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Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. III. No. 28, December, 1921




1,500,000 Readers!


    SUBJECT

                     GREAT NORTHERN RAILWAY COMPANY

    M. J. Woulfe

                                   St. Paul, Minn. Sept 29th, 1922.

    Editor Whiz-Bang,
    Robbinsdale, Minn.

    Dear Sir:

    On September 27th our train #12 was held at Robbinsdale 37
    minutes loading what is stated to have been 36,000 lbs. of
    mail. In order that provision be made to handle such large
    quantities of mail without causing unreasonable delay to
    trains, would you kindly furnish the following information:

    First, Frequency of publication of the magazine.

    Second, Days or dates when regularly due to be placed in the
    mail.

    Third, Approximate weight or number of copies of each issue.

    With this information we will consider the making of some
    special arrangement for bringing to the cities. It might be
    advantageous to set a baggage car out at Robbinsdale the day
    before the magazine due to be forwarded.

                            Yours truly

                                                   M. J. Woulfe

The letter tells the story!

If our Winter Annuals had been loaded at one time Captain Billy would
have filled an entire mail train. Hereafter, Gentle Reader, your news
dealer will have the Whiz Bang on the 15th of the month, and because of
our enormous orders, we will, in future, mail a few truck loads every
day throughout the full month, all magazines to be held at the various
postoffices until the 15th for delivery. In conclusion, I thank you for
your indulgence at delays in getting your Whiz Bang and your Winter
Annual. The old Whiz Bang Farm has been a busy spot these past few
months. Yours for fun,

                                                           CAPTAIN BILLY.




                            _Captain Billy’s
                               Whiz Bang_

                             [Illustration]

                         _America’s Magazine of
                             Wit, Humor and
                               Filosophy_

                  DECEMBER, 1921      Vol. III. No. 28

                            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 1921
                            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_


It is a long jump from a one-horse town like Robbinsdale to the land
of deciduous fruits, forbidden fruits, fruitless fruits, movie stars,
reformers, abilone cuff links, outdoor plumbing and all-night burglar
service—meaning California, of course.

I am at this writing occupying a room in that well known San Francisco
hostelry which “Fatty” Arbuckle tried to convert into an ice-house. The
only kick I have against the St. Francis is that the room clerk assigned
me to twin beds. Being of a bullsheviki theosophical frame of mind and
also very lonesome, I moved the other twin alongside my twin and slept
soundly ever after.

Lolled around for two weeks at the Alexandria, in Los Angeles, and before
that at a hotel at Coronado that fairly “oozed” hospitality, although
older than the handles on Solomon’s wheelbarrow.

There is an ancient quip about the three divisions of liars—plain liars,
d—— liars and Native Sons. Also there used to be one that went something
like this: “The miners came in ’49 and the janes in ’51,” etc., etc.
But they are both all wrong. Despite what Gus’ brother said about
Robbinsdale not being a one-horse town after he had spent a week wearing
the “white wing” vestments, I am willing to admit that Los Angeles and
San Francisco have opened the eyes of an inquisitive farmer from the
aforesaid Robbinsdale.

They seem to have everything here including the Whiz Bang—and in this
connection permit an old farmer the privilege of remarking that the
leading California news distributors, Egbert Brothers, tell me the little
old Banger leads all 25-cent magazines in California in the matter of
circulation.

So Robbinsdale is on the map in California even if we don’t call our
hen-coops “Renaissance architecture” and our dog-houses “Colonial
garages.”

       *       *       *       *       *

We landed in Los Angeles just in time to plunk down in the center of a
quarrel between expert fanatics and the motion picture people. A flock of
moonbeam-chasing neurasthenic preachers insist that evil was not brought
into the world by the serpent in Eden but was created by Thomas Edison,
who invented the motion picture machine.

The latest synthetic scheme of the reformers calls for Los Angeles
censorship for every picture manufactured and exhibited in the city. If
the “long hairs” get away with it—and we don’t think they will—it will
be a huge moral victory. Los Angeles youth will then be limited to such
amusement as may be gleaned from shooting craps, joy-riding, dancing at
road-houses, poker and looking for one’s umbrella.

This umbrella story has spinach on it, but in small towns like
Robbinsdale it is still good. Has to do with the church-goer who arose
hurriedly and left the church as the pastor was in the midst of reading
the Ten Commandments. He explained to the pastor afterward that it had
just been recalled to his memory where he had left his umbrella.

However, we didn’t travel all the way out to California to find our
umbrella—or to lose one—and it is nobody’s business except our old
Minneapolis friend, Dick Ferris, if we did. Dick is living at the Alex
in Los Angeles and is one of Southern California’s most popular and
esteemed citizens. Dick has begun bobbing his hair since his early days
in Minneapolis, but says that if hair was brains an old-fashioned parlor
sofa would be vice president.

Dick is one of the best entertainers in the Southland. One can step
inside the “Ferris Harem” almost any time of day or night and meet
anybody from “diggers of the ditches” to the “dignitaries of the ducats.”

Roscoe Sarles, famous race driver; Bill Pickens, Barney Oldfield’s old
manager; Julian Eltinge, the actor; Harry Grayson, sports editor of the
Express; “Scotty” Chisholm, golf editor and star; King Young, publicity
director for Kathrine MacDonald’s pictures; Ham Beall, another publicity
director extraordinary; Bob Henderson, wealthy oil operator and owner of
the most beautiful home I have ever spilled ashes in—these are only a few
of the legion of good fellows with whom I had the pleasure of swapping
stories at the Ferris chateau.

       *       *       *       *       *

And speaking of stories, I attended a Motion Picture Press Agents’
banquet and heard a good one on the reformers. According to the story,
Rev. Wilbur F. Crafts was addressing an audience of the hoi poili and he
started off bombastically like this: “You cigar suckers; you cigarette
suckers; you pipe suckers—” At this juncture a tenor voice in the rear
of the hall sung out: “Hey, Doc, you ain’t going to forget us, are you?”
Evidently a willy boy with an all-day sucker in his hand.

Getting back to Dick Ferris, the former Minneapolis theatrical magnate,
is head of a big taxi concern and on the side is a “promoting fool.”
Rummaging around in one of Dick’s dresser drawers, I ran across a box
containing a pair of white silk pajamas. Inside was a card which, in
feminine scrawl, informed Dick that they were to be worn when “Alone—and
Feeling Blue.” Dick hasn’t been able to wear them—says he hasn’t felt
blue since Mt. Lassen was a small hill.

       *       *       *       *       *

During our busy two weeks in Los Angeles we found time to accept
invitations to inspect several motion picture studios, among them
Universal City and the Katherine MacDonald studio. Miss MacDonald
is a very charming and very good-looking young woman—and we feel
sorry that such estimable young artists as Miss MacDonald, Miss Bebe
Daniels and others must suffer some of the reflected criticism that is
brought against the motion picture colony by the antics of some of the
lame-brained and low-browed satyrs and satellites.

Out at Universal, Director Eddie Laemmle grabbed a picture of us in a
wild-west scene—a Minnesota farmer entirely surrounded by cowboys and
“Injuns.”

While in the south I also enjoyed a trip to Tia Juana, the Mexican Monte
Carlo, just across the border from San Diego. Started to fly down from
Rogers’ airport in Los Angeles, but had to confine my aerial pilgrimage
to a jaunt over the city and beaches. They don’t allow American planes to
fly across the border because there is so much booze running.

       *       *       *       *       *

Through the good offices of the Oil King of Breckenridge, Texas, Bob
Henderson, it was our fortune to meet Vice Admiral Wm. Shoemaker. We were
gathered in Bob’s magnificent home in Los Angeles, formerly occupied by
Mary Pickford and Mary Miles Minter (on the q. t., folks, you’ll have to
admit it was pretty soft for a decrepit old Robbinsdale farmer) indulging
in the ornery duties of testing the champagny contents of Robert’s cellar.

It was while the sparkling bubbles bubbled that the subject of a visit
to Admiral Shoemaker’s Pacific fleet bobbed up. Next day we received a
personal invitation from the Admiral, who insisted that we board his
barge at the San Pedro dock. On the Red River of the North my Dad hauled
wheat for the Northern Pacific railroad in a barge and not having been on
speaking terms with naval language I assumed that a barge was a heluvan
ugly looking thing.

Imagine my surprise, please, when the bare-foot jackies heaved ho with
an immaculate launch with three golden stars. Pretty soft for a hardened
old rascal, I claim. We rolled on to the Flagship “Pennsylvania” and
were greeted by the Admiral’s aide, Lieut. L. S. Lewis. It was my first
view of a battleship and at once I was impressed with the fact that the
“Pennsylvania” probably could have licked any of the numerous boats that
father once owned on the Red River. I was surprised to learn that the
14-inch guns I had read about were really about 40 feet long instead of
14 inches.

Anyway, we had a delightful time aboard the “Pennsylvania” and it was
the first time in my life I ever cussed Josephus Daniels (say it sweet
and low: “gawsch darn him”) I had to drink tea. But the Admiral was a
wonderful fellow—hale, hearty and well met. We exchanged anecdotes and
spent a grand, though dry afternoon. Lieutenant Lewis and his crew of
noblemen returned us to the dock in the starry BARGE.

Now in the day of retrospection I fain would believe that the Admiral or
his aide must have been in collusion with the “Pennsylvania” gobs because
every last one of them either was bare-footed or reading Sam Clark’s Jim
Jam Jems or the little old Banger. Wonderful fellows, these jackies,
but the pesky cusses just insisted on looking onward and upward (mostly
upward) when the fairly formed feminines in the party mounted from deck
to deck. They just couldn’t control their naughty eyes. Possibly it had
something to do with Bull of the Durham, for I am told that the sailor
boys love to roll their own.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now, Gentle Readers of this journal of uplift, I have one little wee
surprise for you. Gus, my old time hired man, who jumped the job two
months ago, located and surprised me at the Alexandria. Gus is a
pestiferous cuss and has the faculty of bobbing up at the crucial moment.
My “supply” had given out and promptly, even more promptly than had been
his will to paint boats at Breezy Point Lodge, he supplied the missing
medicine. It was “terrible stuff” but with the sailor boys I’ll say—Any
port in a storm. His juniper juice created a tempest within me but I was
glad nevertheless once again to shake the hoary hand of toil.

In parting I slipped Gus a five simoleon note. He whispered that he was
“on the rocks” and hadn’t worked since he left Minnesota. We then and
there entered into a gentleman’s agreement that he never again would work
for me unless his duties would be solely acting as Indian guide at Breezy
Point at a wage of nothing—except the maternal or fraternal friendship of
Maggie, our cook. Gus loves Maggie, I think, but better still, he loves
her flapjacks.

Adios to you, Gustav, and here’s hoping I don’t see you till the fishing
season next spring.

       *       *       *       *       *

Just one more drop or so before turning off the tap. It happened to be my
good luck to be invited by Bill Eltinge, better known in the theatrical
world as Julian, to attend a stag party in honor of the Los Angeles and
Vernon baseball teams at the Maier brewery in Los Angeles. Doc Stone was
master of ceremonies and he treated us lonely two hundred homeless and
wifeless old stags in a royal manner. From a purely personal standpoint
there was but one action that marred the entire evening. After being
entertained to a realistic view of the grand canyon and a wonderful
dance performed by Slim Summerfield and Bobby Dunn of the Fox studio,
the right honorable toastmaster called on “Captain Billy Whiz Bang” to
recitate. Imagine a rube farmer trying to spread the fertilizer over the
rathskeller of an up-to-date Loz Onglaz brewery. Impossible, I’ll say.

Here I had been trying all evening to “put on the dog” with Frank Chance
of Cub fame next to me, Julian Eltinge, world renowned actor, to my
right, Dick Ferris, best known privateer in the public eye in front of
me, not to mention such luminaries as Bill Essick, Wade Killifer, Larry
McGraw and Jack Milligan all around. Then there was “Shine” Scott doing
the honors back of the “near” beer bar, and “Shine” is well known to
every ball player on the Pacific Coast. Oh, by the way, I certainly
cannot overlook the immortal Tod Sloan. Either I followed Tod or he
followed me because it was my good fortune to drink Manhattans with him
in the Sunset Inn at Tia Juana and near beer near here.

Now, readers, to tell the truth, it’s quite trying to write about this
wonderful party while the writer has a perfectly good Scotch highball on
the desk beside him. (Here goes another “Happy Day.”)

One must, as one says, review one’s bunk to see where one’s left off.
Talk about Southern hospitality, well, give me the Coast. Anyway, I never
made the speech. How could I after Eltinge had brought tears of joy to
members of this famous gathering?

Like the lowly backward shyster of pedigreed bull that I am, I failed to
carry out the principles of my “deah” old friend Volstead. (This effort
calls for one Scotch heeball.) So I walked upon the brewery stage. And
when I made my bow I’ll tell you one thing which every ball player and
umpire of Southern California will verify. The stein of near beer was
clutched fondly in my sturdy right hand.

It was a rotten speech—in fact, no speech at all. My Los Angeles
physician had prescribed that I take “one tablespoonful in milk every
hour.” The milkman and my watch both went hay-wire.

But I had a good time—an elegant time and awakened next day with fond
remembrances of the morning after the night before.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are still a few rumbling in San Francisco regarding Arbuckle and
his now famous party. The stories they tell are wonderful to listen to
by way of teaching us farmers what strange means certain persons have
devised to get a kick out of life.

For instance, as my friend Barney Google would say, take this little
“roomer”:

Two of the numerous members of the party decided to entertain their
guests—the party was “dragging” as it were. The form of entertainment
provided so I am told, was the kind few of us number among our
accomplishments. Somehow or other, we have never gotten over that
old-fashioned idea that certain ceremonies listed in the regular catalog
or otherwise, are not for an audience. Rather, they are for occasions
dedicated solely to the gods and ourselves.

And then there was another. That when certain restrictive measures were
indulged in, the Arbuckle counsel had it whispered about that should
things get too strong, the defense might allow the names of certain men
and women, socially prominent in San Francisco, to be introduced as
possible witnesses to testify as to the actual happenings.

Needless to say, the well known Mr. and Mrs. Consternation immediately
entered upon the scene.

       *       *       *       *       *

And there was Captain Al Waddell, who commanded a battery in our late
fracas. Al is the boy who made a hero out of Cliff Durant out here—really
put over the son of the “Master Mind” of the automotive world, W. C.
Durant. Al, who knows everybody and everything in California, might have
made a fortune in writing a Hearst feature about the Durant divorce—but
he’s too busy selling the Perfecto two-speed axles for Fords—whatever
they may be.

It seems that for six years young Cliff had been telling his wife what to
do. When he returned from an important conference in New York with his
dad, who was still president of the General Motors, she calmly announced:

“For six years I’ve been listening to you tell me what to do. Now for six
seconds just listen to me tell you what to do.” The inside of the bomb
contained these sweet tidings: “Just give me one-half of what you own.”

Since Cliff was worth eight or ten millions, you’ll advise it was
disastrous news from the front, inasmuch as she “made it stick.”

And now, so the story goes, Cliff won’t have to worry and fret about any
mysterious looking gentleman coming to stop at his hotel at Le Bec when
he blows in.

       *       *       *       *       *

There’s another echo from the town of fogs and poodle dogs that doesn’t
ring of Robbinsdale.

Just shortly after that infamous Howard Street Gangsters affair the
police raided a “Love Nest.” It seems that, regardless of race, creed or
color (or sex) you indulged your favorite diversion while in the “Love
Nest” with your neighbor. Inasmuch as minors were involved, there was
another “Roman holiday” expected for those who would crowd the prisons.
Just when they were getting ready to point thumbs down, the defense asked
for continuance. “And on what grounds?” demanded the prosecution.

“So that we may bring witnesses—women of high social rank in the city—to
testify, by way of the indisputable means of photographs, that my clients
are nothing more than artistic photographers, specializing in taking
photos of women in the nude.”

It is a rather singular fact that the continuance was granted, that
little more was heard about the case and that instead of being sent to
San Quentin for fifty years the defendants got off with light sentences.

Asked how they could account for these women posing in the Altogether,
one of the “Artistic photographers” replied, “Well, every woman seems to
feel that she has the form divine.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Running across old friends is one of the best things you do on these
jamborees. Here in ’Frisco I found two old Minneapolis Journal men
holding down important jobs—Jim Callahan, now business manager of the
Examiner and generally considered one of Hearst’s “right hand” men, and
Chris Helin, manager of The Examiner’s Automobile Department. I am sorry
to say that they are both back sliders and wouldn’t trade the nip of the
peninsula for half of Minnesota.

Funny how these fellows go loco when they reach California. Really,
folks, you wouldn’t expect your friends to try to sell you real estate,
would you?

       *       *       *       *       *

My visit to San Francisco was the first since 1904, when I came home
from doing my Spanish-American war “bit” in the Philippines. She’s a
different city since the fire. California is a great state for new
building—buildings going up here and everywhere. Among other enterprises
they are building a lot of old missions, I understand.

Saw a sign over a Mission street doorway reading: “Virtue & Co., Ltd.” It
used to be “unlimited” here back in the Dupont street days in 1904, but I
thought that had all gone with Barbary Coast.

Am off for New York but hope now to come back later.

       *       *       *       *       *

Canadian Stuff

    A little glass of near-beer;
    A little drop of ether,
    Will make the world spin merrily,
    In any kind of weather.

       *       *       *       *       *

Times Are Improving

“How’s business?” asked the passenger.

“Better,” said the conductor as he shoved his hands in his pockets, “I
can feel the change already.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Fable of a Sap

    _He sitteth and enjoyeth_
    _The Evening_
    _And Spendeth only_
    _His Time._

       *       *       *       *       *

An Opulent Love Letter!

Oh, dearie! just the lucid thought of your love, yes just to think of it
fills my combined heart and soul with the most limpid fulgency. Every
time I think of you my erotic pumping organ vibrates all through my body.
It is just your love that keeps my soul from sacrifice. One minute I
imagine you are exulting your thought on me in the most wonderful way,
and then I feel, Oh, so strong and lusty, and it encounters the greatest
exultation of my life, but before I know it the door flies open and the
entire thought escapes without impetus, and then the next thing to come
is a thought rather much undesirable.

I just imagine you think very little of me and that you are keeping it
concealed just to see how jejune you can drain my poor heart from that
pure living love of yours, and, Oh! it makes me feel so impotent that I
want to loll my life away. It is just the lack of your levity that hurts,
and my heart turns gelid and cold but after I carry that muse for a
minute then the most mellifluous thought comes to my mind telling me that
you are thinking of me in the most elegant way and my eyes fly wide open
with fraught fulgency and I feel as though I am floating on a lovely pink
cloud eating ice cream smothered in violets, and Oh!

       *       *       *       *       *

It’s a strong stomach that has no turning.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Good

“Grace is in luck.”

“How so?”

“Two fellows are calling on her. One is a florist and the other owns a
candy store.”

       *       *       *       *       *

How Otherwise?

    Eve had no Christmas,
    Neither did Adam,
    Never wore socks,
    Nobody had ’em,
    Never got cards,
    Nobody did,
    Did they enjoy Christmas—
    We’ll say they did!

       *       *       *       *       *

Pat and Mike Stuff

An Irishman, who was very drunk, was riding on the back platform of an
old-fashioned trolley car, and with every pitch and swerve he would sway
and nearly fall off. The conductor’s warning to be seated inside were
waived aside with “I’m all right.”

Soon the car swung around a curve where the bank was steep and rocky. The
Irishman swayed and pitched head-long down the bank, being badly bruised
and knocked unconscious. While being carried back up the bank he regained
consciousness and asked: “Was anyone hurt in the wreck?”

“There wasn’t any wreck,” replied the conductor. “Begorra!” exclaimed the
Irishman: “If I had known that I wouldn’t have jumped.”




_The City of Lost Angels_


    _The following article, written by Rev. Golightly Morrill, was
    inspired by a tour he made of the movie camps two years ago. We
    cannot agree that Rev. Morrill’s description fits the present
    day Hollywood and Los Angeles. Indeed, we found the situation
    quite pleasing. It is true that Los Angeles is brimful of wim,
    wigor and witality, and why shouldn’t it be? If one was to take
    a thousand of the world’s most beautiful women and implant them
    on Robbinsdale’s virgin soil, or in any other town, Rev. Morrill
    would find as much to scorch his burning pen. So before you read
    this, gentle reader, let’s give three cheers for California.—The
    Editor._

BY REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL

Pastor, People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.

One night I went out from Los Angeles with my moral telescope to make
some observations in the movie firmament. Music was playing, but the Muse
of Music would never recognize it. In Collins’ Ode, Music was a “heavenly
maid,” played in Greece and was Wisdom’s aid, chaste and sublime—perhaps,
but not here. It was jazz gone drunk and crazy, to the great delight of
prodigal sons and daughters.

Through clouds of cigarette smoke I saw the movie stars. These “heavenly
bodies” have very earthly souls. Some were fixed stars at tables, others
falling into partners’ arms, and shooting stars were shooting love
glances at each other. Some other stars seemed votaries of Astarte, the
licentious goddess to whom a temple has been erected in Hollywood, where
I was entertained by a French countess, who regaled me with tea, fresh
cakes and a veritable Madame de Stael (not stale) vivacious conversation
on travel, music, art, literature and religion. Although she was French,
I fully understood her good English accent and gesture, as I did the
meaning of her charming sister who went to the piano and sang, “I love
you.” Morals and movies are not inseparable. Hollywood is the modern
Daphne Grove where the Seventh of the Ten Commandments is frequently
forgotten or erased.

Southern California, the “land of the flea,” is also an artists’
paradise. The paint most advertised is cosmetics. The dearest paintings
I noticed were those walking on the streets. The Angelenos are expert
painters of scenery and theatre signs, of auto bodies, and of their own
faces with liquor. But why is art necessary at all? They have climate,
and that divides the honor with charity in covering a multitude of sins.
Nature has placed all California artists in the shade by placing on her
easel the matchless pieces of sea, field and mountain. Practical art is
found in the “drawings” of gold ore from the soil and money from the
pockets of the speculators. The water color is irrigation that turns
the brown earth green. The “oil” is petroleum from which modern mining
masters are making millions compared with the price the oils of the old
masters bring. Murder is one of the fine arts of Los Angeles, promoted by
autos which assume the pedestrian has no rights and deliberately knock
him right and left and leave him bruised and bleeding. The trouble is not
so much wine as auto-intoxication. There is an auto to every thirteen
inhabitants, which may account for so many unlucky accidents. The auto
roads in the state are the finest in the world. They can’t be called
“rotten” even though they are made from decomposed granite.

Most attractive are the beaches near Los Angeles. Here caterpillar trams
crawl along, sidewalks which swarm with gum-chewers, popcorn-munchers,
gingerale-guzzlers, peanut-masticators, hawkers of red hot dogs, spitters
of tobacco, ice cream cone venders, stylish freaks and freakish styles,
nice and naughty men, good and bad girls, and roller skaters. I grew
dizzy at Ferris wheels, aeroplanes, rollercoasters, the plunge bath of
the great unwashed, pavilions of dirt, drink, dancing and dissipation.
Over all there hung a Cologne variety of smells. Couples were swinging
in pier dance halls to ragtime orchestras. There were high dives in
the water, and low dives on the street where the innocent were doped,
debauched and robbed. Noise was raised to the nth power. Instead of the
sweet sea breeze there was the strong aroma of popcorn and perspiration.

At the beach you discover many things Columbus never found in his
travels—peanut shells, dippy dippers, tin cans, can cans, tin horn
sports, human lobsters and jelly fish, shell games, gulls and gullibles,
papers, lunch boxes, bags, flasks, mermaids, mere men, kids with pails
and shovels, playmates, families, spoony couples, kelp, garters,
dead fish, fishermen, lines, nets, boats, cottages, hotels, resorts,
boardwalks, promenades, bare legs, arms, feet, busts, driftwood and
piers. Here one can find lost souls without exploring the shores of
Phlegethon, Cocytus and Avernus.

L. A.’s Elysium Park is like the classic one in one respect. When Aeneas
went through the Elysian fields all the objects were clothed in a purple
light—here it is the haze from innumerable autos whose exhausts wrap
everything in smoky pall and smell. The park is a good place to spend
hours with the Houris, and to keep it from being a Paradise Lost, one is
prohibited from spending the night there. Many enact here the myths of
the nymphs and satyrs. Holiday guests are often found “star-scattered” on
the grass, acting out the Rubaiyat.

There is only one “Lost” Angeles in all the world.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dal’s Filosophy

    It’s easy enough to be pleasant,
    With a lass and a glass and a song,
    But the man worth while is the guy who can smile,
    When he’s got the old woman along.

       *       *       *       *       *

Oh, I Wisha Wuza Lightnin’ Bug!

(From Cortland, (N. Y.) Standard)

Mr. and Mrs. H. C. Tayntor entertained Mr. and Mrs. Charles Olds and son,
Walter, of Syracuse, on Monday, and learned from them that Mr. Olds’
daughter, Mrs. Hazel Hammond, was struck by lightning during a recent
thunder storm, the skin being burned from one leg some six inches, and
then the lightning followed a water pipe and came out of a faucet.

       *       *       *       *       *

Let’s Swell Up and Bust

A man took his wife out to dinner at a hotel restaurant the other night.
A short-skirted damsel breezed in and, there being nobody else in sight,
proceeded to vamp him.

“My dear,” grinned the fatuous chump to his wife, “that girl over there
is smiling at me.”

“That’s nothing,” replied the better half, “when I first saw you I
laughed like hell.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Joys of Matrimony

Papa—“Has the young man who has been calling on you given you any
encouragement?”

Daughter—“Oh, yes, father! Just think last night he asked me if you and
mother were pleasant to live with.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Scotty’s Wail

    O wad some power the giftie gie ’em,
    To see their legs as others see ’em!
    It was frae monie a short skirt free ’em,
      And foolish notion,
    That toothpicks and piano legs
      Inspire devotion.

       *       *       *       *       *

Did It Ever Happen to You?

    Met a pretty girl one day,
    Took her down to see a play;
    Bought her candy, cake and cream,
    And other things that she had seen.
    Thought I was in good all right,
    When I took her home that night,
    Hung around and begged a kiss,
    And what think you she said, this miss?
    “Of all the cheap skates I ever lamped with my ‘once overs,’
    You are the crustiest two by twice, hair-brained gazeke on
      Gawd’s earth,
    Shake those gunboats of yours and evaporate.
    GOOD NIGHT!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Answer This One, Girls

He—“I am going to ask you a question. If you answer ‘yes,’ you mean ‘no,’
but if you do not answer, I am to have a kiss.”

She, after much deliberation—“All right, ‘shoot’.”

He—“If I should kiss you, would you be angry?”

She—“——”




_Limber Kicks_


Gal O’ Mine

    _When first I kissed my little gal,_
      _And felt her sweet embraces,_
    _I knew I’d found an “only pal”_
      _And would soon get down to cases._
    _Alas, it proved a ghastly joke,_
      _My friends began to snicker;_
    _I found myself K. O.’d and broke,_
      _Dang that gal. of liquor._

       *       *       *       *       *

    “I will be true while you’re away,”
      Thus ran the damsel’s song.
    “I will be true; but, oh, I say,
      Don’t be away too long.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Beware, Oil Men!

By Casper Y. Homing.

    Oh, mother, may I go out to swim,
    Way down behind the willers,
    I’ll hang my clothes on a hickory limb,
    And won’t go near the drillers.

       *       *       *       *       *

Hibrow Poetry

    _Her petticoat was georgette blue,_
    _Her dress was cheese cloth red,_
    _When she passes ’tween me and light,_
    _I always turn my head._

       *       *       *       *       *

Courting Up to Date

“The demure, shrinking type of maiden used to be able to walk to the
altar with the matrimonial bacon,” complains Miss Etta Kette, “but the
one who brings home the husband now-a-days seems to be the one who grabs
him and bites her initials in his cheek.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A Sundodger

Baby—“I want my bottle.”

Mother—“Keep quiet. You’re just like your father.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Crossing the “Bar”

    Midnight, a gleaming star,
        On one who pinches me,
    For hanging on a “soft drink” bar
        Till I can hardly see.
    Curled peacefully in ash barrel I would sleep
        And dream of foaming mug,
    But policeman with a bass voice deep,
        Tuts me in the jug.

       *       *       *       *       *

Knock ’er On the Kiss!

A discussion on dancing became quite heated. The Girl in the case
challenged her partner to prove his contention that any man could kiss
a girl against her will. They clinched and after a brief but determined
struggle, the girl was being ardently osculated. Upon being freed from
the fervent hold the girl sighed and said, “Well, you won but it wasn’t
fair. My foot slipped. Let’s try it again.”




_Questions and Answers_


=_Dear Captain Billy_=—Could you explain the latest dance called “The
Horse Trot”?—=_White Capp._=

According to our New York correspondent, “The Horse Trot” is done with a
little wagon behind.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Mon Captaine_=—What ees zis theeng zey call ze “all day
suckair”?—=_Suzanne Lengthen._=

An “all day sucker,” Suzanne, is a poor simp who buys a girl’s lunch and
supper; takes her to a show; puts on a midnight feed, and has the taxi
wait while he bids her good night at the door of her flat.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—Kissing causes my heart to flutter violently. What
should I do when my sweetheart tries to kiss me?—=_May Leigh._=

Letter flutter.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Dear Keptin_=—What is the quickest lunch you ever heard of?—=_Pholush
A. Ginn._=

Hasty pudding on a Jewish Fast day.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I have several gentlemen friends whom I would like
to give presents to on Christmas. Would you kindly give me a list of
suggestions?—=_Miss Goo C. Lou._=

Below are ten suggestions which I think would make gifts appreciated by
almost any man:

     1. A quart of hootch.
     2. A quart of hootch.
     3. A quart of hootch.
     4. A quart of hootch.
     5. A quart of hootch.
     6. A quart of hootch.
     7. A quart of hootch.
     8. A quart of hootch.
     9. A quart of hootch.
    10. A quart of hootch.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—What is a husband?—=_Little Willie._=

Something no respectable woman should be without.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—What is steam?—=_Talo Pott._=

Steam is water gone crazy with the heat.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Dear Bilious Skipper_=—I am a bride of two weeks and my husband has
broken my heart accusing me of extravagance and failure to economize
in the home. I have tried lots of cheap dishes without success. Could
you suggest a few menus which would enable me to make both ends
meet?—=_Worried Marjorie._=

Well, Marj, I am not much of an expert at cooking so I have referred your
question to Maggie the hired girl. She suggests as a cheap dish, beans,
but if you have tried them without success, why not try serving tongue
and eggs?

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—Can you tell me where moonshine comes from?—=_Hugo
Chaser._=

No, that’s a secret still.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I am informed that it is absolutely proper for
a lady to shake hands when sitting. If so, has the gentleman the same
privilege?—=_Minnie Haha._=

When shaking hands in this glorious land of the free and the home of the
Drys, a Gentleman does it standing, a lady has the privilege of shaking
sitting down, and a Dog does it standing on three legs.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Dear Captain_=—What makes the ocean so blue?—=_T. N. T._=

Because it has to embrace so many objectionable people.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Dear Bill_=—Why does a chicken cross the road?—=_Slim Jim._=

Because she sees some fellow over there who looks like easy picking.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pat, Lady Killer

A son of Erin wandered into a revival meeting one night. After listening
to the revivalist catalogue the crimes and misdemeanors of which his
hearers were guilty and enlarge upon the danger of spending eternity in a
warm but insalubrious climate, the poor Irishman felt that he was “hair
hung and breeze shaken over hell” as Elder Means said. Soon he was under
deep “conviction” and in due time was soundly converted.

A few evenings later he arose to give his “testimony” and said: “Ladies
and gintlemen; Oh, Oi beg yer pardon—My Dear Sisters an’ Brothers; you
know Oi’m not used to spakin’ in meetin’s like this. But Oi want to tell
you that Oi’m glad Oi’m saved. An’ be the way, it took a helluva lot of
grace to save me, for Oi was a dom bad man. Oi lied an’ dhrank an’ swore
an’ stole an’ gambled an’ did everyt’ing that was low and vile an’ mean.
An’ more than that, Oi was a ‘killer’ among the women, as many of the
sisters here present kin testify.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A Chaplin Prayer

Danny was a good boy.

Jimmy was not.

Danny said his prayers—“Give us this day our daily bread.”

But Jimmy interrupted—“Strike him for pie, Danny.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The Bray of An Ass

A man who was walking through a train inadvertently left the door of one
of the cars open. A big man sitting in a seat in the middle of the car
yelled: “Shut the door, you fool! Were you raised in a barn?”

The man who had left the door open closed it and then, dropping into a
seat, buried his face in his hands and began to weep. The big man looked
somewhat uncomfortable and, rising finally walked up to the weeper and
tapped him on the shoulder.

“My friend,” he said, “I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings. I just
wanted you to close the door.”

The man who was weeping raised his head and grinned. “Old man,” he said,
“I am not crying because you hurt my feelings, but because you asked me
if I was raised in a barn. The fact is that I was raised in a barn, and
every time I hear an ass bray it makes me homesick.”

       *       *       *       *       *

‘Throw Out the Life Line’

“How did you like the banquet last night?”

“Fine. There was a lady at the table across from me who had one of those
‘table line gowns’ on. She looked like Venus.”

“How do you know she had on a gown, then?”

“I dropped my fork.”




_Whiz Bang Editorials_

“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet._”


There are many “Calamity Janes” in the U. S. A. One of their stock cries,
just after a crime has been committed is, “If she gets off, she’s going
in the movies!”

Let us look at the real facts. Searching the history of the moving
picture business, in not a single instance has a murder been starred in
pictures.

About seven or eight years ago a wealthy married man in Virginia was shot
by his wife (or was it by a girl in the case?)—Beulah Binford—because
he had trifled with her affections. The courts proved the man a rotter,
and because Beulah was a very young girl, she was released without a
prison sentence. Beulah’s heart and life were broken and she wanted to
bury herself in her little home town and try to start over again, but
she needed money. An unscrupulous promoter from New York who thought he
could profit by the notoriety caused by the crime, made her an offer to
be starred in pictures. Beulah went to New York. The picture was taken
but the police closed Madison Square Garden when it was scheduled to
show there. Even in those early days of picturedom, movie companies of
any standing were bitterly incensed against promoters who wanted to make
money by exploiting crime.

The tragic figure in this case was Beulah Binford herself. When the
picture failed to bring in receipts she was left alone and penniless in a
strange city. She went from studio to studio asking for work, but despite
the fact that she was beautiful, no one wanted to take a chance with her.
Finally the Republic Film Company, of New York, gave her a job sorting
papers in their office. She went through countless hardships in the city.
What has become of her, we do not know.

A few years later, in Wisconsin, a boy student killed his sweetheart in
a lonely wooded section not far from the state university buildings. The
case was never proved to have been premeditated murder and he was not
given a prison sentence. A well known New York syndicate writer, a woman
went out to Wisconsin and tied up the boy’s services for pictures. She
then hastened back to New York to sell the contract for a profit. Every
picture company in New York turned down her proposition to star the boy!

After Marie Edwards shot Senator Lyons a year or so ago in California,
she visited all the studios in Los Angeles in an attempt to get into the
movies. Not a single position was offered her.

Mrs. Louise Peete, who was recently sentenced to life imprisonment for
the murder of J. C. Denton at his home in Los Angeles, made overtures to
the picture companies during the time she thought she was going to be
freed. Not a single studio executive paid the slightest attention to her
attempts to be exploited on the screen.

The “son” of Senator New, who brutally killed his sweetheart in Topanga
Canyon near Los Angeles about a year ago, also thought he might follow a
picture career, but this was cut short when he was sentenced to twenty
years in the penitentiary.

Mrs. Marie Bailey, who shot her sweetheart, Clarence Hogan, in Pasadena
last December, told all reporters that she was going to be featured in
pictures as soon as she was released. Mrs. Bailey had previously played
in pictures, but when she was arrested, picture studios all made the
notation that she would never again be hired even as an “extra.” Marie
has gone “up” for ten years.

The Clara Hamon picture, “Fate,” although already produced, has not been
exhibited in the theatres. In the light of the history of past cases has
it a chance?

       *       *       *       *       *

Burning kisses always go with sparks.

       *       *       *       *       *

An authority once established is hard to controvert. That is why it
is going to be one heck of a job to knock any kind of a dent into the
present Volstead law prohibiting even a smelling acquaintance with wine,
beer or regular hard “licker.” Organized minorities vote solidly in
politics; the vote of the majority is scattered. There is nothing more
easily swayed than popular opinion and popular “passion” with the right
kind of propaganda.

I remember when Carpentier, the French fight champ, came across to
get his bump on the beak, Gus and I were discussing the antics of the
New York society women who “literally” fought with each other for the
privilege of kissing him at a garden party. It is the human nature of the
female of the specie to kiss the male brute at every opportune occasion,
and, under stress of easily aroused emotions, under other conditions as
well.

Emotion is a primitive human instinct and if women swarm to kiss a prize
fighter in these enlightened days, it is easy to understand how an
unorganized majority of males, as well as females, might be moulded by
proper propaganda to a conviction that this country will go to the bow
wows unless booze of all character and description is kicked into the
discard.

We must admit that the prohibition minority did not slip anything over
on the majority when it wasn’t looking. First they sneaked into a few
legislatures and then they put it through Congress and had it ratified by
their legislatures. The majority found out about it when it was too late.
All the majority can do now is to defy the Volstead law and vote down the
enforcement provisions of it. Some of them are doing this—while others
are becoming Cunard addicts and going to Europe and Havana.

Europe used to be a continent of kings—now it is only America’s corner
saloon.

We have never held any particular briefs for Squirrel whisky and other
forms of 100 proof “hootch.” But even our former president, Woodrow—what
was his name?—Wilson, is strong for wines and beers and we are willing
to stack with him on this question, at least. It is going to be a hard
job—getting any concessions from the prohibitionists. We believe Gus has
the right idea, however, when he says the day of the “bum voyage” to
Europe is nearing a close, and that the old familiar sign “Wines, Liquors
and Segars” may soon be dusted off and tacked up outside the front door.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Way They Sing It

We will now sing that little Nanny-goat song entitled “Mammy.” Also that
well known ballad “Just a Japanese Ashcan.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The stage contortionist leads a double life.




_Smokehouse Poetry_


_Every once in a while we get regular he-man verse prompted by dreams
in some feather bed, but from the pen of Budd L. McKillips, Whiz Bang
readers again are to be treated with a poem inspired by real life. In
the Winter Annual of the Whiz Bang we reproduced Mr. McKillips’ poem
“After the Raid,” inspired while Mr. McKillips, as a newspaper reporter,
“covered” story of the raid on the National Dutch Room cabaret in
Minneapolis. Recently pretty Zelda Crosby, picture scenario writer, of
New York, committed suicide in a hotel by drinking poison, as a result of
a prominent film magnate spurning her after teaching her the ways of love
and folly. This magnate, like many other alleged reformers, has been a
leading figure in the movement for purity in pictures. The title of Mr.
McKillips poem, written exclusively for the Whiz Bang, is “The Girl From
Over ‘There’.” In addition to that poem we are publishing a crackerjack
rival to the “Gila Monster Route,” with which Winter Annual readers have
fallen in love, called “The Blanket Stiff.”_

       *       *       *       *       *

The Spirit of Mortal

    Oh, Why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
    Like a swift-fleeting meteor, like a fast flying cloud,
    A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
    He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

    The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
    And be scattered around and together be laid,
    And the old and the young and the low and the high,
    Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.

    The infant a mother attended and loved,
    The mother that infant’s affection who proved,
    The husband that mother and infant who blessed,
    Each all are away to their dwellings of rest.

    The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne,
    The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn,
    The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
    Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

    The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
    The herdsman who limbed with his goats to the steep,
    The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,
    Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

    So the multitude goes like the flower or the weed,
    That withers away to let others succeed;
    So the multitude comes even those we behold,
    To repeat every tale that has often been told.

    For we are the same our fathers have been:
    We see the same sights our fathers have seen—
    We drink the same stream and view the same sun,
    And run the same course our fathers have run.

    The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
    From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;
    To the life we are clinging they also would cling,
    But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.

    They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
    They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
    They grieved, but no wail from their slumber shall come;
    They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

    They died!—ay; they died, we things that are now,
    That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
    And make in their dwellings a transient abode;
    Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

    Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
    We mingle together in sunshine and rain;
    And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,
    Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

    ’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath,
    From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
    From the gilded saloon, the bier and the shroud;
    Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

       *       *       *       *       *

Just Thinking

By Hudson Hawley.

(In the Stars and Stripes.)

    Standin’ up here on the fire-step
        Lookin’ ahead in the mist,
    With a tin hat over your ivory
        And a rifle clutched in your fist;
    Waitin’ and watchin’ and wond’rin’
        If the Huns comin’ over tonight—
    Say, aren’t the things you think of,
        Enough to give you a fright?

    Things you ain’t even thought of
        For a couple o’ months or more;
    Things that ’ull set you laughin’;
        Things that ’ull make you sore;
    Things that you saw in the movies,
        Things that you saw on the street,
    Things that you’re really proud of,
        Things that are—not so sweet.

    Debts that are past collection,
        Stories you hear and forget,
    Ball games and birthday parties,
        Hours of drill in the wet;
    Headlines, recruitin’ posters,
        Sunsets way out at sea,
    Evenings of pay days—golly—
        It’s a queer thing, this memory!

    Faces of pals in the home burg,
        Voices of women folk,
    Verses you learned in school days,
        Pop up in the mist and smoke,
    As you stand there grippin’ that rifle,
        A standin’ and chilled to the bone,
    Wonderin’ and wonderin’ and wonderin,’
        Just thinkin’ there—all alone!

    When will the war be over?
        When will the gang break through?
    What will the U. S. look like?
        What will there be to do?
    Where will the Boshes be then?
        Who will have married Nell?
    When’s that relief a-comin’ up?
        Gosh! But this thinkin’s hell!

       *       *       *       *       *

Gee Whiz

By Dorothy.

    Dream girl with your raven hair
    Eyes of brown and dimples too
    Can’t you find one day to spare
    That I may elope with you?

    Too many ginks are on your hooks
    You trifle right and left
    They toddle round with hungry looks
    Poor nuts they’re all bereft.

    Dream girl get your cigarettes
    And I’ll produce the booze,
    Put the brake on vain regrets
    And let us burn the fuse.

    Hire a hall or buy a yacht
    It’s all the same, Oh! gee
    But give me everything you’ve got
    It’s coming straight to ME.

    Dream girl with your raven hair
    Come cuddle up and tease
    Love me, bite me like a bear,
    Then kiss me—naughty—please.

    Make it today and don’t postpone
    Don’t make your sweetie pout,
    Dear heart I’m sitting all alone
    For the darned old booze gave out.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Land of Gee and Haw

By Ted Lattourette Hansford.

    I have a home I’m not ashamed of,
    In the land of Gee and Haw,
    Where Jeff Davis found a pile of rocks
    And called it Arkansaw.

    And I am going back to Flatrock,
    Where the cornfed people stay,
    And they make a little moonshine
    Just to pass the time away.

    I can see old Hank and Silas,
    A firing up the drum
    To run a drink that’s guaranteed
    To put sorrow on the bum.

    It glistens like the dewdrops,
    At the dawn of early morn,
    And you can smell the boys’ feet
    That plowed the yaller corn.

    It fills your heart with gratitude,
    And keeps you feeling fine,
    Like everybody was owin’ you
    And you didn’t need a dime.

    ’Tis the land where satisfaction,
    Peace, love and feuds reside,
    And the farms they sit up edgeways;
    You can farm on either side.

    Where they dance from dark till daylight,
    Calling swing, and balance all;
    With the fiddler full o’ pine top,
    Playing Turkey in The Straw.

    When you read these lines, yours truly
    Will be there for evermore,
    Wading through the moonshine,
    Singing Sailor on The Shore.

    And my address, should you want me,
    Will be Flatrock, Arkansaw;
    Care o’ Wildcat Hiram Johnson,
    In the Land of Gee and Haw.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ten Years on the Islands

    Ten years on the Islands,
    And you’re mad;
    Not a spark of decency—
    Oh! it’s sad;
    Can’t recall one sober day,
    That you’ve had;
    You’ve let the tropics get you,
    And you’re bad.

    Ten years on the Islands,
    And you fell,
    Hardly conscious of surrender,
    To the spell;
    You’re eaten up with leprosy,
    Traders tell,
    You’re a comber of the beaches—
    Gone to hell.

    Ten years on the Islands,
    It’s too long,
    To preserve one’s sense of right,
    And of wrong,
    The tropic’s spell is gentle,
    But it’s strong,
    It feeds the soul on lotus,
    Till it’s gone.

       *       *       *       *       *

Spoiled Girl

    When you are awfully cross to me
    I pout, and pout, and pout,
    My lip goes down, my eyes get big
    And then my tears come out.

    When you are awfully good to me
    I smile, and smile, and smile,
    So if you like sun more than rain
    Try being good awhile.

       *       *       *       *       *

Great Gawsch!

“Hang it all, daughter,” exploded old Jenkins. “You can’t marry young
Dobbins, I won’t have it. Why he only makes eighteen dollars a week.”

“I know father,” replied the sweet young thing, “but a week passes so
quickly when you are fond of each other.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Hot Dog!

It doesn’t extinguish the conflagration in a man’s burning brain when a
pretty girl turns her hose on him.

       *       *       *       *       *

How to Get Tips

Smith Dalrymple tells this one: When I was in Bartlesville I went into a
lady barber shop to get shaved. That was the first female joint I ever
saw. When I went in the barber was sitting on a fellow’s lap.

She jumped up and said, “You’re next.”

I said, “I know it and I know who I am next to.”

She said, “Do you want a close shave?”

I said, “No, I just had one, my wife passed the window and didn’t look
in.”

I gave her a quarter, she handed me back ten cents and before I thought
where I was I said, “Put it in the piano.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Those Flivvers Again

We heard a couple talking in the rear of a machine ahead of us. The man
sighed, “Oh, dearest, you never have acted this way before. Always you
have been cold towards me and now you’re—”

So I put on my brakes and pulled my radiator away from the back of their
machine.

       *       *       *       *       *

Someone’s Inhaling Ether

(From the Chicago Tribune)

“She had those wide blue eyes whose expression can be misleading in their
infantile pathos; hair fine and shining like gossamer gold; a complexion
firm and white, with the barest breath of rose leaf pink on the cheek
bones, and the whole of her was small, neat, rounded.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Just Like the Army

The prosy old parson was coming and his hostess carefully drilled her
daughter to answer the string of questions he always asked every little
girl: (1) “What is your name?” (2) “How old are you?” (3) “Are you a good
little girl?” (4) “Do you know where bad little girls go?”

But the little girl was overtrained and when the reverend visitor began
by asking her her name, she spilled all the answers at once in a single
breath.

“Dorothy, sir; six years old, sir; yes, sir; go to hell, sir.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Blank Verse

    Dear Captain Billy,
    I am full of regrets,
    Because the other night
    I set out to find the gold
    At the end of the rainbow.
    And all that I saw was
    “The Gold Diggers.”
    Ain’t that always the way
    In Boston?

       *       *       *       *       *

Sneeze Hearty

“I rise to propose a little toast,” announced the president of the Hay
Fever Club.

“What is it?”

“Here’s looking at—choo!”




_Hollywood Flirtations_


It is rumored around filmland that handsome (?) “Bull” Montana is shortly
to be married. Doug Fairbanks, in lowbrow days before he married Mary,
used to pal around with “Bull” and other ringside favorites, but ’tis
said Mary ruled against Bull as being “declasse.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It will be remembered that Viola Dana was a very close friend of Orma
Locklear, the famous aviator, who was killed about a year ago. A few
months later, she was often seen with Earl Daugherty, also a well known
aviator, who maintains one of the finest flying fields in Southern
California. Now Earl and Viola are never seen together. What happened,
Viola?

       *       *       *       *       *

’Tis said on “Elinor Glyn Night” at the Ambassador Cocoanut Grove, our
visiting English authoress ate her entire supper without once removing
her long white gloves. Those were “great moments” when the olives,
corn and asparagus came on! Elinor was again accompanied by that tall,
youngish actor, Dana Todd. Hollywood has been undergoing mental
confusion all summer as to whether Dana was in love with Gloria Swanson
or Elinor or merely a protege protector of both ladies when they took
their evenings out.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lois Wilson, Lasky star, has a brand new Chicago millionaire beau who
seems to be quite serious in his intentions. Mildred Harris, who has also
been playing over at the Lasky lot of late, is favoring a millionaire of
brunette hue.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mabel Normand went off on a farm in Vermont last winter and drank milk
until she could again ask her friends how one could lose weight. Just
now, a distinguished looking gentleman with gray hair is trotting Mabel
about to the dance emporiums.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bessie Love is often seen at the cafes, but almost always with “mama.”
Lost your hunting license, Bessie?

       *       *       *       *       *

The other evening when Clara Kimball Young stepped out with Harry
Garson wearing a whole photoplay worth of ermine and diamonds, a very
embarrassing thing happened. They danced of course, but in one of those
floor jams, Clara suddenly found her lovely head parked on the shoulder
of her ex-spouse, Jimmy Young. Gallant to the end, Jimmy appeared not to
notice—but when the next dance began, Jimmy sat it out with his partner
at one end of the ball-room while Clara feigned weariness at the other
end!

       *       *       *       *       *

Ruth Renick, film star, is in love with an unknown hero. While horseback
riding the other day, she hurt her ankle and went into a drug store for
aid. Then she grew faint and fell right over into the arms of a handsome
stranger. He vanished when she woke up and that ends the story. Ruth and
“we all” are hoping for developments.

       *       *       *       *       *

Roy Stewart has been riding horseback of late with Miss Stanley
Partridge, a young Los Angeles society girl.

       *       *       *       *       *

Walter Morosco and Betty Compson are often seen stepping about together.

       *       *       *       *       *

Yes, we admit that this item should have headline position. ’Tis true
that Mr. and Mrs. Wallace MacDonald (Doris May), took a second-run
honeymoon over at Catalina.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bill Desmond and his own wife, Mary McIvor, often step out together and
dance together all evening—because they like it. This same state of
affairs exists with the Wesley Ruggles and Conrad Nagles as well as in
the Bryant Washburn household.

       *       *       *       *       *

Evelyn Nesbit, formerly Mrs. Harry K. Thaw, recently caused the arrest of
four men on charges of disorderly conduct. She complained they entered
the hallway outside of her apartment and that one seized her by the
shoulders and made an insulting remark. The complainant said she knew
none of the men. At the station house Miss Nesbit said that the men fled
in a taxicab when she ran to the street yelling “fire” and calling for
the police. The quartet returned later and encountered two policemen.

       *       *       *       *       *

Can We Forgive Him?

The London Post reports the following—

There was fighting in the fo’c’sle; and the aggressor, a hard-faced,
hard-fisted sailor man from Rotherhithe, was called upon to explain.

“That square-headed Swede miscalled me,” he bellowed. “He said I was an
Irishman, and I’m not. Me mother was a good Mexican lady and me father
was two marines from Chatham!”

The explanation cordially accepted.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pithole Filosophy

One time I got mad at a sassy kid; I said, “There is enough brass in your
face to make a large kettle.”

He said “Yes, and there’s enough sap in your head to fill it.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The Wails of a Wolstead Wictim

Oh to spend “jack” like a Jackass; to have the “hips” of a hippo; the
neck of a giraffe; the thirst of a camel and the “jag” of a jaguar.

       *       *       *       *       *

Giving Him Fair Warning

She—“What are you thinking about?”

He—“Just what you’re thinking about.”

She—“If you do, I’ll scream.”—Phoenix.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Way of a Lad With a Lass

He—“Hu-nnnh?”

She—“Nu’unnnh.”

He—“Please.”

She—“I told you NO!”

He—“Hu’nnnnnnh?”

She—“Nu’unnnnnnh.”

He—“Huu’n n n n n nh?”

She—“Nu—Unnnnnnn’huh.”

Smack!

       *       *       *       *       *

Modern Literature

She nestled against the two strong arms that held her. She pressed her
flushed cheek against the smooth skin-so near-so tan-so glowing.

“How handsome!” she cried, her eyes noting the fine straight back, the
sturdy, well-shaped legs.

“How handsome!” she repeated. “I adore a leather upholstered chair.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Flapper Blues

    Ain’t no use of living, nothing gained,
    Ain’t no use of eating just pain,
    Ain’t no use of kissing he’ll tell,
    Ain’t no use of nothing, Oh, well.

       *       *       *       *       *

Djever Hear This One?

An Englishman bragged that he was once mistaken for Lloyd George. The
American boasted that he had been taken for President Wilson.

Paddy said he had them all beat.

“A fellow walked up to me and tapped me on the shoulder and said ‘Great
God, is that you?’”

       *       *       *       *       *

Pink Pills for Pale People

Lydia Pinkham recently received a love letter from the vegetable compound
magnate reading as follows, our correspondents report:

    “Do you carrot all for me? My bleeding heart beets for you. My
    love is as soft as a squash, but as strong as an onion. You are
    a peach with your radish hair and turnip nose. Your cherry lips
    and forget-me-not eyes call me. You are the apple of my eye,
    and if we canteloupe lettuce marry for I am sure we would make
    a happy pear.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Lovely Calves We’re Having!

“Oh see the darling little cow-lets!”

“Miss, those are not cow-lets, they’re bull-ets.”




Pasture Pot Pourri


The other day a stranger walked up and asked me if I was a doctor. I
informed him that I wasn’t, but that I thought I knew where he could get
some.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some women get red in the face from modesty, some from anger, and some
from the druggist.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pour Her Back Into the Ocean

    She wiggled, she waddled,
    She leapt and she toddled;
    She shivered, she quivered, she shook.
    She rippled, she trippled,
    She sprang and she skippled—
    Her dance was “The Song of the Brook.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The Song of a Sailor

“_There’s just one Gal in Galveston, but there’s More in Baltimore._”

       *       *       *       *       *

I went into a restaurant. I said, “Have you got anything fit for a hog to
eat?”

He said, “Yes, what do you want?”

       *       *       *       *       *

When a married man gets his hair cut, his wife loses her strongest hold
on him.

       *       *       *       *       *

The barber has a scraping acquaintance with a great many people.

       *       *       *       *       *

Essence of Sweet Peas

“The mean old thing wouldn’t lettuce.”

“Can we take a little spin-ach?”

“No, I’ll see my car-rot first.”

       *       *       *       *       *

There is something mysteriously attractive about all mysteries—except
hash.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A request has come from a Philadelphia reader that all our jokes be
written on tissue paper so that he can see through them._

       *       *       *       *       *

May Have Better Luck

(From Sedalia Correspondence of Rogers Democrat)

Mrs. Albert Evans didn’t have good luck with her incubator. She had only
thirty little chicks, but she is undaunted and she is setting again.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Mary wears her new short skirt,
      Cut just about in half;
    Who cares a slam ’bout Mary’s lamb,
      Now we can see her calf?

       *       *       *       *       *

The woman with a past is always glad to see a man with a present.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Latest Song “Hit”

By A. Balland Batt.

“When the Baseball season starts, Sweetheart, I’ll be running home to
you.”

       *       *       *       *       *

_Miss Marrietta Nutt will now render the latest “catch”. “The toy shop
business is booming since they show their Teddy bears.”_

       *       *       *       *       *

We Expect a Free Can For This!

_I saw a girl the other day who was so bashful she asked for a lady clerk
when she wanted to buy some Arbuckle’s coffee._

       *       *       *       *       *

The Happy Ham

    _All smokers are inveterate;_
      _Their vice becomes inured,_
    _Only a ham can smoke and smoke,_
      _And smoking still be cured._

       *       *       *       *       *

    I kicked a mongrel cur,
    He uttered a mournful wail.
    Where did I kick him, Sir?
    Ah! Thereby hangs a tail.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The most disgusting sight in the world is to see another fellow in an
automobile with your best girl._

       *       *       *       *       *

The old inhabitant says, “I kin remember when a young lady passed you,
you always could hear the rustle of stiffly starched skirts.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Naughty Egg

    I wish I was a crow’s egg
      As bad as bad can be,
    All cuddled up in a little nest
      Way up in a big tree.
    And when a grinning little boy
      Looked up at me in glee,
    I’d bust my naughty little self
      And sprinkle him with me.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Diamond Queen

Now on one hand she has an immense fortune and on the other hand she has
warts.

       *       *       *       *       *

When a girl casts her bread upon the waters, she expects it to come back
in the shape of a wedding cake.

       *       *       *       *       *

_One of the season’s popular football rooters’ song is that old familiar
ballad “After the Ball.”_

       *       *       *       *       *

The Hootch Hound’s Lament

    It’s easy to stay two-thirds pickled all day,
      Get drunk and sleep out in the yard,
    But to put in a night without one drink in sight;
      It’s the getting back sober that’s hard.

       *       *       *       *       *

Love is a hallucination that makes an otherwise sane man believe he can
set up housekeeping on a gas stove and a canary bird.

       *       *       *       *       *

St. Paul Blues

    _When I’m dead bury me deep,_
    _Bury me in the middle of St. Peter street;_
    _Put my hands across my chest_
    _And tell the girls I’ve gone to rest._

       *       *       *       *       *

_“What a curve,” said the garter, as it came around the last stretch._

       *       *       *       *       *

Many a girl who never had her ears pierced has frequently had them bored.




_Movie Hot Stuff_


Mrs. Juanita M. Cohen has filed a heart-balm suit for $50,000 against
Jackie Saunders for the loss of the love and affection of J. Warde Cohen,
her husband. Jackie affirms that Mr. Cohen has no love for his wife and
that no pretty stranger can steal anything which doesn’t exist. Jackie
and her lawyers cite several scenes that have taken place between the
Cohens, all to prove that the little God Eros was not about. Rather a
clever way to turn the matter about, Jackie!

       *       *       *       *       *

At several recent parties and dinners attended by film stars and given
since the Arbuckle affair has been disclosed, the picture people have not
refused cocktails or wine offered by the host. The picture people have
been drinking their cocktails with a bit of defiance as if to show the
world that “there are plenty of us who can drink with moderation and do
nothing to hurt our neighbor or disgrace the community.”

Before prohibition made such conditions imperative, all of us might have
thought the party a bit too free and careless if drinks were served in
hotel bedrooms and prelude parties to hotel dinners given on the upper
floors. For those who still believe in the free rights of the individual,
hotel bedroom drinking is the only kind allowed by law. Perhaps if the
Arbuckle party had been allowed to order their drinks in a hotel lobby or
tea-room, the tragedy of Miss Rappe’s death would never have occurred.

At any rate, let it be said that at two large dinner parties given since
the Arbuckle affair, the film people drank with decorum and several
Pasadena and Los Angeles millionaire society men were the ones laid out
to “rest and recuperate!”

Another party planned to take place on a yacht equipped with “orchid and
rose suites,” promising to border on the near dangerous, was declined by
a number of prominent Hollywood stars. The party took place without the
film folk, there being plenty of fast folk in the society set to attend
who had no professional reputation to protect.

       *       *       *       *       *

The divorce case of the Charles Kenyons developed into an Alphonse and
Gaston affair. Charlie Kenyon is the author of the successful play
“Kindling” and has written many photoplays for the Fox and Goldwyn
studios at which he has been employed.

During the hotly contested divorce suit, both accused the other of
desertion. Mrs. Kenyon testified that when her husband came home late at
night and she upbraided him concerning the matter, he said he would have
to live his own life and if he couldn’t live it there, he would have to
go somewhere else. Therefore, Kenyon deserted.

Kenyon, on the other hand, said that his wife deserted him because her
actions and treatment of him made going away the only possibly manly act.
Quite a paradox for you isn’t it, Judge?

Mrs. Kenyon has previously divorced two husbands. It is said that Kenyon
remained a bachelor several years while he waited for the present Mrs.
Kenyon to free herself from her last husband and marry him.

       *       *       *       *       *

H. H. Waters, scenario writer, was found clad only in a suit of pajamas,
the other morning just outside the Hollywood Hotel. He was unconscious
and bleeding profusely. The names of the other picture folk who attended
the party have been kept under cover.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our Guv’ment’s too annoying! The whole blasted Pacific fleet has been
back in Los Angeles harbor since September without a movie guest aboard!
You see there’s some sort of a board of inspection from Washington going
over the nuts and bolts, and its been considered tactful to keep the milk
on the table and cover the Victrola!

       *       *       *       *       *

While Doug and Mary were recovering from a tremendous ovation in London
and were receiving a similar welcome in Gay Paree, Charlie Chaplin native
Englishman, was being slapped by the press of his native land. The London
Post, for example, says this:

“Charlie Chaplin was good enough to remark on the sadness of the faces of
the Londoners he met in his walks. Well, we went through a bit of a war
while Charlie was in Los Angeles.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Going, Going, Gone!

    When the rye is in the meadow
    And the corn is in the shock
    And your cellar’s dry as powder
    And your diamonds all in hock,
    When the gin is all in Holland
    And the home brew knocked sky-high
    Oh, tell me Captain Billy
    When the milk weed’s going dry.

       *       *       *       *       *

How to Get the Cash

    “Bonuses for Babies”
      Is all the cry In France;
    And so the largest families
      Will get the biggest chance;
    But where’s the money coming from?
      French Law for laughter bids
    By taxing all the bachelors
      For other people’s kids!

       *       *       *       *       *

    The nox was lit by the lux of Luna,
    It was a nox most opportuna,
    To catch a possum or a coona.
    The nix was scattered o’er the Mundus,
    A shallow nix et non profundus.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The undertaker is always able to put up a stiff argument._




_Classified Ads_


The Colonel Knows His Cat

(From San Antonio Express.)

Reward—Lost, Boston female, 8 months old, 12 lbs., mahogany brindle,
screw tail, white chest, back of neck and blazed face. Col. M. L.
Crimmins, 106 Groveland Place.

       *       *       *       *       *

Why, Mabel!

(From St. Louis Post-Dispatch.)

Miss Mabel Wilber, in the leading soprano role of Daisy the Barmaid,
later Little Boy Blue, sang well and wore several masculine costumes
which showed her versatility.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Warm Proposition

(San Francisco Chronicle.)

Young man, 28, wishes the acquaintance of a lonely, stout lady; object
mat. Box 500, Chronicle Branch, San Jose.

       *       *       *       *       *

Hand In Hand

(From the Bald Knob, Ark., Eagle.)

A jolly bunch of our young people went on a kodaking expedition Sunday
that resulted in many exposures and a very enjoyable time.

       *       *       *       *       *

Like Dimples, They Come High

(From the Graceville, Minn., Enterprise.)

Born—To Mr. and Mrs. G. C. Heimann, Sunday, August 7th, a son.

You can get one this month only for $40.00. See Chris. Nelson, The Tailor.

       *       *       *       *       *

The timid girl appreciates the sympathy that makes a man feel for her in
the dark.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bargain Day

The late Cy Warman, who deserted railway literature for a real railway
job in Montreal, told this story at a luncheon not long before his death:

A Scotchman came upon an automobile overturned at a railway crossing.
Beside it lay a man all smashed up.

“Get a doctor,” he moaned.

“Did the train hit you?” asked the Scotchman.

“Yes, yes; get a doctor.”

“Has the claim agent been here yet?”

“No, no; please get a doctor.”

“Move over, you,” said the Scot, “till I lie down beside you.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A Letter in Meter

    There are meters of accent,
      There are meters of tone,
    But the best way to meet her
      Is to meter alone.

    There are letters of accent
      There are letters of tone,
    But the best way to letter
      Is to letter alone.

       *       *       *       *       *

Page the Weather Boy!

The fancy display in hosiery on a rainy day affects a man’s eyes to such
an extent that he is always anxious to see it clear up.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Playing with loaded dice is shaky business at best._

       *       *       *       *       *

Ain’t It the Truth?

It usually takes a St. Patrick’s Day parade longer to pass a bootlegging
joint than any other point on the line of march.

       *       *       *       *       *

The High Cost of Babies

The following is an original advertisement appearing in the Genesee
(Idaho) News:

            Eight Months’ Warning.

    After October 1st, all babies C. O. D.

                        W. H. Ehlen, M. D.
                           H. Rouse, M. D.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Tattlers

Age and her little brother will always tell on a girl.

       *       *       *       *       *

They nicknamed the baby Steamboat because they used a paddle behind.

       *       *       *       *       *

A little boy wrote a composition on man and he said it was a person split
half way up and who walks on the split end.

       *       *       *       *       *

Something to Worry About

The pulse of Napoleon is said to have made only 50 beats a minute.

       *       *       *       *       *

_According to new regulations in the British army, each soldier in
barracks is allowed 600 cubic feet of air space, and if the diet of the
British soldier is the same as that of the Yank, the 600 feet is none too
much._




_Our Rural Mail Box_


=_Dorothy_=—Your friend has been spoofing you. Beware of freak poker
games. If you want to bet, cross the line to Tiajuana.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_George_=—Stick ’em under the mattress to crease ’em but don’t have the
baby in bed.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Stock Clerk_=—There is only one sure way of making money following the
ponies.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Madame Bozo_=—Stout women should not wear tight waists. Sizes up to 48
bust in basement.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Howsitt Pheal_=—You won’t mind wearing amber glasses in the Islands,
Howsitt, you’ll get color blind anyhow.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Dottie_=—When he begins by saying, “Little girl, I’m old enough to be
your father”—well, look out!

       *       *       *       *       *

=_George_=—It is rude for a man to fall asleep while his wife is talking,
but a man has to sleep some time.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Nisbet_=—You’re like the Scotchman who said “Don’t be backward in
coming forward.”

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Luscious Lizzie_=—It is not considered correct table manners to blow on
your coffee to cool it. You had better pour it in your saucer.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Silas Sawyer_=—Chewing tobacco is all right in its place. Refrain,
however, from using it for decorative purposes.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Al B. Kirk_=—A Whuzzat is a trained tobacco-chewing dog employed by the
Southern Railway to run alongside of fast express trains to spit on the
coach trucks to keep the hot boxes from burning.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Fat Man_=—Your meaning is not quite clear. Do I understand you to say
you cannot dance except with a concave partner?

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Johnny_=—I can’t use your story of the stove-pipe. It isn’t clean.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Sapp_=—If you want a set of teeth inserted, would advise that you go
and kick some cross bull dog.

       *       *       *       *       *

=_Restauranteur_=—A swell meal would be dried apples and water, and you
can get a chicken dinner for ten cents at any feed store.




_A Christmas Gift!_


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 opposite 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.




_Our Winter Annual_


In addition to republication of gems of earlier issues of Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang, the first complete Winter Annual of this great family journal
contains a large variety of brand new jokes, jests, jingles, pot pourri,
stories and smokehouse poetry. This book, Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22,
contains four times as much reading matter as the regular Issue of the
Whiz Bang and sells for one dollar per copy. It is a book which will
be cherished by the readers for years to come, and holds the greatest
collection of red-blooded poetry yet put in print. Included in the list
are:

    Johnnie and Frankie, The Face on the Barroom Floor, The
    Shooting of Dan McGrew, The Harpy, Lasca (in full), The Girl
    in the Blue Velvet Band, Langdon Smith’s “Evolution,” Advice
    to Men, Advice to Women, Our Own Fairy Queen, Stunning Percy
    LaDue, Parody on Kipling’s “The Ladies,” Toledo Slim.

Orders are now being received and will be mailed in the order in which
they are received. Tear off the attached blank and mail to us today with
your check, money order or stamps.

    Whiz Bang,
    Robbinsdale, Minnesota.

    Gentlemen:

    Enclosed is dollar bill, check, money order or stamps for $1.00
    for which please send me the Winter Annual of Captain Billy’s
    Whiz Bang, “Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22.”

    Name..............................................

    Address...........................................




_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.

[Illustration]