Part 1

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. II. No. 16, January, 1921

_Keep On Keepin’ On_

If the day looks kinder gloomy And chances kinder slim, If the situation’s puzzlin’ And the prospect’s awful grim; And perplexities keep pressin’-- If hope is nearly gone, Jest bristle up and grit your teeth And keep on keepin’ on.

--_Whiz Bang Bill._

_Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang_

OUR MOTTO:

“_Make It Snappy_”

January, 1921 Vol. II. No. 16

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

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

_Price 25 cents_ _$2.50 per year_

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

Copyright 1921 By W. H. Fawcett

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

_History Up-to-Date_

_Now that the British are agitating for a change in the American history text books, which, they charge, inculcates our future generations with prejudice against the original mother country, and the anti-British are crying for more, let’s fit-in with something in keeping with the spirit of the age. Let’s introduce a history lesson that is guaranteed to interest the shimmy-shaking school children of this great and glorious jazz age. Therefore, we offer for your approval, Professor Brenton’s “History Up-to-date.”_

By W. H. BRENTON

Things started off wrong in the beginning when Adam had to give up one of his ribs for Eve, but in spite of this, he, like a game sport, tipped his fig leaf to her upon their first introduction. All ran smoothly until Eve raised Cain, and thus our ancestors (after the monkeys) kept up a constant increase until Noah got inside dope about the flood, whereupon he built the Ark.

Our troubles might have been relegated to the word finis, but Noah stuck up a good old boat and saved his wife, his animals, and their wives. Then Nero played havoc with Rome and made the fiddle famous as the city burned. We’ve been fiddling ever since.

Job next started showing his rights with the off shoots of the chosen people and they said they would stone him to death if he didn’t stop. He came right back by saying, “If you do I’ll turn my bears loose and they will eat you.” The people did, Job did and the bears did. Then Job was King.

I’d like to take some of your time and present the argument between Anthony and Cleopatra, but there was so little between them that it is hardly worth while.

In the days when Cleopatra and Anthony were such good friends, Anthony had just won a big battle and he sent his runners to Cleopatra to tell her to doll up in her glad rags and they would go out stepping. On the way to her flat he met his runners returning. They announced, “Oh, Kind Sir: Cleopatra is down with Tonsilitis.”

“Darn those Greeks,” said Anthony, “I shall declare war on Athens tomorrow.”

Henry Ford started one thing that he played wrong (his cars play good tunes though), when he decided to end the World’s War by taking a lot of men and old maids to France and Germany. If he’d taken some of Ziegfield’s chorus girls the war would have been over and President Wilson would still have been a great man. Just march those girls up No Man’s land, and there would have been so many soldiers following them that a Burroughs adding machine couldn’t count them in the time it takes light to travel from the Sun to Jupiter. Army recruiting stations would have been as popular as senators’ cellars, and the sentiment between the two would have been much stronger than the antagonism between the Bolshevists and the anti-saloon league. But here we are presenting this valuable dope several years too late. Tell your children about it, and they can stop the next war though (if the pretty girls aren’t all dead).

Then a bunch of senators, with big cellars and stills in their attics, passed a law that the combination of wine, women and song must be reduced to women and song. Suppose we substitute nut-sundays, women and song. Substitute your eye, we’ll just play the two undeceased members of the combination a little stronger, unless we get into some senator’s cellar.

Don’t cry, little children, the war is over, and so is a lot of your money, but Uncle Sam will make a lot more, and the Brigadier Generals and the movie actors will get it.

At present we can assume that this is the Movie Age and Out-rage. We walk right past a speech made by the President or some other vote-made man, and several miles to see “Doug” Fairbanks skin his shins by walking up the side of a seven-story building on his hands or to see Charlie Chaplin swing a broom at the villain and hit the Queen of Russia, who is dressed in sackcloth and ashes because of the murder of her last thirty-three husbands.

Movie actors are all right, though. Why, they make more money than we ever hear about. Figures compiled by the Secretary of the Treasury show that a man and wife and family of seventeen children and pets, could live on what Mary Pickford spends for silk stockings, but that is the reason we go to the movies, says the henpecked man as his wife drags him home to their little boiler factory where rolling pins are used as sledgehammers.

If prices keep increasing and clothes decreasing, we will be restricted as to the number of leaves we can wear, and they will be fastened to our shivering yet magnanimous anatomy with paper fasteners of the Henry Ford type. Shimmying will then be automatically abandoned, while courting will only take place over the telephone. When we think of Theda Bara it will be as a heavily clad woman.

Just one thing further, and that is, if this world keeps increasing its speed as it has in the past, our heads will be going so fast that they will look like fish bowls. Everything will just work backwards, our nose will run and our feet smell. Just now we’re traveling so fast that our hip pockets dip sand as we go around corners, and our feet come up so often that people will think we are laying down. Put on your brakes, dear old United Statesers, and let’s slow down to 100 per, or we’ll skid into Mexico.

* * * * *

You Win Rubber Pajamas

Lecturer (in a loud voice)--I venture to assert there isn’t a man in this audience who has ever done anything to prevent the destruction of our vast forests.

Man in the audience (timidly)--I’ve shot woodpeckers.

* * * * *

January First

The other day Adam approached Peter at the pearly gates and said:

“I should very much like, Peter, to get a pass the first of the year to revisit my old haunts on earth.”

“Nothing doing, Adam. You started too much trouble down there when you were a young man.”

“Aw, Pete, be a good sport and let me go.”

“What do you want to go down there for anyhow?”

“I want to turn over a new leaf.”

* * * * *

Gus, our hired man, one of those lucky birds that had imbibed rather too freely of the sacred liquid, had fallen into a watering trough. When I tried to help him as he floundered about, he said: “Offzer, I ken save m’self, you save the womin’n shildern.”

* * * * *

If You Look That Way

It’s oft been said that woman is a mystery to us that we will never quite see through, no matter how we fuss. It’s said that woman is a book forever closed to man, though now and then she condescends slightly to lift the ban. It’s oft been said we cannot hope to fathom womankind and to that fact the other sex might well make up its mind. But we have called the libel out and dragged it in the dirt. We see right through her now with ease--thanks to the modern skirt.

Movie Skeletons

_America is blessed with a flock of motion picture magazines, some of them with real stories of the public performances of the screen folk, and some of them a collection of press agent yarns at so-much per column. The Whiz Bang won’t invade their sacred field. We’ll bar the press agents and, instead, will endeavor to give our readers some inside dope direct from Hollywood and Universal City, written by our own staff author whose position within the sacred circle at Hollywood makes it necessary for him to transcribe under the nom de plume of “Richmond.” All right, director, let ’er shoot--_

By RICHMOND

=Reel One.= At last hearing “Doug” Fairbanks and Mary Pickford were living here happily in their little grey home in the west, on top of a big Beverly hill. Every day or so appears a dispatch that the Nevada authorities intend to dissolve the partnership but this is taken to be the final, spasmodic throb of a dying determination.

Doug thinks he’s married to Mary. Mary believes she is married to Doug. Owen Moore, Mary’s former hubby, is quite certain he isn’t married to Mary and what the state of Nevada thinks isn’t causing any particular excitement. If Nevada proved a convenient place to arrange the legal break and figures her dear judges or lawmakers were slip-shoddy she should get some new judges and lawmakers. What is done is done.

=Reel Two.= Recent presentation of the new Griffith play, “Way Down East,” caused a laughable situation for those who were aware of the facts. The laughable situation did not get into the newspapers because some of our very best families would have suffered humiliation. It appears that “D. W.” issued several invitations to prominent society women for the opening night, as his “guests”--though he was in New York.

What a flurry and flutter there was among the high-brows when they learned that the invites had gone out. Who had been asked? It did not occur to the high-brow ladies that D. W. Griffith is truly the master mind of pictures and that his use of Mrs. Belmont in the picture was smart bait to draw society. Mrs. Belmont really didn’t have much to do but appear in an up-to-date gown and give Lillian Gish a haughty look.

But society here went daffy when it became known that some society women had been invited by Mr. Griffith’s representatives, while others had not. Immediately there was a buzz of phones and considerable indignation, denouncements and heart-burnings seared the wires. “How came it that Mrs. Such and So had been invited and ‘I’ have not? It reflects upon my social standing.”

How crafty old D. W. must have grinned as the reports went into him of the society ladies’ wrath. For lack of brains, poise and downright self-respect society women cart off the well known cake. Newspaper women laughed themselves sick at the coy admissions discreetly tendered them that “Oh, by the way, Mr. Griffith sent me a personal invitation to be present at the opening of ‘Way Down East.’” It possibly is stretching it to say that the paper gals laughed themselves sick. They have become so used to such situations that they scarcely laugh at all. They just grin and “bear it”--and proceed openly to kid society in the papers without society apparently becoming the wiser.

It is almost pitiable to watch fair and heavy matrons, who have done well, raising a family or starting one, long for a chance to see themselves upon the screen. They gaze upon Lillian Gish as some ravishly blessed mortal lifted by the Gods but they see no reason why they would not be just as good if given a chance.

Much of the nasty gossip which follows prominent picture folk emanates from the society morgues where every skeleton known to scandal is laid carefully away for future reference.

The fat ladies of wealth who are unable to fit into the screen take a girl, perhaps like Lillian Gish, and in seeming fury that the girl has succeeded, tear what they may of her character to pieces. About any fashionable hotel where gather the disappointed “widows” and dames whose husbands have let them come west for a “rest” may be heard the most intimate details concerning the private life of every person prominent on the screen. Nine times out of ten these details are featured by everything but the truth.

Every girl that ever worked for Griffith, whether she knows it or not, has been the victim of whispers relative to what price she paid for her success. Griffith is a muchly misunderstood man. He is shrewd, too smart for the average picture maker. His people appear to reverence him. Probably no girl regrets her experience and training under this particular director--though not as much can be said for many other directors.

The name of Lillian Gish and Griffith have been mentioned in unsavory tones more than once. The girl is a remarkably fine young woman who scarcely would know what was meant by the insinuations cast abroad concerning her and the director. Wherever Lillian goes her mother is not far away. The two sisters, Lillian and Dorothy, are among the hardest workers upon the screen. It is understood that the late Robert Harron was extremely fond of Dorothy and it is understood that this admiration was not returned in the way that young Harron would have wished.

Harron had a number of sisters, who spent much of their time about the studios where their brother worked. The Gish and Harron families were constantly together and a great friendship existed between them all. It is understood that Dorothy admired Harron tremendously but could not reciprocate his reported love for her. Bobby Harron was an exceptional young man from a moral standpoint. He was clean and wholesome. In fact a number of the Griffith stars have been marked for their personal virtues. In view of these facts it is a relief to point out that some of the unmentionable vices which beset Movieland are partially offset by the cleanliness of many really great stars.

=Reel Three.= One of the greatest “parties” yet staged in Los Angeles, was given by a well known director several nights ago. Now it should not be assumed that the picture parties are particularly different than some of the pajama and kimono parties tendered in Hollywood and Pasadena. In fact many of the picture ladies “hold out” longer than their more discreet sisters who get their kick out of a monthly party, whereas a picture girl has an invite a night and knows every step and parry of the game.

One of the best known girls of the screen sat in one chair throughout a recent party and visitors remarked upon her serenity and refusal to rush the bar.

A wild woman from one of the comedies gave her the once over. “Say, Edna’s been stewed for two hours and can’t stand up. But she’s got sense enough to keep still.”

But, referring to the big party. It lasted several days. Some of the guests went home, changed their clothes and came back again. The affair must have cost thousands of dollars. The guests were not numerous but well selected. A number of orchestras were employed, one coming on as one went off shift.

The host was a man of parts. He employed chauffeurs with cars ready to grab any guest who wished to stumble home and might possibly not be deemed able to guide his own car had he come without a driver. Most of the drivers who came to the party left unceremoniously when the party waxed late into the next day. Even chauffeurs have feelings.

The newspaper accounts mostly were suave and soft pedally. But it is said that some of the best newspaper people remembered only the quietness of the opening hour or so and were in no editorial mood to recollect just everything that did happen.

=Reel Four.= A great social mix-up occurred at Hollywood the other morning. One of our best matinee idols, a year or so ago separated from his wife and half dozen children. He took unto himself another wife. The decree allowed that the father could have the children part of the time, or half of the time.

Following his new matrimonial venture the matinee star found himself blessed one morning with a new baby. Just recently the former wife emerged from the east and took apartments at one of the most fashionable Hollywood hotels. She was accompanied by a flock of children.

The moment had come for the former husband to have his time portion of the children. Bright and early on the day after their arrival they made for the father’s home, where they were happily received by the foster mother who showed them their half sister, her own child.

Kids will be kids, so it was no wonder that the mother of the flock was surprised and amazed during the course of the morning when one of her brightest young hopes trundled a baby carriage into her room and gaily announced that he had a new sister to show her. He had come down from the home of his father and foster mother with sure enough evidence that father still was raising children.

The papers stated that the mother was threatened with hysteria and bade her surprised child take his charge back to its father’s home. For comedy and tragedy, go watch in the halls of childhood.

* * * * *

Eve tempted Adam with an apple. Were you ever tempted by an apple?

* * * * *

Our Language

Here are a few of the difficulties of the English language:

A flock of ships is called a fleet. A fleet of sheep is called a flock. A flock of girls is called a bevy. A bevy of wolves is called a pack. A pack of thieves is called a gang. A gang of angels is called a host. A host of porpoises is called a shoal. A shoal of buffaloes is called a herd. A herd of children is called a troop. A troop of partridges is called a covey. A covey of beauties is called a galaxy. A galaxy of ruffians is called a horde. A horde of rubbish is called a heap. A heap of oxen is called a drove. A drove of blackguards is called a mob. A mob of whales is called a school. A school of worshippers is called a congregation.

* * * * *

Bull Frog Bull

The Frog is a slick member of the reptile family deriving its name from the Latin words E Hopus Jumpus, meaning “Warts.” It has four legs, but only finds use for two--the hind ones, which are built on altogether different lines than the front ones, being about five times as long, and fold under his body at a very convenient angle, affording ample seating capacity. The most common species of the Frog Family are the Toad Frog and the Bull Frog. The French people consider the Bull Frog quite a delicacy, and all snakes are very fond of Toad Frogs. Some scientists say the snake has far better taste than the Frenchman when it comes to choosing its food. The Frog can catch more flies than Tris Speaker, with far less effort, and is about the only thing left in this grand and glorious country with any hops in it.

* * * * *

You Can’t Fool a Horse-Fly

Mike and Pat were telling stories. During the conversation a fly lit on Pat’s nose.

“What kind of a fly is that, Moike?” asked Pat.

“Why, that’s a horse-fly, Pat.”

“Begorra, Moike, and what’s a horse-fly?”

“Why, a horse-fly, Pat, is a fly that lights on a horse’s neck.”

“You don’t mean to say O’im a horse’s neck, do you, you dirty blaggard?”

“No, Pat, but you can’t fool a fly.”

_India’s September Morns_

_In this article, Reverend Morrill tells of the “royal baths” of East India, where men and women recognize no sex. In the February number of the WHIZ BANG, the traveler-author will take our readers on a brief expedition to South America, which, “Golightly” assures us, is “the white slave market of the world.” Night scenes in Rio de Janeiro, “the Gomorrah,” and Buenos Aires, “the Sodom of South America,” will be depicted as only Reverend Morrill can do._

By REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL

Pastor People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.

Though the River of Time may wash away most of my India memories, there is one thing that will remain as long as I live--my royal bath at Delhi, and the time, the place, and the girl.

Bathing has not only been a fad with me, but an article of faith. At home I take a cold plunge every morning, and on shipboard it is the thing I look forward to with pleasure. A country is known by the baths it gives, and in Constantinople, Moscow and Budapest I learned that every little movement had a meaning all its own. The bath, that like Moses’ rod swallowed up all others, was the one at Delhi, where cleanliness is not always next to godliness.

India is a hot and sticky place for fleshy people, and like Falstaff I was larding the lean earth as I walked along. After hours of dusty driving and hard sight-seeing I asked my guide if I could have a bath, and he said, “Yes, Durbar bath.” I had missed the royal pageant, but hoped to get the splash, so we drove off the crowded street to a building which invited us with shady walks and flowers. The native proprietor ushered me into a darkened room and handed me a napkin. I had been in India long enough to know what to do with that square of linen, so I used it for a loincloth.

When I stepped into the bath I was “horrified” to find a beautiful Mohammedan maiden standing there before me with nothing on plus a bracelet. In agitation I rang. The master came, and I told him I did not want that woman there with the bath. He seemed surprised, because she was part of it, shrugged his shoulders, ordered her out, and beckoned to two stalwart natives. They seized me, threw me down on the marble, put a wooden pillow under my head, and then splashed, massaged, pounded, twisted and kneaded me, worked my arms like a windmill, rolled me like a log, used me as a punching bag, went through a whole course of gymnasium exercises on me, then grinned and said, “Not finished.” I felt I was, when back came the “sweet sixteen” smiling like Spring, and with less covering than September Morn. I sprang up, but she grabbed a towel and basin and laid me low, then soused me and began to put on the finishing touches. In broken English she tried to tell me all her physical, mental and moral charms, which I admitted because she was a woman, but I knew her Koran didn’t square with my Old Testament, so thanking her, I fled, like Joseph from Potiphar’s wife, to my room, where my guide “Kim” came to the rescue, helped me to dress and rushed me to the train or I might have been there yet.

The letter “I” in India stands for indecency and immorality in nearly everything I saw from Calcutta to Bombay. Benares is washed by the Ganges, the worshippers in the Ganges, and though every day is washday, still the city and people are dirty. They need a new Hercules to turn the Ganges through its Augean stables filled with holy fakirs, anointed priests, pestiferous pilgrims, obscene carvings and sacred bulls.

I entered the Cow Temple, stable of sitting and standing bulls. The bull is a beatified beast. Priests pet him, the godly natives garland his horns and kiss his tail, virgin votaries bathe their hands, beautify their faces and plaster their hair with the divine emanations which Minnesota farmers use for fertilizer. At weddings, for good luck, to keep evil spirits away, and purify the place, a cow is backed up to the bride’s door to decorate the threshold with fresh dung--bossy’s contribution to the joyous occasion. The “Bull Durham” of India is some of the same, dried and mixed, with a little tobacco and paper. I have often imagined that our yellow-fingered dudes imported it for cigaret purposes--at any rate it smells like it. Like another ill-fated Gulliver in the land of giants, I slipped around in the filth till I got a kodak shot at his royal Bullship.