Part 2
=_Dear Cap’n Billy_=—I have just purchased several new gowns and no one seems to notice them. What can I do?—=_Ophelia Bumpus._=
Try standing on a street corner with a tin cup in your hand and wear a sign “I am dumb.”
* * * * *
=_Dear Cap. Billy_=—How can I cure my husband’s hiccups?—=_Ada Banana._=
Don’t try. It is a mark of distinction.
* * * * *
=_Dear Captain_=—When my husband takes me to a dance he prefers to jazz with all the girls except me. What can I do?—=_Gladys Swetz._=
Make him wear shoulder braces.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—In all your travels, where did you receive the most hospitality?—=_Al Hambra._=
It was when in California. A gentleman called me into his room, handed me a goblet in one hand and a demijohn in the other and turned his back.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—My dearest boy friend jilted me and now refuses to marry me. Please give me your best dope.—=_Sally Patica._=
Dear Sally—Always hate him and bring your children up the same way.
* * * * *
=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I am fondly in love with a young girl in our town, but also have strong sympathies for a dashing grass widow of thirty. My age, too, is thirty, and I would like your advice as to whom I should consider seriously.—=_Gloomy Gus._=
Always deal with an old established firm, young man.
* * * * *
A Story With Teeth In It
Pat and Mike hesitated at the gate of the home they intended to rob, because of a barking dog.
“Go head, Mike,” said Pat, “You know a barking dog never bites.”
“Maybe so,” replied Mike, “you know that and I know it, but the dang dog doesn’t know it.”
* * * * *
Dusky Diana’s Devotion
Pounding on the door of the attractive mulatto girl, the soldier bid fair to rouse the entire neighborhood, till a head was thrust out of an upstairs window and a voice cautiously asked:
“Hush up dar, yo’ soldier! What yo’ want?”
“Wanta come in,” hiccupped the warrior, who had evidently left the shrine of Bacchus to worship at that of Venus.
“H’m! Does yo’ b’long to de United States Marines?”
“Nope; but wanta come in.”
“Does yo’ b’long to de Third Massachusetts?”
“Nope.”
“To the Second Noo Hampshires?”
“Nope.”
“To the Fourf Noo York?”
“Nope; but wanta come in, all the same.”
“Well, yo’ can just go away fum dar, yo’ triflin soldier; I’se a very partickler woman, I is.”
* * * * *
Oh, Mother, Lookit Daughter!
S ... is for the shortness of their length, K ... is for the knees which we see, I ... is for inches, 20 above ground, R ... is for regions dear to me. T ... is for thin, transparent, S ... is for the shapes we see,
Oh! may short skirts live on forever, In this sweet land of liberty.
* * * * *
Press Agent Stuff
The selection of the Cast for “Why Change Your Beeveedees?” the snappy cinema spectacle which the management of the Snore-On Theatre has been persuaded to show commencing today, was a task calling forth all the brains of that superior author-scenarist-director-producer, Whatin L. Isit. The difficulty lay in getting a star acceptable alike to the garment workers, buttonhole makers, laundry operators and health authorities.
M. T. Dome, who plays the leading male role in Wanta Daddy’s latest paramour picture, “The Questionable Residence,” adapted from Gimm E. Vice’s play by Seena Lott, is the newest addition to Hollywood’s film colony. Dome came all the way from New York to California just to play the part of Powerful Percy the Panderer’s Pal in the picture. He was last seen on the screen as Glorious Love’s leading man in “The Passionate Plumber.”
* * * * *
Indignation Personified
Brother Toole of the Kablegram writes: “I had all kinds of trouble at the Blank Hotel last night. It was the first time I ever stopped there. When I returned from the theatre, I found that the clerk had put two women in my room. I went downstairs and raised all kinds of trouble about it. I couldn’t do a thing with the manager at first—but finally he put one of the women out.”
* * * * *
The Guy Who Kin Sling It
By Walter Wolf
Some fellers er allus a spoutin’ Bout the coin they used to make. Like the girl thets allus a shoutin, Bout the good pies she kin bake. Now the feller thets allus made the dough Should git credit fer Mary’s pies, But how do it come, I’d like t’ know— That this feller gits by with so many lies. The guy he meets Mary an he shoots his bazoo, Then suddenly ther married and I’ll leave it to you— If the guy who kin sling it aint the guy thet gits by— An allus gits the best uv the girls home-made pies.
* * * * *
In Deah Old Hingland
Rough-neck Western Yankee—Watcher principal trees here in England?
English Cockney—Hoak, helm and hash.
* * * * *
The Last Waltz
They had met at a dance, he and she. He had wooed and won her while dancing to jazz harmony, that’s why they were all “jazzed” up now. She got to shaking her shoulders, so he “shook” her for good and got a divorce. Now they’re apart and do their dancing with different partners. She gets stepped on and he steps on others. Some day when “Home Sweet Home” is played they will wander home together again and call it “The Last Waltz.”
* * * * *
“My wife,” said the henpecked one, “is a woman of few words—but she uses them over and over again.”
* * * * *
Whizzical Whams
By Whursmuhwhiski.
I stopped in a Music Store the other day, and while looking around, I saw a stack of sheet music called “Toyland Sketches.” The first one I noticed was called “The Arrival of the Teddy Bears.” Needless to say, I didn’t look any further.
* * * * *
Roses are red, violets are blue, My roll is dwindling, since I met you.
* * * * *
Would “When Mother Plays a Rag On the Sewing Machine,” necessarily be a sister song to “When Father Plays a Chord On the Wood-pile?”
* * * * *
Hymn 999
Tenant (to janitor)—What was all that cursing and swearing going on Sunday morning?
Janitor—Oh, that was Mrs. McFadden. She was going to church and she couldn’t find her prayer book.
* * * * *
Our Old Friend Sal
How did Sal treat you?
Sal who?
Sal Hepatica.
Oh, she worked me to a frazzle.
* * * * *
“Oh, Ralph, I haven’t a thing to wear.”
“’S’all right. I’ve a Sedan.”
* * * * *
It Cannot Vas
Ikey—Papa I’m in lof. Ain’t it a fine feelings?
Papa—Dat’s nice, Ikey; who is de goil?
Ikey—Ah papa, she’s a peaches and cream. She’s good looking, she’s a good housekeeper, her papa’s got lots of money and—
Papa—Vat’s her name, Ikey?
Ikey—Alma Rosenbloom, ain’t she a daisy?
Papa—You mean de clothing man’s daughtair?
Ikey—Dat’s de goil, papa. How do you like it?
Papa—Ikey, I’m very sorry but it cannot vas.
Ikey—It cannot vas, papa, for why?
Papa—You see, Ikey, ven I vas a young man I was married before and Alma Rosenbloom iss your sistair.
After a lapse of time Ikey comes in again, all smiles and joyfully greets his father with the announcement—
Papa, I’m in lof again.
Papa (anxiously)—Who iss de goil dis time?
Ikey—Ah she’s a fine buxoms, she’s a good musician, she can cook, she’s good looking, her papa’s got lots of money, and—
Papa—Ikey, tell your papa, who is de goil?
Ikey—It’s Rosa Lipshuts.
Papa—You mean de pawnbroker’s daughtair?
Ikey—Dat’s de baby, ain’t she a fine catches?
Papa (shaking his head in the negative)—Ikey, I’m very sorry but it cannot vas.
Ikey—It cannot vas, papa, for why it cannot vas?
Papa—You see, Ikey, ven I vas a young man I vas married twice and Rosa Lipshuts iss your sistair also.
At this Ikey could no longer contain himself and gave vent to his feelings in an outburst of boo-hooing. To hide his disappointment he sought refuge in his room where his mother, attracted by his sobs, came to console him.
Mama—Ikey, for vhy are you crying?
Ikey—Oh, mama it’s too terrible, it’s too terrible.
Mama—Tell your mama, Ikey, for vhy do you cry?
Ikey did.
Mama (patting her boy on the head)—Dat’s all right, Ikey. You go an marry de goil. She’s a good goil, she’s got lots of money, and—
Ikey (between sobs)—But, mama, it cannot vas.
Mama—Yes, it can vas, Ikey. You see ven a young goil I vas married before also and your papa is not your fathair.
* * * * *
The Latest Movie Title
_THE BATTLE OF GARTER RUN._
* * * * *
Her Sprinkling System
The architect was standing before one of his newly completed creations. Its mistress, plentifully sprinkled with diamonds at eleven in the morning, turned to him and said:
“It’s grand, and I’ve just decided not to employ a landscape gardener. I know just what I want myself. Banked up right against the porch there I want a real thick border—now what is that name? You know; those bright red flowers that look so dressy—yes; now I have it—saliva.”
The architect was staggered for a moment, but soon recovered and came back enthusiastically.
“The very thing,” he agreed. “And right in front a nice row of spitunians.”
* * * * *
Dark—Going to the dance tonight, Sam?
Darker—Naw, I ain’t got any razor.
* * * * *
William Tell O’Toole
Clancy chuckled.
“What’s the joke?” asked Mooney.
“Sure,” replied Clancy, “Casey bet me ten dollars he could shoot a peanut off my head with a shot gun and oi took him up because oi knew he’d miss it.”
* * * * *
He wouldn’t supporter, so she stole his suspenders.
_Hollywood Flirtations_
Little Shannon Day, a Ziegfeld Folly girl, is out west playing in a Lasky picture. Monte Katterjohn, Lasky scenario writer has been seen with Miss Shannon very frequently during the past two years, both in New York and in Hollywood. He went so far as to take her to a formal Authors League Dinner last year and the speeches and the minutes of the meeting and the pleas for unpaid dues were such a tax on Shannon’s mind that she was caught dropping off to sleep many times before the tiresome evening was over. “I can’t see nothing to authors” quotes Shannon as she smoothes a new dress which Mamma Dolly of the famous Dolly Sisters team made for her just before she left New York.
* * * * *
While Geraldine Farrar stayed in Southern California last month, fulfilling her concert engagements she kept herself much secluded in her bungalow at the Hotel Maryland in Pasadena. Her parents were with her. Many of her former friends in the film colony attempted to see her in vain and it is surmised that Miss Farrar wished to keep to herself until the matter of her pending divorce from Lou Tellegen has either been granted or repatched.
* * * * *
The weekly calendar of a well known church in Los Angeles printed the following questions soon after the Arbuckle affair spread itself forth in the newspapers:
“What would you do if you were in Mr. Arbuckle’s predicament?”
“Is this a day of judgment for the movies?”
“Was Miss Virginia Rappe of aristocratic blood?”
“How much do we know of Henry Lehrman, the lover of Miss Rappe?”
* * * * *
Another wedding in the Pickford family is predicted. It is whispered that Lottie Pickford is soon to marry Alan Forrest, popular and handsome young leading man of the films. Lottie Pickford was formerly Mrs. Rupp, wife of a Los Angeles broker, whom she divorced about two years ago.
* * * * *
She Had Mud On Her Shoes
He (driving up to the curb)—Hello, little girl, wanta go for a ride?
Sweet Thing—Nothing doing, I’m walking home from one now.
* * * * *
She—“I wish God had made me a boy.”
He—“He did. I’m he.”
* * * * *
Old Stuff
A stranger, walking along the road, passed an old darkey. He began talking with him and found out that he had known George Washington.
“I suppose you remember when Washington crossed the Delaware?” he asked.
“’Deed, boss, I steered dat boat,” was the reply.
“And do you remember when he took a hack at that cherry tree?”
“’Deed I do,” the darkey replied, “’case I drove that hack myself.”
* * * * *
Rastus Johnsing Says
Ah’s so tough ah scratches de enamel off de tub when ah takes a bafth.
* * * * *
Sing It In High Tenor
“Darling, put your arms around me, Oh, for heaven’s sake! Ain’t you awfully glad you found me? Oh, for heaven’s sake! Am I not your little beauty? Are you not my little cutie? Kiss me, kiss me, Sweet Patootie, Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
* * * * *
Thousands of lonely women are staring at faded photographs when they might be kissing the faces of children.
_Whiz Bang Editorials_
“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet._”
Jazz life seems to agree with Americans. We not only live faster than our great- grandparents, but, on the average, we also live eight years longer. So says the Census Bureau.
Some day the centenarian will be the rule, not the exception. That will come as a result of health education, not from eating monkey glands.
A popular song had this refrain: “He may be old, but he’s got young ideas.” That appealed to popular fancy because it caught the subconscious mind, which probably knew what the census now reports:
That marriages of persons beyond fifty years of age are steadily increasing in numbers, already being frequent. Out of 100 American men and women, 80 are married before they reach 45, while 10 take the leap afterward and 10 remain single.
Divorces among those who have passed 45 are also becoming more common. This, however, is not making us a cynical people, for the census finds that the majority of divorced people try marriage at least a second time, many making three or four ventures.
Figures—which never lie, though liars often figure—show that the span of life is lengthening during the Jazz Age.
The strain at times gets on our nerves. Frequently one of the contestants howls and goes to pieces. But, on the average, the real effects of the Jazz Age will not show up until our descendants of one hundred years or more hence.
* * * * *
They Named the Soap After Him
_In Dr. W. A. Evans’ column in the Minneapolis Journal, “A. G. M.” writes, under the heading of the Artistic Sex_:
“I have a son, seventeen years old, who is and has been for ten years, obsessed with a strange desire. He wants and feels that he ought to be a girl. Ever since he was seven years old, and probably before, although I had never noticed it, he has thought of himself as a girl, acted like one, desired to be regarded as a girl, and has, whenever he could worn girls’ clothing.
“His mother and I had a terrific struggle to allow his hair to be cut like a boys’, when he was six or seven years old. He withstood us until he was nearly ten, when, for the sake of peace, he consented to have it bobbed. Up to that time he had worn it in a great mass of curls, away down over his shoulders, regardless of the ridicule of his playmates. He wore his hair bobbed until two years ago, when he finally had it cut after a fashion similar to other boys. This is just one incident, but it may serve to show you something of his frame of mind.
“He attended a gymnasium class until he was fourteen, and he invariably wore bloomers and a bow of ribbon in his hair.
“In fact, he is far more at home in girls’ clothing than he is in boys’, for he has always insisted on wearing dresses and gowns when in the house. His bedroom is a real girl’s boudoir, with dressing table, powder puff, etc. He has as few boys’ clothes as he can get along with for going out. Playing with dolls was his favorite amusement until he was about thirteen. He is about five feet eleven and one-half inches tall, good looking and possessed of a remarkably good mind. He never has given any signs of mental deficiency, unless you term what I have above described as mental deficiency, or rather insanity. I would be grateful if you would tell me your opinion.”
_(Dr. Evans’ answer): This is a case of third or intermediate sexism. You will find a fair amount of literature on the subject. Such subjects are not in any sense feeble-minded. In fact, many of them are exceptionally bright. As a rule the stage, music or painting offers the best fields for men and women of this group._
Wonder what our friends of the theatre think of Dr. Evans’ advice? Probably they would feel the same way as the Army officials felt towards certain chiefs of police who paroled the bums and the crooks on condition they join the Army.
* * * * *
Blank Verse
Never get too intimate With your friends, They may some day Be your enemies; Never be too hard On your enemies, They may some day Be your friends.
_Smokehouse Poetry_
_Dear folk: We have some dandy stuff in store for you. Among the masters who are writing for Whiz Bang the coming year are J. Eugene Chrisman, author of “Poppies, Hell,” with his “Chi Slim,” “Keyhole Stuff” and others; H. A. D’Arcy, author of “The Face Upon the Floor” with his “Trapper’s Story,” “Charlie Wong” and others; Frank B. Lindeman, the prospector-poet with his ode “To a Mountain Rat” and others; and last but not least, some almost forgotten masterpieces of James Whitcomb Riley, whose “Passing of the Old Smokehouse,” was one of the many hits of our Winter Annual, Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22._
* * * * *
The Blanket Stiff
By Gifford and Whitney.
The Western trail is a gittin’ dim; The Sage-brush seems unreal; My insides’re weak and gittin’ slim. Sure wished I had a meal.
My feet are growin’ weary; My head is hangin’ low; My eyes are a lookin’ teary. Gawd! But it’s hard to go.
There’s two thousand ties to a mile, And fifty more miles to go. I’ve counted those ties with a smile, Keeps time from a goin’ so slow.
Now—they seem a mile apart. I can’t help feelin’ cold. Got an achin’ down around my heart I guess—I’m a gettin’—old.
Know what the gangs a doin’ now, Way down in Elephant Slough. They’re sittin’ around a can o’ chow Helpin’ themselves tuh stew.
I kid myself, I ain’t et fer a week, But I know it’s dang sight more. My throat is dry—my insides squeak— I’m hungry—clean to th’ core.
I ain’t th’ kind that’ll stoop to yell, When bad luck comes my way. I’ve lived and sinned. I’m bound for Hell. But—guess—I’ll kneel and pray.
The Bo got down on rough worn ties; Lifted his head in prayer, And knelt there pleading to the skies— A whistle sounded through the air.
The Hobo heard and tried to rise, Saw the train comin’ fast. His muscles failed—and from the ties, He welcomed this—the last.
It’s only a blanket—stiff ye hit, Sent another bum to Hell. Had I better report on it? I guess I might as well.
No, Con, don’t make out no report. Let’s plant him by the steel. The Bum’s bound for an unknown port, And tracks will make it real.
The Western trail is a gittin’ black. It’s time we moved along. They buried him beside the track— The hot western wind for the psalm.
The Bo woke up in a nice white gown; Clean, just like he’d had a bath. Instead of the ties that held him down He followed a golden path.
* * * * *
The Girl From Over “There”
By Budd L. McKillips
A pistol shot, a darting pain Like red-hot needles through her brain, And ere the smoke cleared from the room Another soul groped through the gloom.
With fleeting glance the policemen came Looked through her purse, took down her name; Reporters never wondered why Or reasoned how she came to die.
In silent morgue, somber and drab— With folded hands, on sheeted slab— No mourners crowded ’round her bier To say a prayer or shed a tear.
Yet scarce a week before and she Had smiled and looked on life with glee Dreamed dreams of everlasting bliss And reveled in her lover’s kiss.
His mistress? yes but oft he’d said He loved her madly, soon they’d wed; Love-blind she hung on every word While ugly rumors went unheard.
Then came the day which like a thief Stole joy and filled her heart with grief; Cursed by the man she called her own, She woke to find her dreams had flown.
Tired of his toy he now defamed And thrust her from him, unashamed, To find refuge among her kind; Then went to meet his latest find.
Black as the night from pole to pole The world seemed to her aching soul; With heart bowed down and racked with pain She sent a bullet through her brain.
In restaurant where bright lights shine A man laughs loud, made gay with wine He beams on one with youth abloom— The fairest creature in the room.
The violins wail and cymbals clash, The dancers whirl and diamonds flash; His heart is light and free of care As tambos beat and trombones blare.
Forgotten is the long ago, The whispered love-words, soft and low Each word a lie, each kiss a snare For her long since passed over “there.”
Unnoticed by the merry crowd A figure enters clad in shroud, Her ghastly face a lurid glow— The dead girl’s face of long ago.
The music stops, unseen she flits To where a laughing couple sits A choking shriek, a gasp for breath— A man lies still and stark in death.
A hush falls o’er the crowded room There comes a breath as from a tomb— The eyes now set in glassy stare Had seen the face from over “there.”
* * * * *
The Ballad of Yukon Jake
By Edward E. Paramore, Jr.
_As originally published in Vanity Fair._
Oh the North Countree is a hard countree That mothers a bloody brood; And its icy arms hold hidden charms For the greedy, the sinful and lewd. And strong men rust, from the gold and the lust That sears the Northland soul, But the wickedest born, from the Pole to the Horn, Is the Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal.
Now Jacob Kaime was the Hermit’s name, In the days of his pious youth, Ere he cast a smirch on the Baptist church By betraying a girl named Ruth. But now men quake at “Yukon Jake,” The Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal, For that is the name that Jacob Kaime Is known by from Nome to the Pole. He was just a boy and the parson’s joy
(Ere he fell for the gold and the muck), And had learned to pray, with the hogs and the hay On a farm near Keokuk. But a Service tale of illicit kale— And whiskey and women wild— Drained the morals clean as a soup-tureen From this poor but honest child. He longed for the bite of a Yukon night And the Northern Light’s weird flicker, Or a game of stud in the frozen mud, And the taste of raw red licker. He wanted to mush along in the slush, With a team of huskie hounds, And to fire his gat at a beaver hat And knock it out of bounds.