Part 1
Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. III. No. 25, October, 1921
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_Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang_
_America’s Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy_
OCTOBER, 1921 Vol. III. No. 25
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
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_
Some up-country contributor sends us in a lengthy “poem” under the alluring caption, “Ode to a Jackass.” This verse libertinage starts off something in the following fashion:
Oh, well do I remember yet, How very proud I used to get When, like a little king, I’d set— Upon my donkey.
There are several more verses which serve as proof that out in the rhubarbs the molasses candy is a mocker and soda pop a raging. The only redeeming feature in free verse is its mystery. Take this thing by Ellen Janson in “The Measure” entitled “Shadowy—Under My Window,” for example:
Shadowy—under my window— Your low reed sobs Its desert love-song to the remembering stars. Shadowy— All the night my breasts are lilies, My lips are passion flowers.
Now, there you are—a nice idea, neatly handled and mysterious. Your guess as to what Poetess Janson is driving at is as good as mine—and both probably are wrong. Perhaps she was talking to Fred Beauvais under her window, or Jim Stillman. Or it may have been the alley cat—a thing sobbing in the backyard to the remembering stars.
And so the mystery thickens like onion jelly.
* * * * *
We let Gus read both these poems—the “Ode to a Jackass” and “Shadowy—Under My Window”—and Gus called the Shadowy stuff too highbrow. But Gus doesn’t know “highbrow” poetry when he reads it. Neither one is regular, lollypop highbrow literature. We have before us a recent copy of “Current Opinion” containing the following howl from the highbrow poet, Carl Sandburg:
My shirt is a token and a symbol More than a lover for sun and rain, My shirt is a signal And a teller of souls.
I can take off my shirt and tear it And so make a ripping, razzly noise, And the people will say, “Look at him tear his shirt.”
I can keep my shirt on; I can sit around and sing like a little bird, And look ’em all in the eye and never be fazed. I can keep my shirt on.
If we hadn’t happened across this copy of Current Opinion enroute home from the Atlantic City tea party we would have been just as ignorant as Gus as to what constitutes real highbrow poetry. We have known dames who could translate the languages of their Mexican hairless puppies. We have seen dumb-bells trying to get a prescription from an ouija board. Most poets—even the cuckoo who wrote the “Ode to a Jackass”—are familiar with the “voices of nature.” But unless we have been eating a wagon load of evaporated apples smothered in bootleg without any flavor—especially without vanilla flavor—Sandburg is shadow-boxing with nut sundaes when he is not writing poetry.
Sandburg is beyond all surgery.
But that is highbrow, Gus, granting the shirt was clean, which we very much doubt.
* * * * *
When Gus was back East with me where they use the sign language—sign here and sign there—we took in a New York production and one of the comic lyrics handed over the footlights went something like this:
Oh, the Vamp, Vamp, Vamp, Vamp, Vamp, She’s a nectarine, a pippin and a peach; She’s emotional and sexual and highly intellectual And equally effectual in each. She’s a jolly little sport with the boys of every sort, In the college, in the court or in the camp— Though her years may handicap her, Why the flapping of the Flapper Isn’t in it with the vamping of the Vamp, Vamp, Vamp, Of the variable, veritable vamp.
Nothing “highbrow” about that—yet we can picture a crowd of Minneapolis undergraduates sitting beside a big pine tree at our Breezy Point lodge on a moonlight night. We shall let you complete the portrayal. It isn’t poetry, just as Gus says, and it isn’t highbrow like the “Tale of the Shirt” and the “Lily Breasts.” But, it should go ringing down in cabaret history with “Cheer, Cheer, the Gang’s All Here”; “Shall I Get You Now or Must I Hesitate?” and other classics of the post-prohibition age.
* * * * *
That thing you call a head is merely a mole placed on your shoulders to keep your backbone from unraveling.
* * * * *
I was standing outside the Urban meat market in Robbinsdale the other day when a neighbor lady, carrying her baby, walked up to me. “If you’ll hold baby while I buy some meat I’ll treat you to a nice cool drink in the drug store,” she said to me.
I took the kidlets in my arms while mother did her shopping. I stood around for at least five minutes before the kindly lady finally completed her purchases.
“Thank you, Captain Billy,” she said, as she took her baby from me. “I suppose you’re ready for that drink now, aren’t you?”
“No,” I answered. “Really, Mrs. Smith, I’m not the least bit dry today.”
* * * * *
We received a very interesting letter from Deacon Gifford’s son, John, the other day. Giff Junior went out to California to become a movie hero and at present has employment in Hollywood as a pilot in the Universal stables. He piles it here and there as he used to do in his father’s barn. We will give you Giff’s letter as we feel sure you will be interested in any word from our old friend John.
“Dear Captain Billy: I went out to visit a nice girl in Watts, California, twenty minutes’ ride from Los Angeles, tuther night and she had a nice little vurse which she recited to me, which I am sending you to put in the Whiz Bang:
_O, she shook a little shimmy,_ _Then she shook a little knee;_ _She shook her little shoulder_ _As she danced away with me._ _Handsome feller shook an eyelid,_ _’N she shook her’s back in glee,_ _Shook his head kinda sideways_ _And directly she shook me._
“Watts is a new town, as I have said before, and the most popular man in town is Reverund Ismus. He always is invited to every wedding and funeral.
“I went to a home brew party the other night, but before I got there the party was dead and Reverund Ismus eridicated the burial service, thusly:
“‘Brethren and Sistern, we must now bid a fond farewell to Deacon Jones (here someone in the audience remarked “What farewell could be sweeter”), who now lies uninterrupted. We must benefit by the Deacon’s calamity and teach our children to read and write, that they may be able to discern the difference between ‘Malt and Hops’ and ‘Rough on Rats.’ The choir will now sing ‘Awaken Sleeping Angels’ for Brother Deacon Jones is now entering the gates of Heaven.’
“We have a wonderful barber shop in town. He isn’t doing much business now and when I stepped in for a shave the other day he was asleep in the chair. I coughed a couple of times. He awoke, jumped up quick, and shouted,
“‘Next!’
“They also have a police force in Watts. Yesterday I saw him arrest a fellow in an auto. The fellow wanted to know what he was pinched for.
“‘Fer not sticking out yer hand when turning a busy corner.’
“‘Well, I couldn’t very well let go of the wheel to stick out my hand, could I?’
“‘Where was yer other hand?’
“‘Oh, I had that around the emergency.’ Whereupon the girl sitting next to him blushed furiously. I didn’t know why unless the cop flirted with her or something. Women are awfully funny anyway.
“By the way, Captain, is your present wife your first mate?
“Your old friend,
“John.”
* * * * *
Ye editor received an interesting communication the other day from our friend A. Rouse, which we will pass on to you for your edification:
“T’other night I passed through your summer capital, i.e., Pequot, and in spite of the uncouth hour, climbed off the rattler to see if I could view the illustrious Gus or the famous member of the specie bovine, Pedro. I was disappointed, but what I started out to say was that as we approached the aforementioned hamlet, I remarked to George, the genial and dusky skipper of the ‘Sokluk,’ that we seemed to be making a little better seaway for the passed few miles.
“Yessah, ah reckon we is,” said George, “She’s sure runnin’ right smooth jes now. Almost seem lak ol’ engineer done succeed in gettin’ her back on the ties once mo.”
* * * * *
Our Latest Flivver Story
A jitney car operated by a woman between Chico and Paradise, California, broke down the other day. She halted a passing roadster and of the driver inquired:
“Do you know anything about this car?”
“Only a lot of bum jokes,” he replied, and drove on.
* * * * *
The Game
Joyride and the girls ride with you; Stroll, and you stroll alone, For this is the day of the damsels gay, Who consider the stroller a drone.
Feast, and the girls feast with you; Fast, and you fast uncheered. For they like to dine and drink rare wine, And to dance when the floor is cleared.
Flirt, and the girls flirt with you; Don’t, and they count you slow. For they play with you, so you must play, too Or sit in the lonesome row.
Love, and the girlies love you; Wed, and she is yours for life. For she does not play in the cabaret, The one that you make your wife.
* * * * *
We will now sing that new southern ballad of the darkies, entitled, “I’se got the razor and you’se got the throat.”
* * * * *
Gone Are the Dog Daze
Squire Green, wealthy Minnesota farmer, had a pedigreed dog, Fido. He read in the Weekly Argus where Professor Dumpey in Minneapolis could operate on a dog and make him talk like a man for a three thousand dollar fee.
The squire shook himself loose from the money and delegated his son, Bycyrus, to take the money and Fido to the miracle professor. Arriving in the city, Bycyrus parked Fido in the hotel and started out to spend the three thousand berries. When he sobered up, he found himself without railroad fare home, so he and Fido started to walk.
At the crossroads he killed Fido.
“Where’s the dog?” the Squire asked.
“Well,” replied Bycyrus, “It was this way: As I was walking home, Fido looked up at me and said: ‘I wonder if your father still goes out with the cook.’ So I killed poor Fido.”
“Bycyrus,” earnestly inquired the Squire, “are you sure that dog is dead?”
* * * * *
Wow, Zowie?
The colonel of a British regiment returned home in a very angry mood, and when questioned by his wife as to the cause, replied: “Why, that Yankee captain attached to us boasted in the mess today that he had kissed every officer’s wife in the regiment but one.”
“My word,” replied his wife, “I wonder who she can be.”
_Our Movie Gossip_
Trust Hollywood to have the latest in fads, but as in lots of cases, they are short lived. A few months ago Madam Edith Maida Lessing built her temple in Glasswell Park, high above Hollywood, and said, “Here will I commune with the eternal, here will I show the bungalow sweeties that I am no piker.” So she gathered her subjects about her and taught them that civil marriage is the bunk, ownership of land is terrible, churches, penitentiaries are awful, divine marriage is the berries, barter and exchange are the biscuits, free trade and religious transformation is the hot dog.
So divine marriage prevailed, it consisted of taking a person as your mate in the sight of God and when tired of them give them the gate, and daily and nightly they gamboled lightly on the lee, little elfins scantily clad could be seen flitting hither and thither in the moonlight and they held earthly communication in the doorways; in the early mornings could be seen the spirit dance around the red flag of love, and many a bungalow sweetie could be seen looking longingly toward Glasswell Park. It got so bad that the dearies thought they were going to lose their sweet man and they all began to squawk in accents bold.
They yelped so loud that they were heard in Los Angeles, and straightway two noble minions of the law set forth to quiet the rumpus. When they arrived and asked what it was all about, they were informed this was the temple of Helois where the disabled vets were soon to reside and where St. Mary’s cradle was to be founded to care for all the babies that were not otherwise cared for. Here was to be the goat farm to feed said babies that their mothers might commune with the spirits unhampered; here was to be the boat landing where the fishermen would land nightly after their day’s fishing to feed the vets and the other members of the colony. Here was everything.
The law was not satisfied and escorted her forth to durance vile, and accused her of lots of things she didn’t understand, but she remained unruffled and when safely situated in the county hotel, broke forth in a fit of poetry—
Red Is the Color of Love
_Because in the hope to save the world,_ _She had questioned not nor fled,_ _But only kept the banner unfurled,_ _Whose only color is red._ _For red is the color of love,_ _And red is the holy one’s desire,_ _And red is the place where love makes his bed,_ _And red is the color of fire._ _And red is the thing that we do and dare,_ _When we snatch the fire brand_ _And touch the flame to the devil’s lair,_ _Who tortures its by his hand._ _And red is the hole in the depths of the earth,_ _We would bury the demon in_ _Who has laughed in such fiendish and lawless mirth_ _At the wages of lust and sin._
Now all is quiet at Helios; no more do they dance in the pale moonlight; no more is the scorpion hurled forth to the bungalows, no more do the goats bleat and disturb he who would sleep; now the sweeties have returned to their previous love, and all is well.
* * * * *
The other day the little town of Manhattan on the ocean near Los Angeles passed an ordinance setting a penalty for swimming without the sometimes necessary bathing suit, but they claim it was not without cause, for it got so bad that certain persons after swimming were going uptown for lunch without taking the necessary time to cover their earthly charms.
One night a party was held on the sands and every one disrobed and all were enjoying the cooling air of the evening when a stranger was seen in the offing. Everyone grabbed clothes and ran, intending to use another part of the beach to refresh themselves. One dearie was stranded in the dark, and as the rest of the party had her clothes, was forced to wander about until morning, which was only a few hours away. After daylight she set out to find some clothes.
Later the town heads talked it over and decided that a person ought to wear some clothing, if only to protect them from the chill night air, so now if you go to Manhattan to swim, take something along to wear, even if it is only an old shirt, for, quote they, if Mack Sennet can get away with it, “we” can.
* * * * *
“The Four Cow Boys of the Poker Chips”
_From “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse”_
By James Starr.
This is a great, massive feature directed by Dex Bygum, formerly a bartender in Cuba. This picture is the greatest society drama that has ever been produced about the cow country. The story is of a man that goes to Reno to get a divorce. Reno being a great cow town, he soon turns to be a cowboy. While he is chasing the “steaks” around the country, a beautiful girl comes to Reno to get a divorce or to get married, we don’t know which. The two fall in love with each other and he rides her around the town in a side car on a bicycle. They have great times together for a while until he starts to playing marbles for money. This gambling scene would make Monte Carlo turn green with envy. The girl tells the man that if he doesn’t stop gambling, she’ll leave him forever. He goes from bad to worse and starts to play lawn dice. She is heart-broken and leaves the town. That night he and four cowboys start to play poker. The four cowboys leave the dive with all of the poker chips. The man is broke and discouraged, so he takes a writing “Tablet” and dies in a few minutes. This is the only drama we’ve seen with a true-to-life ending. It is without a doubt the greatest non-star picture ever produced. We don’t see how they did it.
* * * * *
“High Steppin’”
_From “Deception”_
By James Starr.
This is a story of the wild parties they had during the time English history was originated. From the looks of this picture they had a wild and wicked time. The hero had six wives; that’s enough to make any picture worth watching. The time is during the reign of Henry the Flivver. Without a doubt he was a rattling good King because he found the Ford that would go fifty miles on a bucket of oats. There’s a mystery about the old birds doing the “toddle” in the second reel; they pull a mean dance and if it hadn’t been for a gang of sub-titles we’d have seen a wicked time. Old Henry as a king was a much better joker. The greatest thing that he ever said was, “If I ever lose my Kingdom, I’ll sell shoe strings on Broadway so I can have my near-beer.” He meant every word of it, too. Old Henry was a real wicked hero, they usually let the villain have the part, but to save the cost of another actor, they had old Henry do it. The old Monarch was fond of playing crap and reading the sixteenth century funny paper. One of his favorites in the funny paper was “Omar, the tentmaker,” who is now still acting foolish on the American stage. This picture is not quite as wicked as “The Queen of She Bare,” but it will do just the same.
* * * * *
Doesn’t it get your nanny to have a girl say, “Now quit, Charles!” when your name is George?
* * * * *
Pour la Toddle
Oh, these professional propagandists.
Can nothing deliver us from them?
Our ministerial prolocutors again promulgate the purity dance.
They barked and barked at the spaghetti shamble shimmie until Sari Dennishawn tripped in and demonstrated the aestheticism of shoulder shaking.
But now the “toddle” comes—that ecstatic little eccentricity that proselytes us all, and makes us do those ticklish little shivers that the deans call “vicious.”
“Vicious”—propend that!
Is there anything more inspiring than two young people, cheeks pressed close, galloping about in syncopated contortions to the weird moan of a saxophone and the sliding blare of a trombone?
Is there anything more uplifting than the sight of a beautiful young girl with her head resting on the shoulder of a greasy-headed lizard who “toddles” around with closed eyes?
And the ministers would change all this. They call it “vicious.”
Now what do you think of that?
* * * * *
A certain young lady named Funk, Was tricked into buying a skunk, She tho’t ’twas a cat, till it got on her lap, But now she burns Japanese punk.
* * * * *
Crookedness never pays in the long run—Look at the corkscrew—out of a job.
_Limber Kicks_
Here’s to the Woman
A smile for every joy, A tear for every sorrow, A consolation for every grief, An excuse for every fault, A prayer for every misfortune, And an encouragement for every hope.
* * * * *
Sermonette
Most of us love to dance, but that Is nothing to reprove; The ones who ought to be suppressed Are those who dance to love.
* * * * *
Memories of the Past
Sing this to the tune of “On the Rocky Road to Dublin.”
Three cheers for the red wine and booze, Three cheers for Ireland, and Michael Kenna too; When grub was slim and pickings thin, We all came to Hink’s, To eat a lot of free lunch, Without buying any drinks.
* * * * *
Mary has two silken sox, Rolled down below her knees; Mary once had chickenpox, Which spoiled the scenery.
* * * * *
Of Course Not
Carefully she rouges her dimpled knees, Then adds a powdery sheen, Do you think she does this little stunt, If she thinks they won’t be seen?
* * * * *
Where Silence Was Golden
Three gentlemen were seated in a street car. One of them, who stuttered badly, turned to the man nearest him and said: “W-w-w-would y-y-you p-p-p-please t-t-t-tell m-me w-what t-t-time it is?” Receiving no reply he thought he had addressed a foreigner and soon left the car.
The third gentleman turned to the one that had been asked for the time of day and said: “Why didn’t you tell that poor fellow the time? I never thought that anyone could be so uncivil.”
The one who had been asked for the time turned and said: “D-d-d-do y-y-y-you t-t-think I-I-I-I w-w-wanted t-t-to ge-ge-get my h-h-head ku-ku-knocked off?”
* * * * *
Does It Pay to Forget?
An Irishman and a German went out to the back yard to settle an argument with their fists. Just before the fight started they agreed that when either of them had enough he would say “Sufficient.” Then they went at it.
The Irishman soon knocked the Fritzie off his feet. Heinie got up, shook his head and, catching the Irishman off his guard, hit him for a goal. Pat came back fast and furious, and so the battle waged fast and faster—when finally the German, about ready to drop from sheer exhaustion, cried out—“Sufficient.”
Pat shook hands with him and said: “I’ve been trying to think of that word for the last ten minutes.”
_“A Fool’s Paradise”_
BY REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL