rest of us.

When you find this type of pessimist, a man who breaks out the hammer as the talk tends toward women—wild and otherwise—just jot it down in your little note book that at some time in his life a little bubble of conceit was pierced by a woman, and a man failed to measure up to the requirements.

There is another class of supposedly male beings who continually rant about the women. They usually exhibit a holier-than-thou attitude when the pleasures of a woman’s society are mentioned, and denounce them as contributors to the undoing of man. They boast of a virtue that stamps them as impotents, superinduced by their own follies, and makes of them living hypocrites, ashamed to acknowledge the truth.

A man who boasts of “never a thought of women” will certainly not be molested by REAL women.

Remember this, my friends, that in the conquest for a woman’s love, it is far better to be audacious, for to profess too great a virtue may cause them to doubt your virility.

* * * * *

Embarrassing Moments

A Robbinsdale school teacher had a class up to spell. They were very young. She pronounced the word “leg.” The young miss who was to spell it was very modest and couldn’t spell it, a big awkward boy blushed furiously when it was passed down to him and the next one spelled it.

“And what is the definition?” she asked, elevating her eyebrows encouragingly.

Nobody knew.

“Why children,” she insisted, “surely you know that? What is it of which I have two and a cow has four?”

There was an awkward pause for just a moment and then a diminutive urchin at the foot of the class yelled out an answer. The answer has not yet appeared in print, but they do say that there was a vacation the rest of that day, while the teacher recovered consciousness.

_Whiz Bang Editorials_

“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet_”

During the past month, we have received an inquiry from a reader asking us to define a “lounge lizard.” We have nothing of that caliber in this rural community of Robbinsdale. Most of us are poor financially, but strong in the knowledge of Mother Nature and the homely ways of the farm and fireside. During the midst of our studies, we journeyed through Shakespeare’s immortal “King Lear,” and in the scene before Gloucester’s castle, we find the following:

Kent: Fellow, I know thee.

Oswald: What does thou know me for?

Kent: A knave, a rascal; and an eater of broken meats; a base,
proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred pound, filthy,
worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action taking knave,
a glass-gazing, super-serviceable, finical rogue. One that
would’st be a bawd in the way of good service, and are nothing
but the mad composition of a knave, beggar, coward, and the son
and heir of a mongrel; one whom I would beat into a clamoured
whining if thou denyest the least syllable of thy addition.

We have omitted some expressions from this denunciation. We have deliberately weakened it. We cannot find it in our soul possible to condemn any fellow man in such language as Shakespeare uses. We follow the quaint philosophy that every man has a redeeming quality and that none combines the bald badness which Kent ascribes to Oswald. In our community, a man denounces another in few words. We shake our fist and call our enemy “a blankey-blank-son-of-a-blank.” Our language may not be as polished as Shakespeare, but it seems to satisfy the vendor.

* * * * *

Wonder what a dog thinks about while he sits hours at a time watching his master bending over a battered desk pecking with two pitchfork-blistered fingers at a typewriter model of 1898?

Have you ever stopped to consider the dog? I’ll admit that in the eight years my collie breed “Shep” has been my faithful companion, I have never stopped to give him thanks or to reason with myself why this dumb beast should love me so.

As I work here by my old desk in Whiz Bang headquarters, “Shep” sits on his hind quarters panting. Occasionally, as I turn in a friendly glance, he points his nose as if inviting an affectionate pat. “Shep” seems to approve of my magazine. I really believe he understands what it is. He seems never so happy or affectionate as when he sits beside me in my study. When I’m in the field he saunters about, paying little attention to me, but here in the study he seems vitally and keenly interested. His attitude brings me to Senator Vest’s plea for a dog.

“The best friend a man can have in this world may turn against him,” said the senator. “His son or daughter, whom he has raised with kind and loving care, may prove ungrateful, those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name, may become traitors to our faith. The money a man has, he may lose; it flies away from him when he perhaps needs it most. A man’s reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. Those who are prone to fall on their knees and do us honor when success is with us, may be the first to cast the stone of malice when failure settles its clouds upon our heads. The one absolutely unselfish friend a man can have in this selfish world, is his dog.

“A man’s dog stands by him, in health and in sickness, in poverty and in wealth; he will sleep on the cold ground, when the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his master’s side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer him; he will lick the wounds and the sores that come from an encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince.

“If fortune drives the master forth, an outcast into the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than to accompany him, to guard against dangers, to fight against his enemies. And when the last scene of all takes place, and death takes the master in its embrace, and his body is laid away in the cold ground; no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by the graveside will be found the faithful dog, his head between his paws, his eyes open yet sad, in alert watchfulness. Ever faithful unto death.”

* * * * *

What Daughter Learned

Grandmother—“Come here, Diploma.”

Visitor—“That’s a funny name for your grandchild. Why do you call her that?”

“You see, I sent my daughter to one of those nawthern seminaries and that’s all she brought back.”

* * * * *

Progress Is Our Motto

Electrical appliances have superseded steam,
Old time sailing vessels are an antiquated dream;
We have our horseless carriages driven by the rich,
Our ladies wear silk stockings but never take a stitch;
We have wireless telegraphy which flies o’er land and sea,
We play upon the piano but never touch a key;
The belly-ache of former days is appendicitis now,
And we are eating creamery butter that never saw a cow.
Though progression is our motto and modern times have come to stay,
Thank God! We raise our babies—
In the good old fashioned way.

* * * * *

Back to His Childhood

Pat and Mike walked into a drug store and said they wanted something to make them feel young again. The druggist gave them a well known remedy, and Pat and Mike each took a swallow and started out.

A block down the street they took another swallow.

“I feel foive years younger,” said Pat.

“Begorra, I feel like a boy,” said Mike.

A few blocks farther Pat said: “Bejabers, Mike, don’t drink another drop of that stuff. I’ve gone back to infancy.”

_Smokehouse Poetry_

_Lasca, the rhythmic tale of a girl of the Rio Grande and the
stampede pictured by Paul Desprez will lead the Smokehouse
Poetry for April. With it also will be “In Flanders Field,” by
Lieutenant-Colonel John McCray, which is being published after
many requests. Colonel McCray’s simple song of tragedy was the
Marsellaise of the great world war. The author was a surgeon
with the Canadian Expeditionary forces and wrote the poem
during the battle of Ypres._

The Shooting of Dan McGrew

By Robert W. Service.

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up, in the Malemuke saloon,
The Kid that tickled the music-box, was playing a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While watching his luck was the light of his love.
The Lady—that was known as Lou.

When out of the night which was fifty below
And into the din and the glare
There stumbled a miner, fresh from the creeks,
Dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.

He looked like a man with one foot in the grave
And scarcely the strength of a louse,
As he tilted a poke of dust on the bar
And called for the drinks for the house.

There was none could place the stranger’s face,
Though we searched ourselves for a clew;
But we drank to his health, and the last to drink,
Was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

There are men that somehow just grip your eyes
And hold them hard like a spell,
And such was he for he looked to me
Like a man who had lived in hell.

With a face most hair, and a glassy stare
Like a dog whose day is done
As he watered the green stuff in his glass
And the drops fell one by one.

Then I got to figuring who he was
And wondering what he’d do
When I turned, and there stood watching him
Was the Lady, who was known as Lou.

The stranger’s eyes wandered round the room
And seemed in a kind of a daze
Till at last that old piano fell
In the way of his wandering gaze.

The Rag-time Kid was having a drink
There was no one else on the stool
And the stranger stumbled across the room
And flopped down there like a fool.

In a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirt
He sat and I seen him sway
With a talon hand he clutched the keys
God, but that man could play.

Were you ever out on the great alone,
When the night was awful clear
And the icy mountains held you in
With a silence that you most could hear.

With only the howl of a timber wolf
As you camped out there in the cold
A half-dead thing in a stark dead world
Clean mad, for the muck, called gold.

While high overhead green, yellow, and red
The Northern lights swept in bars
Then you’ve a hunch what the music meant
Hunger night, and the stars.

Hunger, not of the belly kind
That’s banished with bacon and beans.
But the gnawing hunger of a lonely man
For a home, and all that it means.

For a fireside far, from the cares that are
Four walls and a roof above
But oh, so cram full of cozy joy
And crowned with a woman’s love.

A woman dearer than all the world
And true as heaven is true
God, how ghastly she looks through her rouge
The Lady, who was known as Lou.

The music almost died away, so soft
That you scarce could hear,
And you felt that your life had been looted
Of all that it once held dear.

That someone had stolen the woman you loved
And her love was a devil’s lie
And your guts were gone and the best for you
Was to crawl away and die.

’Twas the crowning glory of a heart’s dispair
And it thrilled you through and through
I guess I’ll make it a spread Misere
Said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

The music almost died away
Then oft burst like a pent-up flood
And it seemed to say, repay, repay
And your eyes went blind with blood.

And the thought came back like an ancient wrong
And it stung like a frozen lash
And the lust awoke, to kill, to kill,
And the music stopped with a flash.

The stranger turned and his eyes they burned
In a most peculiar way
In a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirt
He sat and I seen him sway.

Then, his lips went in in a kind of grin
And he spoke and his voice was strong
And boys, said he, you don’t know me
And none of you care a Damn.

But I want to state, and my words are straight
And I’ll bet my poke their true
That one of you is a “Hound of Hell”
And that one is Dan McGrew.

Then I ducked my head and the lights went out
And two guns blazed in the dark
Then the lights went up and a woman screamed
And two men lay stiff and stark.

Pitched on his head and pumped full of lead
Lay Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While the man from the creeks, lay crushed to the breast
Of the Lady that was known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case
And I guess I ought to know
They said that the stranger was crazed with hooch
And I’m not denying it’s so.

I’m not so wise as there lawyer guys
But strictly between us two
The woman that kissed him and pinched his poke
Was the Lady, that was known as Lou.

* * * * *

My Little Home-Made Bar

While the wintry wind is blowing, and it’s hailing and it’s snowing;
Folks all wonder how I manage to keep warm.
If they only knew the reason why I always keep in season,
At my door, an endless line would straightway form,
Comes the Summer, hot and torrid, I don’t swear it’s blinkin’ horrid,
It’s a time of joy and comfort, I declare,
For in my lowly cellar is the coziest rathskellar,
That’s my little home-made bar beneath the stair.

Thus I scorn official blighters who’d regenerate booze fighters,
By arresting them and placing them in jail;
Virtue can’t be legislated into man, degenerated,
Ancient rights can’t be usurped—they will prevail,
So I’m happy, hail and hearty and sometimes put on a party
Of my own without a solitary care,
Where I spend such blissful hours, in the fairest of all bowers,
In my little home-made bar beneath the stair.

* * * * *

I Doubt If You Don’t

_When the Whiz Bang first made its debut into the world in 1919, we published the poem, “I Don’t.” Now steps up a contributor and offers an answer to it. Both of them have punch and pep, so we are offering these twin sisters of poetic mirth for your approval herewith.—The Editor._

I Don’t

My mama told me not to smoke—
I Don’t.
Nor listen to a naughty joke—
I Don’t.
They made it clear I must not wink
At handsome men nor even think
About intoxicating drink—
I Don’t.

To dance and flirt is very wrong—
I Don’t.
Wild girls chase men, wine and song—
I Don’t.
I kiss no boys, not even one.
I do not know how it is done.
You wouldn’t think I’d have much fun—
I Don’t.

* * * * *

In Answer to the Above

When a pair of red lips are upturned to your own,
With none to gossip about it;
Do you pray for endurance and—leave them alone;
Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.

When a shy little hand you’re permitted to seize,
With a velvety softness about it;
Do you think you can drop it, with never a squeeze;
Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.

When a tapering waist is in reach of your arm,
With a wonderful plumpness about it;
Do you argue the point ’twixt the good and the harm;
Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.

* * * * *

A Ballad of Forsaken Wives

By Mrs. Henry Mobley.