Title: Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 3, No. 30, February, 1922
Author: Various
Editor: W. H. Fawcett
Release date: June 18, 2020 [eBook #62422]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
Whiz Bang’s greatest book—The Winter 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—
PIN A DOLLAR BILL
Or your check, money order or stamps
To the coupon on the back page.
And receive our 256-page bound volume of jokes, jests, jingles, stories, pot pourri, mail bag and Smokehouse poetry. The best collection ever put in print.
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.
We haven’t any left.
Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang
America’s Magazine of
Wit, Humor and
Filosophy
FEBRUARY, 1922 Vol. III. No. 30
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
Gentle readers, wet your lips, for whilst with dry tongues thou art yearning, your obedient servant, Bilious Billy, is in the land of liberty—personal and otherwise—basking in Cuba’s sunny clime, in Havana, sucking soda through a straw! Soda! Sure, soda with a dash in it. When we grow tired of fast horses and saintly senoritas, it will be back again to the big pines of northern Minnesota for the fishing season at Breezy Point Lodge. You know, folk, in the winter we Minnesotans can’t fish, as our Norwegian friends would say.
Well, boys and girls, here I am on the road again—just like a wandering Jew. In making my present departure from Robbinsdale, I didn’t know whether I was coming to Montreal or going to Cuba.
The high cost of coal in Robbinsdale made me long for summer at Miami Beach, where there is no charge for hot rolls in the sand and a little chicken nearby. Then again I was reminded of having seen Willie and Mollie playing in the sand, indulging in youthful folly. The sand was terribly hot on Willie’s back and the sun was hot tamale.
Woke up in Chicago with an ice-pack attached to my fevered brow, and appreciating that the United States is the land of personal[4] liberty I hied forth towards Miami to see if I might not be able to obtain a “wee snifter.” Miami is now the legal home of William Jennings Bryan and I did not have much luck in satisfying an unquenchable thirst. Anyway, if I did, it wouldn’t be nice to tell about. Mr. Bryan may have something to do with keeping Miami and the State of Florida bone-dry—which it isn’t—so more power to him. Florida may be dry, but in the unmortal words of our snuff-chewing hired man, I am pleased to report that there are a lot of “damp rascals” here.
Understand the Floridians are seriously considering Bryan for United States Senator. Had the pleasure today of driving through the backyard of the Commoner’s palatial home, but all I could see was the rear door and his smokehouse. Mr. Bryan was too busy addressing a Baptist convention to even invite me to lunch. Tomorrow he is slated for a Bible talk in the city park and if I get up in time, and feel all right, shall listen to his discourse. (Later, didn’t get up in time.)
After leaving Chicago I stopped at Atlanta for a few days’ sojourn. Here we struck nice warm sunshine. The Atlanta ladies are a genial lot, but their costuming somewhat crashes with the constitutional scheme of affairs as laid down by the eighteenth amendment. Their hats are full of[5] cocktails—and sometimes also their heads, I am told. In fact, a bird of paradise plume is quite in vogue in Atlanta.
The information is also vouchsafed that some Atlanta girls are born foolish, while others marry.
Overheard a rather humorous remark of a local celebrity, Clayt Robson by name, one evening in the lobby of the Kimball house. Robson is a well-known Georgian lobbyist and political boss, who is considered a power in the present state administration. Clayt jokingly spluttered to a group of friends that “I was twenty-one years old and grown-up before I knew that ‘damned Yankee’ was two words.”
My visit to Atlanta brought to memory a conversation I had with Cole S. Blease, former governor of South Carolina, about four years ago. The governor very kindly invited me to his suite in the Selwyn hotel at Charlotte, N. C., to partake of his private twenty-year-old stock. While “killing” the quart of medicine, the subject of Atlanta came to the front. Here is the Bleasian description of the South’s largest city, as nearly as I can remember:
“Atlanta is a hell-hole of perdition. It is no place for a virtuous woman or an honest man.”
I cannot quite agree with Mr. Blease, for Atlanta treated me royally. The girlies here I found to be of true Southern stock—very shy and rather demure. I once heard the late[6] “Pitchfork” Ben Tillman remark that the only family tree he could boast was that the women were virtuous and the men reasonably brave. From my cursory observations this description fairly fits Atlanta.
From Atlanta our next stop was Jacksonville. Went for a joyride here, which ended in a thrilling though harmless smashup. Upon picking myself from out the wreckage, I thanked the kindly doctor for a safe delivery. Which calls to mind these lines by Lincoln, or some other noted personage:
As a deer hunter, I’m a good farmer. Spent ten days tramping the windfalls in the neighborhood of Breezy Point Lodge without even seeing a deer. Saw plenty of polecats, bobcats and house cats, and nearly captured a “porky.” I learned lots about the habits and habitations of the northern pine animals and finally managed to knock down a “spike buck” (whatever that means) on the last day of the hunting season. Must admit the buck almost shook hands with me before I was able to knock him over. However, I had a very good guide, Arthur Foote by name, but better known as “Panther Pete.” Pete has earned a regular living for twenty-five years as a trapper[7] and deer hunter, and I am sure that the small buck never would have fallen for me had he not enticed the animal to leave his forest retreat.
While touring the San Francisco underworld as the guest of the police vice squad on my recent tour of the Pacific coast, we encountered what the police considered a suspicious party.
He was one of those dapper young men with a red necktie that frequent this section of Famous Frisco.
“What’s your occupation?” asked one of the policemen of the young man.
“I’m a business man,” was the answer as the young man started to trip blithely away.
“Wait a minute,” said the cop. “I never saw a business man walk like that.”
“Oh,” replied the dapper youth, “but you don’t know what kind of business I’m in!”
Thirty days for him.
During my recent rampage about the American continent it was my pleasure to appreciate the service of Tiajuana, and I could not resist the temptation to contrast this Mexican village with the Canadian metropolis, Montreal. In Montreal I enjoyed a bottle of Pol Roger champagne without being a law breaker, even though it cost me ten cents for a two by four sandwich. From Montreal[8] I hustled to the deer hunting regions of northern Minnesota and found no champagne or other imported wines, but plenty of “mountain dew.” With all due respect to Mr. Andrew J. Volstead, our Minnesota congressman, there is today in this grand and glorious land of the free and home of the brave more rotten booze than it was ever my lot to drink in the pre-prohibition days.
But to get back to my deer hunting expedition, I must admit that the deer were scarce but—
While flivvering out near Golden Valley, Minnesota, I dropped in at the farm of my old friend, John Foss, to pass the time of day. I noticed a drove of hogs on his timber lot acting peculiar. They would run up to a tree and squeal like mad, then leave that tree and go to another and do the same thing, continuing in their mad scamper around the timber lot.
“What makes them act that way?” I asked John.
“Well,” replied old man Foss, “last winter I had a throat infection and lost the power of speech for a month or more and couldn’t call them to their feed, so I taught them to come by rapping on a post or a tree, and now the darn woodpeckers are setting them crazy.”
At Breezy Point Lodge I have an old gray mare and I love to sing this melody of my boyhood days:
And, believe me, her greatest indoor and outdoor sport is sitting on the single tree.
Up in the deer hunting grounds of northern Minnesota the jack-pine savages are still singing that old familiar ditty about the much maligned, bird—the woodpecker. These heart throbbing words peal gently through the evening air:
The other day I was riding on a street car in Minneapolis. Sitting opposite me was a very pretty young lady who had a poodle dog in her lap. Bluenose lady sitting[10] next to the girl addressed her thusly: “My, what a nasty little dog. Don’t you think, my young lady, it would look much nicer if you had a little baby in your lap?”
“No,” the pretty one replied in calm even tones, “it wouldn’t. You see I’m not married.”
Chief Bloberger surveyed a party of hoboes coming down the Great Northern tracks.
“Here they come, hog fat and crummy, short pipes and red noses. Won’t work, ain’t allowed to shoot ’em, and if you don’t feed ’em they’ll burn your barn daown.”
Ladies and gentlemen: Don’t fail to be in Robbinsdale next Tuesday at four o’clock A. M. to witness the daring feat of Peter, our hired man. This brave snoose-grinding son of toil will endeavor to dive off the top of the highest building in Robbinsdale into a six-foot tank of solid concrete, playing the ukelele, eating raw liver and keeping perfect time. The spectacular dive by Pete will be for a worthy cause. All proceeds from the entertainment will be donated to the starving plumbers of Chicago. Admission free.
Took my wife into a store to assist her in buying a new hat. Like all women, she tried on nearly every hat in the store. In desperation the salesman appealed to me with this remark: “How would you like me to try a sailor for your wife?” Having been in the[11] army for many years, I felt like suggesting a soldier, for this insulting salesman. Needless to say, the sale was not made.
On my recent visit to New York I had the pleasure of the company of Mr. H. A. D’Arcy, author of “The Face Upon the Floor,” which we misnamed in past issues “The Face Upon the Barroom Floor.” This masterpiece undoubtedly stands first among popular present day poems, judging from the many requests we received from Whiz Bang readers for its republication. To Ye Editor Mr. D’Arcy told the history of how “The Face Upon the Floor” was inspired:
“Away back in the early 80’s Union Square in New York was called ‘The Rialto’ agreeable to the fact that it was the theatrical center of America. On the corner of Fourth avenue and Fourteenth street, a very excellent saloon was run by Joe Schmidt and it was kept fairly full from noon to midnight with respectable members of the sock and buskin, and amusement promoters. One Saturday evening in August, 1887, a table in front of the bar was occupied by a bunch of managers. We were combining business with pleasure, booking time and enjoying the very excellent beer and spirits available in those happy days. It was probably about 11 o’clock when a mendicant shambled in and approached our table. With a sad, husky voice, he said, ‘Gentlemen, I want a drink.’ All eyes were turned to the derelict and someone at the table offered one of the untasted glasses of whisky which was quickly swallowed. Joe behind the bar yelled, ‘Get out.’
“The waiter in front quickly seized the beggar and threw him out of the swinging door; to make the situation[12] more dramatic, a rough haired terrier dog named ‘Toby’ and pet of the saloon jumped at the poor devil and fastened on his pants. ‘Toby’ always thought it his duty to chase poor people, and had an innate antipathy to jumpers or pants not duly pressed.
“Well, several of the party got up from the table and went out to see what had happened to the poor wretch. He was lying on the sidewalk with his face halfway in the gutter. We gathered him up, brushed him off a little, wiped his face and someone went into the saloon and brought out another drink of whisky. Several coins were carefully dropped into the inside pocket of his coat. This was done surreptitiously so that he would not know the money was there until the tomorrow. As we left him on a door step next door I asked what his trade was and he managed to tell me he was an artist. I held that this man was not a professional beggar, a derelict true, but probably had once been a talented man. The argument was taken up by several other gentlemen in the room and waxed warm until I got angry and with a curt “good night” bolted out of the saloon. On my way home, I determined to write up the story in such a way as would make my argument good and satisfy Joe Schmidt that I was not wholly chicken-hearted. I also was pretty sure of winning the fair hostess to my way of thinking. As I walked along I composed in my mind the first two lines:
“The measure was a happy iambic tetrameter and fitted the story, and before going to bed, I jotted down the first two lines which I have always found the hardest to compose, next day I finished the story. When Joe read it, I saw tears in his eyes. It was published in the New York Dispatch. Joe bought a hundred copies of the paper and sent 25 to the Buffalo Bill Co. who were playing[13] in London and among whom both he and I had many friends. Cody and Major Burke circulated the copies among their theatrical friends and before many months three vaudevillians were reciting the poem at the big music halls, then Sam Bernard set America crazy with it and yet after over thirty years, it is still a popular ‘act’ and wins excellent booking.
“I have been often told that my story set the pace for prohibition. I sincerely hope not. If I thought that I had helped that unfortunate law, I would walk down to the dock and kick myself into the river. ‘The Face Upon the Floor’ is not a temperance story, but an admonition to the world, not to despise the unfortunate derelict.”
In this issue we are pleased to publish another poem by Mr. D’Arcy and have his promise of more to follow. And let me add, I found Mr. D’Arcy a regular fellow, well met, an excellent conversationalist and a fine reminder of the good old days.
Gus, our ex-hired man, escorted a petite young lady to her apartment.
“Just as I was putting my arm around her,” Gus reports, “a man walked in.”
“My gawsch, my husband!” exclaimed the girl.
“Oh, busy honey?” the intruder remarked, as he walked out.
Our new hired man, Ikey, from the cities, is so absentminded that when he went in the stable to saddle a horse, he was surprised to find, after a half hour’s work, that he[14] had the saddle on himself and he spent another half hour in vain trying to climb on his own back.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I take great pleasure in presenting to you the Wa-hoo-wa Bird. The only bird of its kind in captivity today. This strange bird comes from the far off shores of the Isle of Borneo where it rears its young among the crannies and crags of the mountainous coastline. Now the particular strange thing about this bird is that it only mates once every one hundred years, and after having mated, it crawls, half drags, half flies, until it gets itself to the topmost pinnacle of the long, tall, lofty rubber tree. Casting its eyes to the heavens it cries in tones of ecstacy “Wa-hoo-wa,” which, translated in the language of the natives, means “My Gawsch, Mamma, ain’t love grand!”
Pat and Mike were to run a race to a tree by different routes.
Pat—“If oi get there first oi’ll make a mark on the tree with this chalk, Mike, and if you get there first you rub it off.”
The fellow who marries a bow-legged girl these days has no excuse that he can’t see what he’s getting.
He doesn’t dress so neat on work days, but he wears his new hat on his week end.
Santa Claus played a dirty trick on the bow-legged girls, didn’t he?
Why?
See what he put in their stockings!
No matter how pretty a bow-legged girl may be; she is always in bad shape.
Did you ever go to the postoffice to attend the graduation exercises of a correspondence school class?
“How much am I offered for this pie?” sang out the auctioneer.
“Six bits,” one youth bid.
“Who will make it eighty? Just imagine, you get the girl and all!”
“Say, mister,” ejaculated the youth, “what kind of pie is it you’re selling?”
A bell’s a bell even though it is on a cow.
(From “The Blue Lagoon,” a novel.)
Her ears were small and like little white shells. He would take one between finger and thumb and play with it as if it were a toy, pulling at the lobe of it or trying to flatten out the curved part. Her breasts, her shoulders, her knees, her little feet, every bit of her, he would examine and play with and kiss. She would lie and let him, seeming absorbed in some far-away thought, of which he was the object; then all at once her arms would go round him. All this used to go on in the broad light of day, under the shadow of the artu leaves, with no one to watch except the bright-eyed birds in the leaves above.
Hello, is this the chief of the Fire Department?
Yes, this is the chief.
Well, my house is on fire.
How long has it been burnin’?
Half hour.
Did you try puttin’ water on it?
Yes, but it won’t go out.
Then ’taint no use in us comin’ over, because that’s all we could do. G’Bye!
Women are the greatest edition in the world and no man should be without a copy.
A southern restaurant serves eggs with all meat orders. A patron ordered pork chops.
“Boss, how do yo’ all want yo’ eggs,” inquired the waiter.
“Oh, you can eliminate the eggs.”
The waiter repeated the order to the colored chef and added “liminate dem eggs.”
The chef scratched his head. “Sambo, yo tell dat customer ah ain’t got no time this mawning to liminate dem eggs and that he all will have to have dem cooked some oder way.”
The occupants of the parlor car of the limited were startled by the abrupt entrance of two masked bandits. “T’row up yer hands,” commanded the bigger of the two. “We’re gonna rob all the gents and kiss all the gals.”
“No, pardner,” responded the smaller one gallantly, “We’ll rob all the gents but we’ll leave the ladies alone.”
“Mind your own business, young fellow,” snapped a female passenger of uncertain age, “The big man’s robbing this train.”
The ice in the river was thin as Pat started to “feel” his way across. Every time Pat put down his right foot he muttered reverently “Praise the Lord,” and as the left foot hit the thin ice, “The devil ain’t such a bad man.”
At the other side of the river, Pat, with a sigh of relief, turned back and said “Tuhel with both of yez.”
Paddy Ryan in Ireland inherited a pile of money and decided to tour France. He hired a guide who steered him up a mountain. After a full day’s climb they reached the summit.
“See ze beautiful valley,” said the guide to Paddy, pointing below.
“Sure,” stormed the Irishman, “if it’s so dom beautiful in the valley what the divil for did you bring me ’way up here?”
“You are working too hard,” said a policeman to a man who was drilling a hole in a safe at 2:00 o’clock in the morning.
“What do you mean?” asked the burglar in a disconcerted tone.
“I mean you need arrest,” answered the policeman.
I met a wonderful girl yesterday afternoon, and she invited me up to her apartment. That night she told me to stand in front of the door and whistle three times and she would throw down the key.
Boys, I never saw so many keys in all my life.
I could print a lot of real funny stories, but what’s the use, you would only laugh at them.
Dear Capt. Billy—What is the first thing that turns green in the spring?—Uppan Attim.
Christmas jewelry.
Dear Captun: My kid brother’s a great chicken chaser. He came home late last night all dizzy; d’you think he was drinkin’ or what’s the matter?—Ida Sinkey.
‘Swimmin’ in the head.
Dear Whiz Bang Bill—Is there much food values in dates?—Ona Dyett.
It all depends on who you make them with.
Dear Captain—What is a Sly Oodle?—Nat. U. List.
’Tis a small weasel that sleeps in the crotch of a tree, and swallows its nose to keep it from freezing.
Dear Capt. Billy—A fellow asked me a funny question the other day. Why is a crow? Seems sort of silly. Do you know the answer?—M. T. Kann.
That’s easy. Caws.
Dear Captain Billy—What is a Nabisco?—Ray Vaughan.
It consists of two pieces of tissue paper with a little honey between.
Dear Captain Billy—Would it hurt me to sleep between two windows?—I. Foozle.
You would have a “pane” on the chest and back, and a “catch” on your side.
Dear Capt. Billy—What is a good name for a new college sorority?—Al E. Wrat.
I. Phelta Thi.
Dear Capt. Billy—What is a sculptor?—Cant E. Lope.
A man that makes faces and busts.
Dear Capt. Billy—What is dust?—Hose Ette.
Mud with the juice squeezed out.
Dear Capt. Billy—Is hair tonic a good drink?—J. Fewbrains.
Would advise you not to drink hair tonic as it will raise a mustache on your appendix and if you should laugh you would tickle yourself to death.
Dear Farmer Bill—Please inform me where milk comes from.—A City Girl.
From cow faucets.
Dear Capt. Billy—If my father was a duke and my mother was a duchess, what would that make me?—Watts D. Yoos.
Why, I guess you would be Duke’s Mixture.
Dear Captain—Tell me something interesting about auction bridge.—Adeline Moore.
All we know about is Brooklyn Bridge, and that is just one long suspense.
Dear Capn.—What did my beau mean when he told me he would meet me in the future?—Sarah Desert.
Probably he meant in the pasture.
Dear Capt. Billy—What is a drydock?—Torchy.
A physician who won’t give us prescriptions.
They tell me people are so tough in South St. Paul they play Tiddly-Winks with the sewer covers. Zatright?
Once there was a guy who wished that he was a rich woman’s lap-dog, when suddenly a Great Genii appeared before him and granted his wish, telling him that any time he wished to be changed back to a man, he should slip out of the rich lady’s house and come to the home of the Genii, in a distant part of the city.
Being only a dog, he soon grew tired of his pampered life, and since he was really a dog, the kisses and petting of his pretty mistress failed to produce the “kick” that he had anticipated.
So, he slipped out of the house, and found himself on a broad and spacious avenue, lined with trees, telegraph poles and iron fence posts.
Now, that was many moons ago, but up to the present writing, the little doggie has not reached the Genii’s house to be changed back to a man.
MORAL: It’s a poor wish that won’t work two ways.
(Selected by Rev. G. L. Morrill.)
Women give themselves to God when the Devil wants nothing more to do with them.
Since Cupid is represented with a torch in his hand, why did they place virtue on a barrel of gunpowder?
A woman forgives everything but the fact that you do not covet her.
Fools never understand people of wit.
“Hello, Bill, how did you enjoy the show last night?”
“Fine, Joe. Wasn’t that some pippin in the bathing suit?”
“Yep, Bill!”
“Well, I saw her without the suit on today.”
!!!!!——————(street clothes?)
John Philip Sousa traveled six thousand miles to hear the celebrated chimes of an English church. As he was drawing near the place the wonderful chimes rang out, and enraptured, Sousa exclaimed to the driver of the vehicle, “You folk are indeed fortunate to live within sound of those heavenly chimes.”
“I can’t hear a word you say,” shouted the driver irritably, “them d—— bells deafen me.”
Sexton—“Dogs are not allowed here, sir.”
Visitor—“That’s not my dog.”
Sexton—“Not your dog? Why, he’s following you.”
Visitor—“Well, so are you.”
A cross-eyed man at a dance hall said “May I have the next dance, please?” Two girls answered as with one voice, “With pleasure.”
Algernon—Dearest, I could sit here forever gazing into your charming eyes and listening to the wash of the ocean.
The Girl—That reminds me, Honey. I have a laundry bill and I’m dead broke.
There’s one thing I can’t eat for breakfast and that is supper.
While a darky was being led to the gallows a crowd of people ran past him.
“What yo all running fo?” yelled Sambo after them, “Dey ain’t nothin’ gwine to happen till ah gets dere.”
He is so stingy he goes to the postoffice to fill his fountain pen.
Johnny (running into the room of his mother on April 1st)—“Mama, there’s a strange man kissing our maid.”
Mother—“What, a strange man?”
Johnny—“April fool, it’s only papa.”
He stopped the balky car.
“Honey, I must get out and spank the engine over the ears.”
“Oh, engine-ears!”
The nurse at the front regarded the wounded soldier with a puzzled look.
“Your face is familiar to me, but I can’t place you,” she said.
“Let bygones be bygones, baby,” replied the soldier, “I used to be a policeman.”
Where did you get that rose?
That isn’t a rose, that’s a geranium.
No, it isn’t. It’s a rose.
I said it’s a geranium.
How do you spell it?
It’s a rose all right.
My girl has Pullman teeth.
One upper and one lower.
Colorado Springs is sure some town. Had to go up to the city hall to get a permit from the mayor to play a game of dominoes.
This wash board is a hundred years old.
Yes, it surely is wrinkled.
“Men are naturally grammatical.”
“Yes?”
“When they see an abbreviated skirt they always look after it for a period.”
Chicago.—Mrs. R. Kelly sat watching a thrilling movie. Without taking her eyes off the film, she landed an uppercut on the jaw of the man sitting next to her. “I must have made a mistake,” Jake Cohen told the judge. “I didn’t know I put my hand on her knee!”
“Say, Mr. Jones, what do you want to get married for?”
“Because I don’t want my name to die out.”
A cat, mistaking a ball of wool for a meat ball, swallowed it, and sure enough when she had kittens they had on sweaters.
Child’s is a great place to eat. Went in there yesterday and amongst the dirty dishes on the table I found thirty cents.
These be dull days in the movie and even the stage world. The dark clouds of the Arbuckle case still hang over the two “arts,” thanks to the obdurate lady juror who caused a disagreement in the San Francisco trial. The pleasantly informal old days, when Wallie Reid could run up to ’Frisco and pelt eggs upon pedestrians from the fourteenth floor of the St. Francis Hotel, are long past. One simply has to be circumspect these days.
After Whiz Bang’s comments upon the way the New York stage was getting away with salaciousness came a police investigation of “The Demi-Virgin,” the gentle whimsy with the strip poker game. The farce was severely condemned by the police commissioner—but it is still running and to crowded houses. The risque plays have had one or two additions since we wrote last.
For instance, there’s David Belasco’s adaptation of the French farce, “Kiki,” with a little gutter gamin of the French music hall as its heroine. Mr. Belasco has substituted the word marriage for liaison throughout but the intent is there—and the lines, oh, boy! Once Kiki remarks[28] “The men are like cats—they follows us as though our veins were full of catnip!” Then there is a whole act in which Kiki—posing as a rigid somnambulist—is carried and tossed about by the various members of the cast, all the time dressed only in a simple pair of open work pajamas.
We aren’t intimating that “Kiki” isn’t entertaining. It is. But, the latitude they get away with! Meanwhile the censors go on cutting out bathing girls from our films and making sure there is no indication ever shown that babies are born.
Charlie Ray, spats, cane, trick overcoat with its fur collar, et al., has been making his first visit to New York and not creating a ripple of interest. Of course, friend wife was along. We saw Ray strolling up Fifth Avenue the other day—and nobody knew the ornate pedestrian as the simple country boy of the films. They tell me that Ray takes himself very seriously and left the cynical New York reporters dizzy with his confessions about his “mission in life.”
Jack Pickford continues to loiter about New York. There are all sorts of rumors linking Jack up with pretty Marilyn Miller o’ the Follies. Marilyn lost her husband, Frank Carter, in an auto accident some time ago and is as pleasant a little widow as the White[29] Lights possess. Maybe Marilyn has an eye towards the screen. By the way, those reports of an impending family event in the Fairbanks family still persists. What could be nicer?
Poor Eric von Stroheim! We sympathize with him despite his Junker physiognomy. He is telling sad tales of his treatment at the hands of Universal. After finishing “Foolish Wives,” they took the negative away from him, hired somebody or other to cut it—and Eric came on to New York to find out where he stood.
At last reports he is still trying to find out. Overheard him in a hotel recently telling his troubles. Now and then a tear splashed in the soup. You see, they have taken his brain child—his masterpiece—away and are letting some cruel inartistic outsider cut it any old way. It seems that Carl Laemmle, prexy of Universal, became irate over the way “Foolish Wives” cost money and never seemed to finish. Eric says they put all sorts of obstructions in his way. They locked cutting room doors, held up his pet plans, and all that, according to Eric. Finally—whisper, for it may only be a pipe dream—Eric organized and armed his army of extras after the fashion of Mr. William Hohenzollern and presented an ultimatum. He got what he wanted. Pause to consider the news story that nearly came out of Universal. Suppose Eric had cut the communication wires, tried military[30] gas on the officials and made the studio into an armed camp. It sounds fishy, of course, but have you ever met the tense Mr. Von Stroheim?
At that we feel awfully sorry for him. He has unusual directorial ability and he is—or was—the one able person at Universal. And now, after making “Foolish Wives,” which, if it doesn’t get barred by the censors, ought to be a whirlwind, he seems to be getting the gate.
Aren’t those morality clauses the high minded movie producers are inserting into their actor contracts the bunk? Imagine the nerve. Will Rogers gave the best summary when he declared, “Say, if any one hands me a contract with one of them clauses, I’ll say, you sign it first.” He is in New York doing a turn on the Ziegfeld roof. The best line of his act is: “I’m the only guy who ever went to California and came back with the same wife.”
One of the funniest kick backs from the Arbuckle case occurred at Vitagraph, where they had Maclyn Arbuckle (no relation to Fatty), under contract to be co-starred in “The Prodigal Judge,” which he had played for years on the stage. Just as the picture was completed, a little San Francisco scandal broke. Vitagraph decided that it couldn’t afford to feature Mr. Maclyn Arbuckle at this time. This despite the fact that Mr.[31] Maclyn was a well known star before Fatty was ever heard of. But luckily he had a sense of humor. So he said, “Oh, well (maybe it wasn’t exactly that), you can’t buck such reasoning,” and let his name go into tiny type.
Cannibal No. 1—What makes the chief such a bunk spreader?
Cannibal No. 2—He just ate the editor of Whiz Bang.
“Is my wife forward?” asked the passenger on the Limited.
“She wasn’t to me sir,” answered the conductor politely.
“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”
Hats off to a real man of the cloth. The Rev. D. H. Jones has resigned the pulpit of Huntington Park, California, Baptist Church, because of the fanatical attempts of his flock to enforce Sunday closing.
“I prefer to dwell with the worldling and be true to my inner self than to live with the saint and betray it,” Reverend Jones says.
“There is a way to make the church the super-attraction; but it will never be done by coercing the consciences of men. The Cross of Christ is proving to be the greatest magnet in the world, but use it as a club, and it will become a colossal failure.”
“Killed professionally, yes. But, frankly, I would rather be a man than a minister. Character is greater than profession.”
“I would just as soon believe that the perfume of the rose comes from the polecat as to believe that the spirit of the blue laws comes from God.”
“Christ whipped men out of the church, but never into it. ‘Professional reformers’ and ‘Christian lobbyists’ at Washington may mean well, but most of them are misguided swivel-chair heroes of the Cross.”
“‘Close every door except the church’s,’ cries the reformer, forgetting that open hearts are greater inducements than closed doors.”
“The doctrine behind the blue laws is this: ‘I am in[33] the right and you are in the wrong. When you are stronger than I, you ought to tolerate; for it is your duty to tolerate truth. But when I am the stronger, I shall persecute you; for it is my duty to persecute error.’”
“All the proposed Sunday legislation is simply a human attempt to whitewash what God designed to wash white. To condemn movies because some things may be objectionable is like refusing to eat fish because it contains bones.”
“When human passion is subdued, when the turbulent tide ebbs, we see that the big thing that lies at the bottom of the opposition of theatre opening on Sunday, is simply bigotry.”
“It is a wonder to me how many bad things good people see in the movies; fortunately, if you are so disposed, you need never be disappointed. The product of a legal religion has ever been and ever will be either hypocrisy or persecution.”
A little white coffin rested on a small table, covered with flowers white as the waxen face and fair hair of the baby child whose short life of thirteen months’ suffering was ended.
A small company of kind neighbors was present. The clergyman repeated the Saviour’s words, “Suffer the children to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven,” and told how the little life had not paid in dollars and cents, but that judged by an immortal existence begun here, and to last forever, Death was gain. After the father, sisters and brothers said “Good-bye,” the mother took the last farewell kiss of her baby and baptized it anew with her hot falling tears. So small[34] was the casket that the undertaker lifted it in his arms, just as the mother had the sick child, and carried it to the carriage and placed it on the seat.
We entered the beautiful green cemetery, and lowered the little flower-decked coffin in the grave to rest until God’s “Good morning” in the graveless, griefless home of heaven. As I looked back, the mound seemed so small that a child could step over it in his play, but I knew it was higher than a mountain top to the mother because in it was buried all her love and hope.
So we left the little casket and the little body in the little grave, feeling that this bud of promise would be transplanted to the Eternal Garden where the full flower would blossom and bloom without decay.
The Detroit Free-Press calls it the “Snoopers’ Brigade,” and we are inclined to think that is a well-fitting title for the aggregation of people who are urging the formation of a society that would compel all men to be spies upon neighbors and reporters upon their actions.
Sometime ago a federal prohibition commissioner announced plans for such an association, but he immediately discovered that the people of the United States are not ready to become investigators of their neighbors’ conduct, in any[35] particular, and the project was squelched by higher authority.
The courts of the country are, very generally, excluding testimony obtained by men who lead others into the commission of crime, and properly; they regard such actions as a conspiracy to break the law, which makes the tempter a partner in the crime.
In a Mississippi case, where it appeared that a peace officer induced a man to purchase liquor for him and then arrested the man who succumbed to his blandishments, the judge ordered the accused discharged and the officer held. The official was subsequently convicted of his part in the crime, and the supreme court sustained the verdict against him.
There is a very general misapprehension on this subject and acts of the officials have been winked at because the public really did not know what was going on and did not realize the extent of the practice indulged in by what are very generally called stool pigeons.
The laws of this or any other state may be enforced without making all the people detectives, as the Snoopers’ League would have them, or without permitting the practice of certain classes of officials, who sometimes literally hire men to commit a crime, in order that that very crime may be suppressed.
Where did I get my education? Why, me dad used to take me over his knee. He made me smart.
Bully for the Chicago Tribune. That journal slips the prong into Bluenose Crafts in a recent issue:
It is beginning to appear that the movement led by Mr. Crafts is as bigoted and as savage in its purpose as those which we thought were buried in the semi-barbarous past. It must be held that no human uplift but maniacal desire to inflict physical punishment is the motive. Mr. Crafts and his followers wish to put as many of their fellow countrymen as possible in jail, and they are trying to wreck this republic in order to do so.
Chickens get tough when they run around too much.
Be it ever so humble, there’s no flower like the cauli.
A bird in the oven is worth two in the bush and a berry in the bush is not worth two in the hand.
I wish I was cross-eyed, then I could stand on a windy day and gaze at a lady wearing a short skirt, right in the eye and still have a guilty conscience.
You can lead a cow to water but the Bull—he must be herd.
“On East Houston Street is the lasagne or ravioli belt where the gay boys from out of town take the leading ladies of the jobber plants out for a wild evening,” writes O. O. McIntyre. “You know the gay out-of-town man. He carries a patent cigar lighter and has a sterling silver monogrammed belt buckle and, oh, yes, a handkerchief with a purple border. His eyes are blue and he wrinkles them in a merry twinkle, at least he thinks it is a merry twinkle, but it’s just the sap oozing out. The Leading Lady knows Broadway because she reads Broadway Brevities and her theory of life in the abstract is that Ladies Must Live. After the first quart of red ink, he whispers a story the boys told him in front of the Bon Ton Store before he left for the east. She pulls the two gun, hair-trigger Bill Hart stuff and says ‘Naughty Man.’ To complete the evening and display the ultimate in savoir faire he calls loudly to the waiter: ‘L’addition, s’il vous plait garcon.’ They ride to one of the Oranges in a quick-firing metered taxi and he returns to the McAlpin to write the wife and kiddies of his lonesomeness.”
This is the old famous New York poem, credited to a former collector of the port as author, but denied. However, you’ll note that every word carries a wallop and so we herewith, with your kind permission, republish it:
“I see you are keeping your hired man all right now, Ezra.”
“Yep, keeping him all right.”
“He seems satisfied, too. How’d you do it?”
“Did everything he asked me to. Let him work only four hours and eat with the family. He got to complaining of dull evenings, so every night I give him the use of a car of his own, and the money to spend, to go to the movies in town.”
“That ought to satisfy him.”
“It didn’t, though. He complained of his room, and so I coaxed my son to trade rooms with him. Then he seemed more settled like.”
“I notice you’ve cut off your whiskers, Ezra.”
“Yeah. Some more of that hired man’s notions.”
“How’s that?”
“He complained they tickled him every time I kissed him good-night.”
“Golly, Moses! Dey got strawberries and cherries and all kinds o’ fruit covered wit candy. What kind shall ah git?”
“Git a choc’lat covered watermillion.”
“What you need is a tonic to sharpen your appetite,” said the Doctor. “By the way, what is your occupation?”
“I am a sword swallower in a circus side-show,” replied the caller.
Little Joe says, “They am jest as many sebbens on de dice as anything else, ony dey is bashfull.”
The greatest poem of the squared circle ever brought to light is in store for March Whiz Bang readers, “The Kid’s Last Fight.” That noted recitation of years ago has been obtained by the Whiz Bang, reset to verse, and will hold the boards in the March issue.
By J. Eugene Chrisman.
Author of “Poppies,” written exclusively for Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang.
Copyrighted. By permission of the Author, Green Room Club, New York.
By H. A. D’Arcy.
A horse fly eats whip crackers.
By Frank B. Lindeman.
The real John Barleycorn of older days is gone, but not forgotten.
Those of us who knew him best, and loved him most,
Stuck with him ’til the last drop.
Pretty (looking over the new theatre down-town)—What do you think of the excavation?
Witty—Oh, it’s pretty good as a whole.
One fine day, in the month of May, a dirty old bum came hiking; He sat down by a pig pen, which was very much to his liking. On the very same day, in the month of May, a farmer’s son came piping; Said the bum to the son, “If you’ll only come, I will show you things to your liking. I will show you the bees, and the cigarette trees, and the gum drop heights, where they give away kites, and the big rock candy mountains; And the lemonade springs, where the blue bird sings, and marbles made of crystal; you can whiff the breeze from the mince pie trees, where the wind blows fine and frisky; and you can join the band of Rocky Mountain Sam, and get yourself a sword and a pistol.” The farmer’s son then went along, listening to the bum’s merry song; and for six months they did travel. Said the bum to the son, “When I get done, you’re going to be a little devil.” The punk looked up with his big blue eyes, and then he said to Sandy, “Now we’ve been a hiking all day long, now gosh darn where’s your candy? You put a brace on my leg, and showed me how to beg, and you told me you were my jocker; and you told me lies, when you promised me pies, and you called me an apple knocker; I’m a goin’ back home, no more to roam, I’m packing my junkerino; You can bet your lid, that this Hoosier kid, won’t be any bum’s punkerino.”
Misplaced Eyebrow—“There is a hair in my soup.”
Diplomatic Waiter—“Probably out of your mustache.”
“I never thought of that.”
“How do you like the Volstead Act?”
“I never did care for vaudeville.”
Johnny was late at school and explained that a wedding at his house was the cause of the delay.
“That’s nice,” replied teacher, “who gave the bride away?”
“Well,” Johnny answered, “I could have, but I kept my mouth shut.”
“I suppose your wife was tickled to death at your raise in salary?”
“She will be.”
“Haven’t you told her yet?”
“No, I thought I would enjoy myself for a couple of weeks first.”
Isaac Goldstein came home one evening, unexpectedly, and found a man sitting on his wife’s lap.
Next day he told his business partner about it. His partner asked Mr. Goldstein what he had said to the man.
Goldstein replied, “I didn’t even speak to him. He was a stranger.”
“It’s snow use,” said Alvie; “we can’t go tonight.” And he hung up the receiver, while the fluffy flakes fell on the grass outside.
Biz-z—Biz—Biz-ness.
“I’m through,” cried Pedro, as he glanced over the Whiz Bang Winter Annual.
A tramp sat in the doorway of the box car, his feet dragging on the ground.
SHE CREPT UP TO THE SCALES LIKE AN ARAB, AND SILENTLY STOLE A WEIGH.
If at first you don’t succeed, keep on sucking till you do suck seed.
Mr. Martin of Martin’s Ferry, protests against us writing our jokes on tissue paper so that our Philadelphia friend could see through them.
“Tearible,” remarks Mr. Martin.
They are all roses, but some of them are pretty wild.
The cold weather chills me to the bone.
You should wear a hat.
Suddenly there came a tapping as if someone were scrapping, slapping, rapping all the poets who write “Apologies to Poe”—just outside my chamber door.
Had a great tip on a horse yesterday called cigarette, but I didn’t have enough tobaccer.
“They sure soak you here,” Gus remarked as he paid for a Turkish bath.
“How hoarse you are this morning.”
“Yes, my husband got home very late last night.”
My wife and I have been holding hands for twelve years. If we ever let go we’ll kill one another.
My bride is a nice girl, but she sleeps with her knees up and the draft gives me a cold.
I’d like to see something in a lady’s combination.
So would I.
“Why, honey, I love you with an equatorial passion that no adding machine can register.”
There are a lot of towns in this country that don’t bury their dead. They just let ’em walk around.
Mr. and Mrs. Fish wish to announce the arrival of a couple of bouncing minnows.
Musicians have an easy job. While they’re at work they’re only playing.
I asked the boy across from my farm what he got for planting potatoes. He said, “I don’t get nothin’ when I do, but I get hell when I don’t.”
I got a fellow so drunk last night that it took three bell boys to put me to bed.
Wanted: Man to drive. Must bring hammer and nails.
Eddie was great at a party. In fact, you couldn’t have a party without him. He was a great mixer.
Oh, Scissors, let us cut up!
Would Gillette me?
“I’ve come to the end of my rope,” our hero cried as he threw his cigar away.
Get the habit, like the rabbit—multiply.
Let us all join in singing that timely melody:
“Keep her picture in your watch—you’ll love her in time.”
He started life as a chiropodist and worked his way up to be a throat specialist.
Don’t always stand on the same side of the pulpit. You’ll wear a hole in the carpet.
“I’m the King of Siam!”
“Yesiam!”
He left the light burning so he could see to go asleep.
The funniest thing I ever saw was a cross-eyed woman telling her hump-backed husband to walk straight home.
Mrs. Murphy asked for a nut cracker and her husband gave her a beer bottle.
A little song entitled,
“OIL BY MYSELF”
By John D.
She’s a wonderful girl. She can keep a secret in four different languages.
There is no difference between me and the prohibition agent. We’re both after the same thing.
The moral of a dog’s tail is that it invariably points to the past.
A Jewish sergeant at Camp Lee in 1918 was explaining to a rookie the command, mark time, in the following manner: “Foist you raise yer right foot six inches in de air and then bring the left foot alongside the right one.”
“Lovely day, don’t you think,” said the man as he hit his thumb with the hammer.
Willie, your face has changed quite a bit.
Yes, mother, dear, I’ve been washing it.
A change of wives ofttimes improves one’s disposition.
“Who is that terrible looking woman?”
“That’s my sister.”
“Oh, that’s all right; you ought to see mine.”
After Theophile returned to the city he wrote to Farmer Si Hopkins concerning a question which has been puzzling him for some time.
“Why,” he inscribed, “do you lock up that donkey of yours so carefully every night?”
In due course of time came Farmer Hopkins’ reply. “Because it is too good an *.”
For when the One Great Scorer comes to write against your name He writes not that you won or lost, but how you played the game.
“They don’t look natural,” said the man, as he rolled two threes.
Tom—“Where have you been for the last three hours?”
Bill—“In the saloon talking to the bartender.”
Tom—“What did he say?”
Bill—“No.”
Wanted: Man with ugly face to frighten children that play in my yard.
Man went into German butcher shop and asked price of pork chops. To the reply of 30 cents a pound, he remonstrated that the butcher across the street asked only 20 cents.
“Why don’t you buy them there, then?” asked the German.
“I would, but he’s out,” said the customer.
“Oh, vell, ven I’m oud, I sell ’em for only 10 sends a pound.”
“My wife made it hot for me this morning.”
“How was that?”
“I insisted on her getting up to build the fire.”
(From the Charles City, Iowa, Press)
Manager Waterhouse, the movie man, who insists on giving his lady patrons the best, is improving the theater by renovating and decorating the ladies’ parlor and lobby and ladies can—at least, feel that everything is fresh and orderly.
(From the Spokane Spokesman-Review)
Young man, industrious, wants to meet lady with enough cash to have her chimney swept. Dan Vall.
(From Richmond, Va., Times Despatch)
Have four daughters; would like to put them in a business of their own. What have you to offer? P.O. Box 1092, City.
(From The Duluth Herald)
I got 10 aker of fine green timber dat I like for to sell on Miller Trunk Highway near Duluth. It bane yust vat yu want for a gude place to build cabin and have high old time, hunt yack rabbit & everything. I like for to go back to Norway & will sell very sheep. Write Lars Boguson, 1302 E. 8th St.
(From The Aberdeen World)
WANTED—Girl or lady to stay with me nights; room rent free. A-26, care of World.
(From Casper, Wyo., Herald)
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN—In justice to my husband to quiet a few rumors to the effect that he had beaten me up, during our recent family trouble, is absolutely untrue. Signed, Mrs. Bessie Peters.
Jonah came from the whale with an awful cough.
An Italian was selling plaster of paris busts of great personages on the streets in New York. His cry was “Garibaldi, the greata man ina Italy, George Wash tha greata man ina United States. Tena centa each.”
An American, thinking to have some fun with him, took one of his busts of Garibaldi, dropped it on the pavement and said, “To hell with your Garibaldi.” The wop, not to be outdone, took one of his statues of Washington, threw it on the sidewalk, and said “To hell with your Georga Wash.”
Jerry recently took Gwendoline for a ride in his new car and returned rather late. Approaching a steep hill he stopped the car, got out and raised the hood.
“What’s the matter now?” asked Gwen.
“I must cool the engine before I try to make that hill,” replied Jerry.
“Oh, goodness alive,” said Gwen, “It is getting so awfully late. Why don’t you strip the gears?”
“I never spoke a cross word to my wife but once.”
“Quite remarkable, that.”
“Not so very. See that scar?”
A witty political candidate, after making a speech in an agricultural district, announced that he would be glad to answer any question that might be put to him.
A voice from the audience: “You seem to know a lot about a farmer’s difficulties. May I ask you a question about a momentous one?”
“Certainly,” replied the candidate, nervously.
“How can you tell a bad egg?” went on the merciless voice.
The candidate waited until the laughter had died down, then replied, “If I had anything to tell a bad egg I think I should break it gently.”
He won the place.
“I had a queer dream last night, my dear. I thought I saw another man running off with you.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I asked him what he was running for.”
When you play poker you take a chance; when you marry you have no chance.
Maids want nothing but husbands; after that they want everything.
Most of the women who cry at weddings have been married themselves.
He “hammered” on the door; was answered by a girl who wore a white “sash,” and asked if he could get a “square” meal. He “saw” that the place was “plane” but clean, and “planking” himself down to the table, he “braced” his legs beneath the chair, and “bit” into a Parker “House” roll. His “nails” were rather dirty, but he met the “stairs” of those about him with a “level” glance. After “bolting” his food, he “shingled” off a dollar bill, paid the girl, opining that it was a good place to “board.”
The tenants who formerly lived on the floor above said that our baby balled them out.
Maybelle (coquettishly)—You tickle me, Duke.
The Duke—My word, what a strange request!
Restaurant patron—Have you any whale, waiter?
No, sir.
Have you any shark?
No, sir.
Then give me a T bone steak. God knows I asked for fish.
“Waiter! There’s a fly in my ice cream.”
“Serves him right; let him freeze.”
Lou Z. Lizzie—I quite agree with you. A man who gives you his diamond ring to look at and then wants it back is no gentleman.
Mary Ellen Slapapple—The fact that your sweetheart gave you two black eyes is striking proof of his affection.
Howsh E. Shaykes—A change of pasture is good for the bull, you know, old dear.
Hittem Formy—Don’t run your legs off after a woman; you’ll need them to kick yourself.
True lovers never say good night until morning.
Clerk (at Employment Bureau)—“Someone has sent for a yardman, sir.”
Manager—“We haven’t any yardmen at present.”
Clerk—“Then shall I send up three footmen, sir?”
Three prospective brides were in conference, Madge, Mary and Martha.
Madge—I am to marry a lawyer with fine practice. We are building a beautiful home.
Mary—My future husband is a banker and we will have a summer home, a maid and a car.
Martha—Well, girls, if you must know, I am to marry a barber.
Consternation reigned.
“What on earth are you going to marry a barber for?” gasped Madge and Mary.
Martha—Because any time a barber isn’t kissing you he is talking about it.
A timid bachelor recently walked into a dance hall by mistake, and thought he was in a ladies’ dressing room.
Jack—You certainly disgraced me at the banquet last night when you got drunk.
Jill—What did I do.
Jack—When the charlotte russe was served you tried to blow the foam off it.
In conclusion, Gentle Readers, don’t forget that Captain Billy’s encyclopedia of humor and poetry, the Winter Annual, Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22, is awaiting you at your newsdealer or the publisher.
CONTENTS
256 pages of fun. The gems of 25 early editions of Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang. Stories, toasts, poems, drippings and pot pourri comprise this greatest Whiz Bang book.
Only a Few Left
If your newsdealer’s supply is exhausted, pin a dollar bill, or your check, money order or stamps to the coupon below and receive this peppy collection.
Whiz Bang,
Robbinsdale, Minnesota.
Gentlemen:
Enclosed is dollar bill, check, money order or stamps for $1.00 for which please send me the Winter Annual of Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, “Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22.”
Everywhere!
Whiz Bang is on sale at all leading hotels, news stands, 25 cents single copies; on trains 30 cents, or may be ordered direct from the publisher at 25 cents single copies; two-fifty a year.
One dollar for the WINTER ANNUAL.
