Chapter I: Part 1

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. III. No. 29, January, 1922

_They’re Going Fast!_

Whiz Bang’s greatest book—The Winter Annual Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22—hot off the press. Orders are now being mailed. There will be no delay as long as the supply lasts. If your news stand’s quota is sold out—

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REMEMBER, FOLK

Last year our Annual (which was only one-fourth as large as the 1921-22 book) was sold out on the Pacific Coast within three or four days, and not a copy could be bought anywhere in the United States within ten days.

So hurry up! First Come will be First Served!

Pin your dollar bill to the coupon and mail to the Whiz Bang Farm; Robbinsdale, Minn.

Don’t write for early back copies of our regular issues.

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_Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang_

_America’s Magazine of
Wit, Humor and
Filosophy_

JANUARY, 1922 Vol. III. No. 29

Published Monthly
W. H. Fawcett, Rural Route No. 2
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota

Entered as second-class matter May, 1, 1920, at the postoffice
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the Act of March 3, 1879.

Price 25 cents $2.50 per year
ONE DOLLAR FOR THE WINTER ANNUAL

Contents of this magazine are copyrighted. Republication of any
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 1922
By W. H. Fawcett

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang employs no solicitors. Subscriptions
may be received only at authorized news stands or by direct
mail to Robbinsdale. We join in no clubbing offers, nor do we
give premiums. Two-fifty a year in advance.

Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated to the
fighting forces of the United States

_Drippings From the Fawcett_

After an extended trip of two months, which led me throughout the North American continent, it was a rare treat to settle down again to routine duties on the Whiz Bang farm. The main street of our own little “Gopher Prairie” looked mighty good to a tired and worn out farmer. ’Twas indeed a pleasure to view the Howard lumber yard, with its red fence and shed, and to grasp the sturdy hand of our village postmaster and storekeeper, Bud Nasett. J. J. McCormick, who is depot agent and telegraph operator, not to mention baggage smasher for genial drummers, greeted me at the station.

“How are you, Bill, you old son-of-a-gun?” or words to this effect, was the whole-hearted way that Mac welcomed back a wayward and prodigal pilgrim.

Arm in arm we walked along Main Street to Gus Urban’s meat market to inquire as to the price of livestock. Mr. Urban, in his usual jovial embonpoint manner, informed us that cows brought five cents a pound, but that bull was priceless. I disagreed with Gus, insisting that my recent journeys in quest of the pedigreed animal had left me “flat broke.”

Directly across the street, neatly encased in imitation granite blocks of concrete, is our only bank, the Security State of Robbinsdale—and it hasn’t gone “bump” for nigh onto four years. In the reorganization which followed the last crash, Joe Roche was selected as cashier and Joe has since successfully piloted this financial bulwark of our happy little village. Joe also manages the Robbinsdale baseball nine. After making a small “touch” at the bank it was home and the farm.

My welcome back was so pleasant that the words of that rural gem—“The Little Old Home Town”—went Whiz-Zing through my jaded mind.

There are fancier towns than our little town;
There are towns that are bigger than this,
And the people who live in a little old town
Don’t know the excitement they miss;
There are things that you see in the wealthier town
That you can’t in a town that’s small,
And yet, up and down, there is no other town
Than your own little town after all.
It may be true that the streets ain’t long,
Nor wide and maybe not straight
But the neighbors you know in your own little town,
All welcome a fellow—it’s great.
In the glittering streets of a glittering town,
With its palace and pavement and thrall;
In the midst of a throng you will frequently long
For your own little town after all.
If you live and you work in your own little town;
In spite of the fact that it’s small,
You’ll find it a fact that your own little town
Is the best little town after all.

* * * * *

Bobby Nelson, our neighbor’s boy, is the worst kid in the world for betting, and the unusual feature of it is he usually wins. Bobby’s father took the matter up with the school marm to see if she couldn’t break him of the gambling habit, promising her a reward if successful.

The other morning when Bobby came to school he wanted to bet teacher she had a wart on her right knee and the school marm, knowing better, and thinking she had an opportunity to win a bet from Bobby and by so doing, discourage his betting habit, accepted Bobby’s challenge. After school that evening teacher proved Bobby was wrong and won the two dollar bet.

She then called on old man Nelson.

“Mr. Nelson, I have broken Bobby of the betting habit. It was a little embarrassing, but this is how it was—Bobby bet me two dollars I had a wart on my right knee and in order to make him lose and cure him of the betting habit I accepted his challenge.”

“Lady! Lady! Why did you do it? Bobby bet me this morning ten dollars that he would see your knee before the day was out.”

* * * * *

In naughty old New York you need cold cash to have a hot time.

* * * * *

The other day I went to an Irish wedding and the people who attended were very ill mannered. Why, I never saw such impolite people. We were all seated around the dinner table and when they brought the turkey in to serve, everybody made a grab for it, but the two legs I got tasted very good.

* * * * *

Out in Idaho it is reported that the natives are making booze in this manner—women chew corn and then “gob” it into a hollowed-out section of a tree trunk. Water is added and the mess allowed to ferment, after which it is imbibed to intoxication. Some drink, we would pause to remark!

* * * * *

A friend of mine told me the other night he slept in a wagon standing in an alley, and when he woke up in the morning he had nothing but a dime in his pocket. He was thirsty and he also needed a shave, so he decided to toss the coin to see whether he would get a shave or a drink. He tossed up the dime, and when it came down he missed it and it rolled near a sewer grating, coming to a standstill just half over the edge of the grating.

“Gee,” he exclaimed, “that was a close shave. I guess I’ll get a drink.”

* * * * *

We asked Gus what he thought of Helen of Troy, but he said that he had stopped running around with those laundry girls.

* * * * *

Our Robbinsdale druggist insists that Minnesota Swedes are the most advanced settlers in this country.

“Formerly we thought the Swedes were crazy for drinking pure alcohol,” he said, “But present day events prove them to have been about twenty years in advance of the rest of us.”

* * * * *

A stranger got off the train at our neighboring town of Coon Creek and went up to the town druggist and asked for whisky.

“We’re only allowed to sell spirits for medicinal purposes,” said the druggist.

“That’s what I want it for,” the stranger insisted, “this town gives me a pain.”

* * * * *

Djever Get Fooled?

_A gay young bird is the Flapper, too,_
_If you aren’t very careful she will surely get you._
_She is pretty and hungry, with a vampire’s thirst,_
_Hot Dog! Near Beer! April First!_

* * * * *

On my way to the Pacific coast last month I traded a Whiz Bang to a kid at the depot in Fresno for a package of raisins which the boy was selling on the depot platform. On the way back I saw the same kid.

“Say, kid, those raisins were punk.”

“So was the book” he replied.

* * * * *

Now, Fellow Soaks, we’ll touch a few high spots in this grand and glorious continent as we ramble about with wry faces in pursuit of the elusive Scotch and Bubbon. San Diego and its fashionable suburb, Coronado, were tough spots for a thirsty Minnesota farmer. Nothing but a concoction commonly called “sympathy” gin to be had by a meek and lowly stranger. But, glory be to Mexico, Tiajuana with its old time western bar-rooms and music halls, is but an hour away.

We spent one grand and glorious afternoon and evening in this unique village. It reminded me of slumming expeditions of a quarter century ago. Visions of Omaha’s famous Arcade at Capitol Avenue and Ninth Street, and of Duluth’s “Minnesota Point” in its palmy days, not to mention the cribs of Dupont Street in Frisco, went flitting through my frappe’d brain.

In one solace of joy we sat at a table for Haig and Haig “service,” said service being delivered by jaded janes who divided their time between waiting on customers and jazz dancing to the tinny tunes of a tin pan orchestra. It was a wild place and a wild night. Later we dined at the Sunset Inn. The inn was flanked by rooms filled with scores of roulette wheels and faro tables. My sporting blood surged hither and thither but to no avail, for the Mexican government had placed a temporary ban on this style of gambling.

Alcatraz Island, that silent citadel that illumines the skyline of Frisco’s bay like a bleak battleship, is the temporary home of about five hundred United States soldiers who have become ensnarled in the tough and tedious red tape of Uncle Sam’s court martial system. Prisons and morgues are two places I abhor, but it fell my lot to visit both in one night in San Francisco.

It happened like this: While entertaining some new found Frisco friends in my room in the St. Francis Hotel, I was pleasantly surprised by the head director of the Jewish Welfare Board, Shea Swartz by name, who requested on behalf of the Board, that my pedigreed bunk be spread on the rocky soil of Alcatraz. The five hundred boys gathered in the barrack auditorium and gave the Whiz Bang a grand and glorious welcome. It was one of the bright lights of a very enjoyable tour of the coast.

Later in the evening, accompanied by George Duffy and G. W. DeLano of the district attorney’s office, we inspected the famous San Francisco morgue. It was a gruesome visit, I’ll admit, but some of the curse was removed by the marvelous furniture and apparatus used in the handling of the unfortunate.

From the morgue we glimpsed a view of the city jail, through the kind offices of Walter C. Schiller, who is bond and warrant clerk in the Hall of Justice.

It was next to Chinatown where we were met by the sergeant in charge of the Chinatown vice squad. Two of his operatives conducted our party through a score or more of Chink gambling and hop joints that had recently been raided. We sincerely thank the squad, but regret not having seen one or two places that had not been raided.

It is the hour of dusk that Chinatown pads to and fro noiselessly. In the little tangle of crooked streets, blue lozenges of lights, sitting gods and queer smells that babble of Oriental talk is incessant at this hour. Women parade in gaudy headdress and beads of jade. The men wear their gaudiest silken robes. There are dried-up men whose faces are old with the age of eastern lore, young women who walk with mincing steps and Oriental grace, cherry-cheeked babies tottering uncertainly.

We passed up Honolulu until later in the year and made a transcontinental jump to New York to try and “Get Gertie’s Garter.” Don’t believe I’ll ever be contented “down on the farm” after all the wonderful people and wonderful sights of the past two months. But here goes for Lil’ Ol’ New Yawk, as seen through the eyes of a farmer.

_Blistering Broadway_

In the old days we used to hear startling tales of the decadence of the Paris theatre. It is no longer necessary to cross the pond to have one’s aesthetic (?) senses stirred. The New York stage will do it for you this season. Right behind the Broadway footlights you can see everything done in the name of Art from witnessing a young lady actually climb in a bed already occupied by a male to observing a squad of girls play strip poker until—

But let us go back to the beginning. They say that it is a dull season in New York and that no one is spending money—at least for theatre tickets. Hence the frantic effort to whet the jaded appetites of the elusive theatre-goers.

Let us list some of the more sprightly attractions. Bear in mind that some of them have excellent qualities. There is, for instance, Somerset Maugham’s “The Circle,” telling of an old couple who have broken all the conventions and of a younger couple about to follow in their footsteps. It is told with lively cleverness. No, indeed, the young people do not find a moral in the experiences of their elders. At the end they dash away to investigate the illicit love-in-a-cottage stuff themselves and Mr. Maugham points out that in life it doesn’t matter “what you do as much as what you are.” And also that “you can do anything in this world if you’re prepared to take the consequences and consequences depend on character.” All of which is excellent mental food for the 1921 flapper.

Then there is Cosmo Hamilton’s “The Silver Fox,” a little epic of a philandering wife with a penchant for young men and abbreviated socks. Clever, too, but decadent.

Also we might note “Ambush,” the opus of a young woman who likes pretty things and who is aided and abetted by her mother. Papa is a poor commuter who wakes up when daughter introduces a flip and married gentleman friend. When he protests, daughter slaps his face and snaps “Damn you!” Still, there is some excuse for “Ambush.” At least it is well written.

Here we turn to the plain every day efforts to be insolently sensational at any price.

“Getting Gertie’s Garter” (note the chaste title), was one of the earliest of the sexly stimulants. But garters have lost their vogue and, anyway, the short skirts have ruined their novelty. So the piece did not seriously upset New York.

Then there’s “Lilies of the Field,” for instance, a demi-mondaine treatise anent certain lilies who “toil not neither do they spin,” or however it was that the Good Book let down the gold diggers of the old days. This is especially recommended for the eighteen-year-old flapper.

With which we arrive at the real blush producers of the year. Consider “Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife.” Here a young woman, newly married, invites her old sweetheart to her boudoir at midnight, gets him squiffy and persuades him to undress and climb into bed. And undress he does, right down to his B. V. D.’s in front of the footlights, the appreciative heroine and the audience. Said heroine then clambers in—and friend husband appears. Yes, it’s all to teach hubby a lesson (one must make some concession to the police) and the B. V. D. person gets the air.

Broadway had been busily getting out its shekels to see Bluebeard and the B. V. D. youth when along came Avery Hopwood’s “The Demi-Virgin.” Now, Mr. Hopwood’s demi-virgin is not the demi-vierge of the French, from whom the noun comes. Since this is a family paper, we will explain demi-vierge as a young and ambitious lady who is broadminded up to a certain point. Mr. Hopwood’s heroine, however, is a movie queen who deserts her husband, another movie idol, on their wedding night. Although the husband finally succeeds in capturing his demi-wife in her boudoir and thereupon starts out to—well—anyway the real incident of the piece is the aforementioned strip poker party, where a half dozen film fillies discard garment after garment in a game designed to be thrilling. It isn’t a mere strip poker party but a “strip cupid” affair, the first to arrive at the cupid state to be the winner—or loser. The game progresses until it is a mere matter of a card’s turn who is to be cupid when, of course, the thing is ended.

This, then, is the state of the New York stage at this moment. Meanwhile, film fans see life on the screen through the eyes of little Rollo while, just around the corner, six young women are in the act of taking off their pink envelope thing-ums while an appreciative audience applauds. Not, of course, that we’re for censorship anywhere. But the New York stage producer seems to be able to get away with anything.

It is making it awfully hard for the musical comedy producer. Years ago he reached a certain limit in bare revelations and now the drama comes along and wins away the tired business man. Of course, the musical comedy maker isn’t giving up without a fight. Now and then he has an inspiration, as when, in the new Greenwich Village Follies, he reveals a lady to personify Art dressed exclusively in three golden leaves, each placed with fine discernment and discretion.

The next step on the New York stage will probably come when the musical comedy producer raises—or lowers—his limit. Despite our youth, we can recall—vividly—when he made the step from tights and stockings to bare legs, the only thing left is for him to ape the Parisian producer and have costumes stop their upward trend at the waist. We shall see, we shall see!

* * * * *

Hibrow Column

Speaking about high-brow poetry, we have from the Saturday Evening Post (page 26, October 15th), real classy lyrics on how to eat or drink something. The poem isn’t quite clear as to whether Mr. Bloodgood was eating a rotten apple or merely taking a shot of moonshine, but anyway, it’s high-brow stuff—

_I love the loathsome!_
_Delicious half-ripe rottenness._
_I dream deliciously_
_As it slips_
_So soothfully_
_Down my grateful_
_Amorous throat._

* * * * *

Pathfinder Pulls This

The prisoner threw the magazines across his cell in disgust and swore eloquently. “Nothin’ but continued stories,” he raged, “an’ I’m to be hanged next Tuesday.”

* * * * *

Reversed English

Three southern gents of color were engaged in an argument.

First Darkey—“My wife is some cook!”

Second Darkey—“My wife is not much of a cook, but she is some wash-woman.”

Third Darkey—“My wife is not much of a wash-woman and no cook, but she shuh can kiss!”

First Darkey—“She can, she can!”

Third Darkey—“Wat’s dat?”

First Darkey—“Can she? Can she?”

* * * * *

“That helps a good deal,” remarked the poker player as he drew the fourth ace.

* * * * *

Watch ’em Run

Sportsman (to friend at track meet)—“So you like to watch the runners, old man?”

Sport—“Yes, I surely do. That plump girl over there has two in one stocking.”

* * * * *

Stop That, Horace!

“What’s all that growling I hear?”

“Oh, that’s the ‘Hot Dog’ I just ate.”

* * * * *

Courtroom Pot Pourri

They just caught Roy Gardner!

Where was he standing?

On Hightower watching Fatty Arbuckle before he visited Richmond, Virginia.

* * * * *

Towser Likes His Morsel

The man getting his hair cut noticed that the barber’s dog, which was lying on the floor beside the chair, had his eyes fixed on his master at work. “Nice dog that,” said the customer.

“He is, sir.”

“He seems very fond of watching you cut hair.”

“It ain’t that, sir,” explained the barber. “You see, sometimes I make a mistake and snip off a little bit of a customer’s ear.”

* * * * *

A Tit-Bit

It was washing day and John had been kept from school to look after the baby. Mother sent him into the garden to play, but it was not long before cries disturbed her. “John, what is the matter with baby now?” she inquired from her wash-tub.

“I don’t know what to do with him, mother,” replied John. “He’s dug a hole and wants to bring it into the house.”

* * * * *

Misplaced Vertebra

Here’s a good story on a Minneapolis chiropractor. He started his treatment on the new patient by rubbing his back. Then he turned the patient over and applied the treatment in front. The patient stood the tickling as long as he could, then with a look of content in his eyes he sez, “Kiss me, Doc.”

* * * * *

Charlie’s Delicate Habits

A nice young man called on a nice young lady and spent the evening recently. When he arrived there was not a cloud in the sky, so he carried no umbrella and wore no goloshes nor mackintosh. At 10:00 o’clock when he arose to go, it was raining pitchforks and grindstones.

“My, my, my!” said the nice young lady, “if you go out in this storm you will catch your death of cold.”

“I’m afraid I might,” was the trembling answer.

“Well, I’ll tell you what—stay all night; you can have Tom’s room, as he is visiting uncle and aunt up in the country. Yes, occupy Tom’s room. Excuse me a minute, and I’ll just run up and see if it’s in order.”

The young lady fled gracefully upstairs to see if any tidying was necessary. In five minutes she came down to announce that the room was in readiness, but no Charles was in sight. In a very few minutes, however, he appeared, dripping wet and out of breath from running and with a bundle in a newspaper under his arm.

The nice young lady greeted him with: “Why, Charles, where have you been?”

“Been home after my night shirt,” was his reply, as he hung his hat up to drip.

* * * * *

That train smokes a lot.

Yes, and choos, too.

_Questions and Answers_

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is the Goozes Pimple Glide dance?—=_Washer Iggle_=.

This is done in the following manner: While stepping on the ballroom floor with your partner keep time with the music by stroking her bare arm with the front and back (alternately) of your hand.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is meant by “A man ahead of the time?”—=_V. Havan Oisteh._=

The fellow who carries his watch in his hip pocket.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—While crossing from Key West to Havana on one of the gin rickey boats I noticed a streak of oil on the water. Could you tell me what that was from?—=_S. Lopp Boal._=

Oh, that’s where the road went across the ice last winter.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain_=—We are going to give a cleaning-shower for a bride-to-be. Can you suggest an appropriate gift?—=_Mid Riff._=

A bath mitt.

* * * * *

=_Dear Cap’n_=—I am giving a home-brew party to some jolly boys and girls. What is the proper hour to have the musicians play “Home Sweet Home?”—=_Roll Myowne._=

Just before half pash stew.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain_=—I am alone a great deal at night and am afraid. Can you suggest some kind of protection?—=_Belle R. Peeling._=

Take the bark of a dogwood tree and leave it outside your bedroom door.

* * * * *

=_Dear Cap._=—Can you suggest some inexpensive amusement that I might indulge in when my husband is away?—=_Dottie._=

Take a bath and then spend half an hour or so playfully trying to locate the soap.

* * * * *

=_Dear Cap’n Billy_=—I have just purchased several new gowns and no one seems to notice them. What can I do?—=_Ophelia Bumpus._=

Try standing on a street corner with a tin cup in your hand and wear a sign “I am dumb.”

* * * * *

=_Dear Cap. Billy_=—How can I cure my husband’s hiccups?—=_Ada Banana._=

Don’t try. It is a mark of distinction.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain_=—When my husband takes me to a dance he prefers to jazz with all the girls except me. What can I do?—=_Gladys Swetz._=

Make him wear shoulder braces.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—In all your travels, where did you receive the most hospitality?—=_Al Hambra._=

It was when in California. A gentleman called me into his room, handed me a goblet in one hand and a demijohn in the other and turned his back.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—My dearest boy friend jilted me and now refuses to marry me. Please give me your best dope.—=_Sally Patica._=

Dear Sally—Always hate him and bring your children up the same way.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I am fondly in love with a young girl in our town, but also have strong sympathies for a dashing grass widow of thirty. My age, too, is thirty, and I would like your advice as to whom I should consider seriously.—=_Gloomy Gus._=

Always deal with an old established firm, young man.

* * * * *

A Story With Teeth In It

Pat and Mike hesitated at the gate of the home they intended to rob, because of a barking dog.

“Go head, Mike,” said Pat, “You know a barking dog never bites.”

“Maybe so,” replied Mike, “you know that and I know it, but the dang dog doesn’t know it.”

* * * * *

Dusky Diana’s Devotion

Pounding on the door of the attractive mulatto girl, the soldier bid fair to rouse the entire neighborhood, till a head was thrust out of an upstairs window and a voice cautiously asked:

“Hush up dar, yo’ soldier! What yo’ want?”

“Wanta come in,” hiccupped the warrior, who had evidently left the shrine of Bacchus to worship at that of Venus.

“H’m! Does yo’ b’long to de United States Marines?”

“Nope; but wanta come in.”

“Does yo’ b’long to de Third Massachusetts?”

“Nope.”

“To the Second Noo Hampshires?”

“Nope.”

“To the Fourf Noo York?”

“Nope; but wanta come in, all the same.”

“Well, yo’ can just go away fum dar, yo’ triflin soldier; I’se a very partickler woman, I is.”

* * * * *

Oh, Mother, Lookit Daughter!

S ... is for the shortness of their length,
K ... is for the knees which we see,
I ... is for inches, 20 above ground,
R ... is for regions dear to me.
T ... is for thin, transparent,
S ... is for the shapes we see,

Oh! may short skirts live on forever,
In this sweet land of liberty.

* * * * *

Press Agent Stuff

The selection of the Cast for “Why Change Your Beeveedees?” the snappy cinema spectacle which the management of the Snore-On Theatre has been persuaded to show commencing today, was a task calling forth all the brains of that superior author-scenarist-director-producer, Whatin L. Isit. The difficulty lay in getting a star acceptable alike to the garment workers, buttonhole makers, laundry operators and health authorities.

M. T. Dome, who plays the leading male role in Wanta Daddy’s latest paramour picture, “The Questionable Residence,” adapted from Gimm E. Vice’s play by Seena Lott, is the newest addition to Hollywood’s film colony. Dome came all the way from New York to California just to play the part of Powerful Percy the Panderer’s Pal in the picture. He was last seen on the screen as Glorious Love’s leading man in “The Passionate Plumber.”

* * * * *

Indignation Personified

Brother Toole of the Kablegram writes: “I had all kinds of trouble at the Blank Hotel last night. It was the first time I ever stopped there. When I returned from the theatre, I found that the clerk had put two women in my room. I went downstairs and raised all kinds of trouble about it. I couldn’t do a thing with the manager at first—but finally he put one of the women out.”

* * * * *

The Guy Who Kin Sling It

By Walter Wolf

Some fellers er allus a spoutin’
Bout the coin they used to make.
Like the girl thets allus a shoutin,
Bout the good pies she kin bake.
Now the feller thets allus made the dough
Should git credit fer Mary’s pies,
But how do it come, I’d like t’ know—
That this feller gits by with so many lies.
The guy he meets Mary an he shoots his bazoo,
Then suddenly ther married and I’ll leave it to you—
If the guy who kin sling it aint the guy thet gits by—
An allus gits the best uv the girls home-made pies.

* * * * *

In Deah Old Hingland

Rough-neck Western Yankee—Watcher principal trees here in England?

English Cockney—Hoak, helm and hash.

* * * * *

The Last Waltz

They had met at a dance, he and she. He had wooed and won her while dancing to jazz harmony, that’s why they were all “jazzed” up now. She got to shaking her shoulders, so he “shook” her for good and got a divorce. Now they’re apart and do their dancing with different partners. She gets stepped on and he steps on others. Some day when “Home Sweet Home” is played they will wander home together again and call it “The Last Waltz.”

* * * * *

“My wife,” said the henpecked one, “is a woman of few words—but she uses them over and over again.”

* * * * *

Whizzical Whams

By Whursmuhwhiski.

I stopped in a Music Store the other day, and while looking around, I saw a stack of sheet music called “Toyland Sketches.” The first one I noticed was called “The Arrival of the Teddy Bears.” Needless to say, I didn’t look any further.

* * * * *

Roses are red, violets are blue,
My roll is dwindling, since I met you.

* * * * *

Would “When Mother Plays a Rag On the Sewing Machine,” necessarily be a sister song to “When Father Plays a Chord On the Wood-pile?”

* * * * *

Hymn 999

Tenant (to janitor)—What was all that cursing and swearing going on Sunday morning?

Janitor—Oh, that was Mrs. McFadden. She was going to church and she couldn’t find her prayer book.

* * * * *

Our Old Friend Sal

How did Sal treat you?

Sal who?

Sal Hepatica.

Oh, she worked me to a frazzle.

* * * * *

“Oh, Ralph, I haven’t a thing to wear.”

“’S’all right. I’ve a Sedan.”

* * * * *

It Cannot Vas

Ikey—Papa I’m in lof. Ain’t it a fine feelings?

Papa—Dat’s nice, Ikey; who is de goil?

Ikey—Ah papa, she’s a peaches and cream. She’s good looking, she’s a good housekeeper, her papa’s got lots of money and—

Papa—Vat’s her name, Ikey?

Ikey—Alma Rosenbloom, ain’t she a daisy?

Papa—You mean de clothing man’s daughtair?

Ikey—Dat’s de goil, papa. How do you like it?

Papa—Ikey, I’m very sorry but it cannot vas.

Ikey—It cannot vas, papa, for why?

Papa—You see, Ikey, ven I vas a young man I was married before and Alma Rosenbloom iss your sistair.

After a lapse of time Ikey comes in again, all smiles and joyfully greets his father with the announcement—

Papa, I’m in lof again.

Papa (anxiously)—Who iss de goil dis time?

Ikey—Ah she’s a fine buxoms, she’s a good musician, she can cook, she’s good looking, her papa’s got lots of money, and—

Papa—Ikey, tell your papa, who is de goil?

Ikey—It’s Rosa Lipshuts.

Papa—You mean de pawnbroker’s daughtair?

Ikey—Dat’s de baby, ain’t she a fine catches?

Papa (shaking his head in the negative)—Ikey, I’m very sorry but it cannot vas.

Ikey—It cannot vas, papa, for why it cannot vas?

Papa—You see, Ikey, ven I vas a young man I vas married twice and Rosa Lipshuts iss your sistair also.

At this Ikey could no longer contain himself and gave vent to his feelings in an outburst of boo-hooing. To hide his disappointment he sought refuge in his room where his mother, attracted by his sobs, came to console him.

Mama—Ikey, for vhy are you crying?

Ikey—Oh, mama it’s too terrible, it’s too terrible.

Mama—Tell your mama, Ikey, for vhy do you cry?

Ikey did.

Mama (patting her boy on the head)—Dat’s all right, Ikey. You go an marry de goil. She’s a good goil, she’s got lots of money, and—

Ikey (between sobs)—But, mama, it cannot vas.

Mama—Yes, it can vas, Ikey. You see ven a young goil I vas married before also and your papa is not your fathair.

* * * * *

The Latest Movie Title

_THE BATTLE OF GARTER RUN._

* * * * *

Her Sprinkling System

The architect was standing before one of his newly completed creations. Its mistress, plentifully sprinkled with diamonds at eleven in the morning, turned to him and said:

“It’s grand, and I’ve just decided not to employ a landscape gardener. I know just what I want myself. Banked up right against the porch there I want a real thick border—now what is that name? You know; those bright red flowers that look so dressy—yes; now I have it—saliva.”

The architect was staggered for a moment, but soon recovered and came back enthusiastically.

“The very thing,” he agreed. “And right in front a nice row of spitunians.”

* * * * *

Dark—Going to the dance tonight, Sam?

Darker—Naw, I ain’t got any razor.

* * * * *

William Tell O’Toole

Clancy chuckled.

“What’s the joke?” asked Mooney.

“Sure,” replied Clancy, “Casey bet me ten dollars he could shoot a peanut off my head with a shot gun and oi took him up because oi knew he’d miss it.”

* * * * *

He wouldn’t supporter, so she stole his suspenders.

_Hollywood Flirtations_

Little Shannon Day, a Ziegfeld Folly girl, is out west playing in a Lasky picture. Monte Katterjohn, Lasky scenario writer has been seen with Miss Shannon very frequently during the past two years, both in New York and in Hollywood. He went so far as to take her to a formal Authors League Dinner last year and the speeches and the minutes of the meeting and the pleas for unpaid dues were such a tax on Shannon’s mind that she was caught dropping off to sleep many times before the tiresome evening was over. “I can’t see nothing to authors” quotes Shannon as she smoothes a new dress which Mamma Dolly of the famous Dolly Sisters team made for her just before she left New York.

* * * * *

While Geraldine Farrar stayed in Southern California last month, fulfilling her concert engagements she kept herself much secluded in her bungalow at the Hotel Maryland in Pasadena. Her parents were with her. Many of her former friends in the film colony attempted to see her in vain and it is surmised that Miss Farrar wished to keep to herself until the matter of her pending divorce from Lou Tellegen has either been granted or repatched.

* * * * *

The weekly calendar of a well known church in Los Angeles printed the following questions soon after the Arbuckle affair spread itself forth in the newspapers:

“What would you do if you were in Mr. Arbuckle’s predicament?”

“Is this a day of judgment for the movies?”

“Was Miss Virginia Rappe of aristocratic blood?”

“How much do we know of Henry Lehrman, the lover of Miss Rappe?”

* * * * *

Another wedding in the Pickford family is predicted. It is whispered that Lottie Pickford is soon to marry Alan Forrest, popular and handsome young leading man of the films. Lottie Pickford was formerly Mrs. Rupp, wife of a Los Angeles broker, whom she divorced about two years ago.

* * * * *

She Had Mud On Her Shoes

He (driving up to the curb)—Hello, little girl, wanta go for a ride?

Sweet Thing—Nothing doing, I’m walking home from one now.

* * * * *

She—“I wish God had made me a boy.”

He—“He did. I’m he.”

* * * * *

Old Stuff

A stranger, walking along the road, passed an old darkey. He began talking with him and found out that he had known George Washington.

“I suppose you remember when Washington crossed the Delaware?” he asked.

“’Deed, boss, I steered dat boat,” was the reply.

“And do you remember when he took a hack at that cherry tree?”

“’Deed I do,” the darkey replied, “’case I drove that hack myself.”

* * * * *

Rastus Johnsing Says

Ah’s so tough ah scratches de enamel off de tub when ah takes a bafth.

* * * * *

Sing It In High Tenor

“Darling, put your arms around me,
Oh, for heaven’s sake!
Ain’t you awfully glad you found me?
Oh, for heaven’s sake!
Am I not your little beauty?
Are you not my little cutie?
Kiss me, kiss me, Sweet Patootie,
Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

* * * * *

Thousands of lonely women are staring at faded photographs when they might be kissing the faces of children.

_Whiz Bang Editorials_

“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet._”

Jazz life seems to agree with Americans. We not only live faster than our great- grandparents, but, on the average, we also live eight years longer. So says the Census Bureau.

Some day the centenarian will be the rule, not the exception. That will come as a result of health education, not from eating monkey glands.

A popular song had this refrain: “He may be old, but he’s got young ideas.” That appealed to popular fancy because it caught the subconscious mind, which probably knew what the census now reports:

That marriages of persons beyond fifty years of age are steadily increasing in numbers, already being frequent. Out of 100 American men and women, 80 are married before they reach 45, while 10 take the leap afterward and 10 remain single.

Divorces among those who have passed 45 are also becoming more common. This, however, is not making us a cynical people, for the census finds that the majority of divorced people try marriage at least a second time, many making three or four ventures.

Figures—which never lie, though liars often figure—show that the span of life is lengthening during the Jazz Age.

The strain at times gets on our nerves. Frequently one of the contestants howls and goes to pieces. But, on the average, the real effects of the Jazz Age will not show up until our descendants of one hundred years or more hence.

* * * * *

They Named the Soap After Him

_In Dr. W. A. Evans’ column in the Minneapolis Journal, “A. G.
M.” writes, under the heading of the Artistic Sex_:

“I have a son, seventeen years old, who is and has been for
ten years, obsessed with a strange desire. He wants and feels
that he ought to be a girl. Ever since he was seven years old,
and probably before, although I had never noticed it, he has
thought of himself as a girl, acted like one, desired to be
regarded as a girl, and has, whenever he could worn girls’
clothing.

“His mother and I had a terrific struggle to allow his hair to
be cut like a boys’, when he was six or seven years old. He
withstood us until he was nearly ten, when, for the sake of
peace, he consented to have it bobbed. Up to that time he had
worn it in a great mass of curls, away down over his shoulders,
regardless of the ridicule of his playmates. He wore his hair
bobbed until two years ago, when he finally had it cut after a
fashion similar to other boys. This is just one incident, but
it may serve to show you something of his frame of mind.

“He attended a gymnasium class until he was fourteen, and he
invariably wore bloomers and a bow of ribbon in his hair.

“In fact, he is far more at home in girls’ clothing than he is
in boys’, for he has always insisted on wearing dresses and
gowns when in the house. His bedroom is a real girl’s boudoir,
with dressing table, powder puff, etc. He has as few boys’
clothes as he can get along with for going out. Playing with
dolls was his favorite amusement until he was about thirteen.
He is about five feet eleven and one-half inches tall, good
looking and possessed of a remarkably good mind. He never has
given any signs of mental deficiency, unless you term what I
have above described as mental deficiency, or rather insanity.
I would be grateful if you would tell me your opinion.”

_(Dr. Evans’ answer): This is a case of third or intermediate
sexism. You will find a fair amount of literature on the
subject. Such subjects are not in any sense feeble-minded. In
fact, many of them are exceptionally bright. As a rule the
stage, music or painting offers the best fields for men and
women of this group._

Wonder what our friends of the theatre think of Dr. Evans’ advice? Probably they would feel the same way as the Army officials felt towards certain chiefs of police who paroled the bums and the crooks on condition they join the Army.

* * * * *

Blank Verse

Never get too intimate
With your friends,
They may some day
Be your enemies;
Never be too hard
On your enemies,
They may some day
Be your friends.

_Smokehouse Poetry_

_Dear folk: We have some dandy stuff in store for you. Among the masters who are writing for Whiz Bang the coming year are J. Eugene Chrisman, author of “Poppies, Hell,” with his “Chi Slim,” “Keyhole Stuff” and others; H. A. D’Arcy, author of “The Face Upon the Floor” with his “Trapper’s Story,” “Charlie Wong” and others; Frank B. Lindeman, the prospector-poet with his ode “To a Mountain Rat” and others; and last but not least, some almost forgotten masterpieces of James Whitcomb Riley, whose “Passing of the Old Smokehouse,” was one of the many hits of our Winter Annual, Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22._

* * * * *

The Blanket Stiff

By Gifford and Whitney.

The Western trail is a gittin’ dim;
The Sage-brush seems unreal;
My insides’re weak and gittin’ slim.
Sure wished I had a meal.

My feet are growin’ weary;
My head is hangin’ low;
My eyes are a lookin’ teary.
Gawd! But it’s hard to go.

There’s two thousand ties to a mile,
And fifty more miles to go.
I’ve counted those ties with a smile,
Keeps time from a goin’ so slow.

Now—they seem a mile apart.
I can’t help feelin’ cold.
Got an achin’ down around my heart
I guess—I’m a gettin’—old.

Know what the gangs a doin’ now,
Way down in Elephant Slough.
They’re sittin’ around a can o’ chow
Helpin’ themselves tuh stew.

I kid myself, I ain’t et fer a week,
But I know it’s dang sight more.
My throat is dry—my insides squeak—
I’m hungry—clean to th’ core.

I ain’t th’ kind that’ll stoop to yell,
When bad luck comes my way.
I’ve lived and sinned. I’m bound for Hell.
But—guess—I’ll kneel and pray.

The Bo got down on rough worn ties;
Lifted his head in prayer,
And knelt there pleading to the skies—
A whistle sounded through the air.

The Hobo heard and tried to rise,
Saw the train comin’ fast.
His muscles failed—and from the ties,
He welcomed this—the last.

It’s only a blanket—stiff ye hit,
Sent another bum to Hell.
Had I better report on it?
I guess I might as well.

No, Con, don’t make out no report.
Let’s plant him by the steel.
The Bum’s bound for an unknown port,
And tracks will make it real.

The Western trail is a gittin’ black.
It’s time we moved along.
They buried him beside the track—
The hot western wind for the psalm.

The Bo woke up in a nice white gown;
Clean, just like he’d had a bath.
Instead of the ties that held him down
He followed a golden path.

* * * * *

The Girl From Over “There”

By Budd L. McKillips

A pistol shot, a darting pain
Like red-hot needles through her brain,
And ere the smoke cleared from the room
Another soul groped through the gloom.

With fleeting glance the policemen came
Looked through her purse, took down her name;
Reporters never wondered why
Or reasoned how she came to die.

In silent morgue, somber and drab—
With folded hands, on sheeted slab—
No mourners crowded ’round her bier
To say a prayer or shed a tear.

Yet scarce a week before and she
Had smiled and looked on life with glee
Dreamed dreams of everlasting bliss
And reveled in her lover’s kiss.

His mistress? yes but oft he’d said
He loved her madly, soon they’d wed;
Love-blind she hung on every word
While ugly rumors went unheard.

Then came the day which like a thief
Stole joy and filled her heart with grief;
Cursed by the man she called her own,
She woke to find her dreams had flown.

Tired of his toy he now defamed
And thrust her from him, unashamed,
To find refuge among her kind;
Then went to meet his latest find.

Black as the night from pole to pole
The world seemed to her aching soul;
With heart bowed down and racked with pain
She sent a bullet through her brain.

In restaurant where bright lights shine
A man laughs loud, made gay with wine
He beams on one with youth abloom—
The fairest creature in the room.

The violins wail and cymbals clash,
The dancers whirl and diamonds flash;
His heart is light and free of care
As tambos beat and trombones blare.

Forgotten is the long ago,
The whispered love-words, soft and low
Each word a lie, each kiss a snare
For her long since passed over “there.”

Unnoticed by the merry crowd
A figure enters clad in shroud,
Her ghastly face a lurid glow—
The dead girl’s face of long ago.

The music stops, unseen she flits
To where a laughing couple sits
A choking shriek, a gasp for breath—
A man lies still and stark in death.

A hush falls o’er the crowded room
There comes a breath as from a tomb—
The eyes now set in glassy stare
Had seen the face from over “there.”

* * * * *

The Ballad of Yukon Jake

By Edward E. Paramore, Jr.

_As originally published in Vanity Fair._

Oh the North Countree is a hard countree
That mothers a bloody brood;
And its icy arms hold hidden charms
For the greedy, the sinful and lewd.
And strong men rust, from the gold and the lust
That sears the Northland soul,
But the wickedest born, from the Pole to the Horn,
Is the Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal.

Now Jacob Kaime was the Hermit’s name,
In the days of his pious youth,
Ere he cast a smirch on the Baptist church
By betraying a girl named Ruth.
But now men quake at “Yukon Jake,”
The Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal,
For that is the name that Jacob Kaime
Is known by from Nome to the Pole.
He was just a boy and the parson’s joy

(Ere he fell for the gold and the muck),
And had learned to pray, with the hogs and the hay
On a farm near Keokuk.
But a Service tale of illicit kale—
And whiskey and women wild—
Drained the morals clean as a soup-tureen
From this poor but honest child.
He longed for the bite of a Yukon night
And the Northern Light’s weird flicker,
Or a game of stud in the frozen mud,
And the taste of raw red licker.
He wanted to mush along in the slush,
With a team of huskie hounds,
And to fire his gat at a beaver hat
And knock it out of bounds.

So he left his home for the hell-town Nome,
On Alaska’s ice-ribbed shores,
And he learned to curse and to drink, and worse—
Till the rum dripped from his pores,
When the boys on a spree were drinking it free
In a Malamute saloon
And Dan Megrew and his dangerous crew
Shot craps with the piebald coon;
When the Kid on his stool banged away like a fool
At a jag-time melody
And the barkeep vowed, to the hardboiled crowd,
That he’d cree-mate Sam McGee—

Then Jacob Kaime, who had taken the name
Of Yukon Jake, the Killer,
Would rake the dive with his forty-five
Till the atmosphere grew chiller.
With a sharp command he’d make ’em stand
And deliver their hard-earned dust,
Then drink the bar dry, of rum and rye,
As a Klondike bully must.
Without coming to blows he would tweak the nose
Of Dangerous Dan Megrew,
And becoming bolder, throw over his shoulder
The lady that’s known as Lou.
Oh, tough as a steak was Yukon Jake—
Hard-boiled as a picnic egg.
He washed his shirt in the Klondike dirt,
And drank his rum by the keg.
In fear of their lives (or because of their wives)
He was shunned by the best of his pals
An outcast he, from the comraderie
Of all but wild animals.
So he bought him the whole of Shark Tooth Shoal,
A reef in the Bering Sea,
And he lived by himself on a sea lion’s shelf
In lonely iniquity.

But, miles away, in Keokuk, Ia.,
Did a ruined maiden fight
To remove the smirch from the Baptist Church
By bringing the heathen Light.
And the Elders declared that all would be squared
If she carried the holy words
From her Keokuk Home to the hell-town Nome
To save those sinful birds.
So, two weeks later, she took a freighter,
For the gold-cursed land near the Pole,
But Heaven ain’t made for a lass that’s betrayed—
She was wrecked on Shark Tooth Shoal!

All hands were tossed in the Sea, and lost—
All but the maiden Ruth,
Who swam to the edge of the sea lion’s ledge
Where abode the love of her youth.
He was hunting a seal for his evening meal
(He handled a mean harpoon)
When he saw at his feet, not something to eat,
But a girl in a frozen swoon,
Whom he dragged to his lair by her dripping hair,
And he rubbed her knees with gin.
To his great surprise, she opened her eyes
And revealed—his Original Sin!

His eight-months’ beard grew stiff and weird
And it felt like a chestnut burr,
And he swore by his gizzard—and the Arctic blizzard,
That he’d do right by her.
But the cold sweat froze on the end of her nose
Till it gleamed like a Teckla pearl,
While her bright hair fell, like a flame from hell,
Down the back of the grateful girl.
But a hopeless rake was Yukon Jake
The Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal!
And the dizzy maid he rebetrayed
And wrecked her immortal soul!
Then he rowed her ashore with a broken oar,
And he sold her to Dan Megrew
For a huskie dog and some hot egg-nog—
As rascals are wont to do.
Now ruthless Ruth is a maid uncouth
With scarlet cheeks and lips,
And she sings rough songs to the drunken throngs
That come from the sealing ships.
For a rouge-stained kiss from this infamous miss
They will give a seal’s sleek fur,
Or perhaps a sable, if they are able;
It’s much the same to her.

Oh, the North Countree is a rough countree,
That mothers a bloody brood;
And its icy arms hold hidden charms
For the greedy, the sinful and lewd.
And strong men rust, from the gold and the lust
That sears the Northland soul,
But the wickedest born from the Pole to the Horn
Was the Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal!

* * * * *

God Bless the “Y.”

A mud-spattered dough-boy slouched into the ‘Y’ hut where an entertainment was in progress and slumped into a front seat.

Firm, kindly, and efficient, a Y. M. C. A. man approached him, saying: “Sorry, buddy, but the entire front section is reserved for officers.”

Wearily the youth rose.

“All right,” he drawled, “but the one I just got back from wasn’t.”

* * * * *

A Test For You