Part 2

They arrived home late from the party. Wife took off her hat and slammed it on the floor. Then she confronted her hubby.

“I’ll never take you to another party as long as I live!” she said.

“Why?” he calmly wanted to know.

“You asked Mrs. Jones how her husband has been standing the heat.”

“Well?”

“Well, her husband has been dead two months.”

* * * * *

Our Puzzle Department

Father and son were licking up moonshine.

“Father,” asked the son, “how am I to know when I’m drunk?”

The old man pointed across the street. “When those two men over there look like four,” he responded.

“But father,” interrupted the son, “I see only one man there.”

* * * * *

Let This One Sink In

Lion Tamer—“Step into the cage with the lion, Rastus, and let the photographer focus you.”

Rastus—“He’d better focus me before ah goes in there, boss, for he ain’t gwine hab no time to focus me when ah comes out.”

* * * * *

Actors are the bunk. I heard one in Minneapolis knocking St. Paul and I applauded him, and I saw the same actor in St. Paul knocking Minneapolis and I gave him the razzberry.

* * * * *

Our Spring Thriller

“I’ve got you at last,” he cried, “move if you dare, move! It’s taken me many years, but at last I’ve got you where I want you! Now I dare you to move!”

“Yep, you’re right,” replied his friend, “it’s the first game of checkers you ever did win from me.”

_Questions and Answers_

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—If your pedigreed bull is a thoroughbred, why not have him registered?—=_Simon Simple._=

No use to register him; he couldn’t vote anyway.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—My wife is getting too strenuous. The other day she broke a plate over my head. What would you advise me to do?—=_Nyce Boise._=

You might try cast iron plates.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Bill_=—Please define love?—=_Amorous Annabelle._=

Love is the psychology of youth; the subtle sympathy that blends the world into a thing of joy and pleasure unrestrained.

* * * * *

=_Dear Bill_=—Is “The Eternal Triangle” a play or a book?—=_Innocent Imogene._=

It’s a heart-throbbing and soul-stirring play, Imogene, in which all humans have at some time or other enacted a leading part—Adam and Eve excepted. In fact I feel certain that neither Adam or Eve ever “Cribbed” in the University of Paradise with its rapturous courses of enchantment. There’s a reason.

* * * * *

=_Dear Skipper_=—What epidemics were suffered by United States troops during the World War?—=_Si Frever._=

Spanish influenza and American Shavetails. Both were rather annoying at times, as any doughboy will tell you.

* * * * *

=_Dear Farmer Bill_=—Being as how you are a tiller of the soil, I suppose you’re familiar with the “Black Eye Susan?”—=_Nick Nack._=

No, Nick, I never met the lady, but I know the gentlemen who gave it to her.

* * * * *

=_Dear Bill_=—Is there very much difference in women as a whole?—=_King Young._=

They’re all alike, young man, except they’ve got different names.

* * * * *

=_Dear Skipper_=—What is meant by “The Port of Missing Men?”—=_Berry M. Deep._=

Ladies’ night in a Turkish bath.

* * * * *

=_Dear Skipper_=—Who are the leading Turkish rulers?—=_Jack Sellers._=

Pasha Hat, Mustapha Beer and Esaad Enuf.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is your best definition of a diplomat?—=_Phillis Fullabunk._=

A diplomat, Phillis, is a man who, when he gets home late, sneaks into bed backwards so that if his wife awakes he can tell her he is just getting up.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—Will you please tell me who invented apple sauce?—=_Anna Nyas._=

William Tell. He shot the apple off his son’s head and they all had apple sauce for supper.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Bill_=—Don’t you think a woman is everything in the world?—=_Tiddledewinks._=

Yes, indeed—everything I can think of.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is the easiest way to drive a nail without smashing my fingers?—=_Ab Doman._=

Hold the hammer in both hands.

* * * * *

=_Dear Whiz Bang Bill_=—What is your idea of the height of absentmindedness?—=_Lou Z. Lizzie._=

The professor who woke up at daylight and found a fair lady beside him, much to his astonishment, having forgotten that he had married the night before.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—Can you give me a good remedy for toothache?—=_Holey G. Macknaw._=

Fill the mouth with cold water and sit on a hot stove till the water boils.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is good to keep hair in?—=_Baldy Bozo._=

A cigar box.

* * * * *

Preacher—Take up the collection before I start preaching.

Why?

Preacher—Because I’m going to preach on thrift.

* * * * *

Sunday School Teacher—“Percy, what must we do before our sins can be forgiven?”

Percy—“Sin.”

* * * * *

Proudie! Proudie!

A well-known actor was introduced to a chap who didn’t strike him particularly because he was prejudiced against men who talk in soprano voices. The next time they met he ignored the fellow entirely. A few days later he ran across the fellow again, but his face was still frozen.

The fourth meeting occurred in a cafe, and he of the soprano voice waltzed up to the disgusted actor’s table.

“Do you know,” he said, “we have met three times and you weally haven’t noticed me?” Then with a sibilant lisp in a high C that nobody in the cafe could miss, he gave the actor three little dabs on the shoulder and squeaked, “Proudie! Proudie! Proudie!”

* * * * *

Parlor Story

One day an inspector of a New York tenement house found four families living in one room, chalk lines having been drawn in such a manner as to mark out a quarter for each family.

“How do you get along here?” inquired the inspector.

“Very well,” was the reply. “Only the man in the farthest corner keeps boarders.”

* * * * *

Some kind-hearted man of money moves the motion that Manhattan’s mackerel munching macaroons be deported to Waikiki Beach to indulge in the popular Hawaiian pastime of poi-eating.

* * * * *

Another Nut Story

“Mine is a sad case, Lady,” said the solemn visaged inmate of the asylum to the visitor.

“My parents fed me Gripe nuts; made me sleep up in the garret among the rats, in a ‘buggy’ bed and beneath a crazy quilt. My only pet was a squirrel, and my only toys, the wheels from a cuckoo clock.”

And striking a Napoleonic attitude, he strode out in search of Josephine.

* * * * *

Oh, Doc Crafts!

Some people are so dry that talking to them is like chewing a blotter.

* * * * *

This Ain’t Very Hot

The Meanest Man bought his bride a nickel’s worth of candy as a wedding present, then took her on a trolley ride honeymoon.

After they got off the car he said, “Let’s save some of that candy for the children.”

* * * * *

Lampoon’s Stuff

He got on at Park and sat in the last car.

She got on at Park and sat in the last car.

When he went over the bridge he smiled. She laughed aloud. At Kendall she crossed her legs. He crossed his fingers. At Central he had her phone number. She had his watch. When they reached Harvard he offered to take her home. He kissed on the front porch. Then he went back to Ridgely Annex and cut one more notch in his shoe trees.

“I guess it’s my personality,” he thought as he tumbled into bed.

“I guess it’s my smile,” she thought as she tumbled into bed.

* * * * *

Fido, Quit Your Pekin

“Marie is so modest she puts her pet dog out of the room while she is changing her gown!”

“The idea!”

“Well—it’s a Pekingese.”

* * * * *

There are two classes of people: those who sit and think, and those who sit.

* * * * *

The Crap Shooter’s Wedding

Preacher—Rastus, do yo’ take dis here woman for better or for worse?

Rastus (from habit)—Pahson, Ah shoots de works!

* * * * *

The Program

I pressed thy round, full mouth to mine own In ecstacy. I drew the fragrant perfume of thee Into me. My trembling hand about thy slender neck. With a curse: for I knew That thou wast empty, little pint bottle.

* * * * *

Knockem On the Kiss

_He—Do you like indoor sports?_

_She—Yes, if they go home early._

* * * * *

“Will you please insert this obituary notice?” asked an old gentleman of Pedigreed Bull Smith of the Minneapolis Journal. “I make bold to ask it because the deceased had a great many friends about here who’d be glad to hear of his death.”

* * * * *

Irish Pot Pourri

_As the old saying goes—you’ll find no Chinese laundries where the River Shannon flows._

* * * * *

If everything we did in life was printed on our foreheads there would not be so many reformers out in the daytime.

* * * * *

The Fireless Telephone

In Hades: “Hell-o!”

In Heaven: “Hal-o!”

* * * * *

“Were you ever pinched for going too fast?”

“No, but I’ve been slapped.”

* * * * *

_“Mary, Mary, slightly airy,_ _How do the fashions go?”_ _“Piled up hair and shoulders bare_ _And vertebrae all in a row.”_

* * * * *

“Sir,” writes a correspondent, “When I was in Butte I dropped my meal ticket on the floor and one of those miners with hob-nailed shoes stepped on it and punched out a week’s board.”

* * * * *

Sandy Lost His Ball

Sandy McDugal was a great golf enthusiast. In many months he never missed a morning. Then the inevitable happened—Sandy was absent. His fellow golfers, worried lest Sandy be ill, sought him out.

They found the old Highlander in apparently good health. Sandy refused to explain his absence from the course until after vigorous questioning.

“Weel,” drawled Sandy unwillingly, “if ye must know, I lost me ball.”

* * * * *

There are two things that I can’t understand. A locoed cow and a love-sick man.

* * * * *

This Can’t Be True

A traveling man had missed his train and went back to his home. He took his pass keys out of his pocket, opened the door, and to his great surprise his wife was sitting on his best friend’s lap, and kissing him.

“Smith, I’ve set a trap for you and caught you,” shouted the irate husband.

Smith replied, “With bait like this, you can catch me any time!”

* * * * *

On Picket Duty

“That was a striking gown your girl wore last night.”

“Yes; that was her union suit.”

* * * * *

When Mrs. Murphy saw her husband hanging in the stable she said, “so that’s where my clothes line went!”

* * * * *

A Thing of Beauty is an expense forever.

* * * * *

Where Words Failed

The new guard was not familiar with a certain railway run in Wales. Came a station which rejoiced in the name of Llanfairfeshanpwllgogerych. For a few minutes he stood looking at the sign board in mute helplessness. Then, pointing to the board and waving his other arm toward the carriages, he called, “If there’s anybody there for here, this is it.”—Western Christian Advocate.

* * * * *

Mr. Harper’s Special

A Darky and his brown sweetheart, followed by three pickaninnies, applied to the clerk of a Southern court house for a license to wed.

The clerk eyed the assemblage doubtfully. “Whose children are these?” he asked.

“Dey our’n,” was the ready response from the man.

The clerk was scandalized, being new at his post. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, waiting to get married till you have a family half grown—”

“Jedge, you’ll have to excuse dat,” interrupted the “bride,” sweetly. “De roads out our way is so bad!”

* * * * *

It’s a New One On Us

Elizabeth—Say, daddie, what is that thing under your nose?

Daddie—Why! That’s my mustache. Why do you ask?

Elizabeth—I just wondered what you called it. Mamma’s got one of them things under her arm.

* * * * *

Dot’s Right

Cohen—Ikey, what for you go up dem shtairs two at a time?

Ikey—To safe my shoes, fader.

Cohen—Dot’s right, my son; but look out you don’t shplit your pandts.

* * * * *

Not First Class

The late Peter Cooper Hewitt, millionaire inventor of New York, had a very intimate knowledge of high society in the world’s capitals.

Mr. Cooper Hewitt, discussing the English professional beauties of the ’80’s, said one day:

“A famous, or rather a notorious professional beauty, visited Constantinople. Her charms worked havoc among the Turkish nobility. The sultan himself was smitten.

“At a dinner party on her return, King Edward, then the Prince of Wales, questioned her about her Turkish conquests.

“‘You made a great hit with the sultan, I believe?’ he said.

“‘The sultan,’ she answered with enthusiasm, ‘is a dear. He conferred this decoration on me.’

“And she displayed a jeweled emblem which glistened on her white bosom royally.

“‘It’s the order of virtue,’ she explained, and then, lowering her eyes, she added—‘of the second class.’”

* * * * *

Did you ever sit in the parlor with your best girl and hold each other’s hands ’til they got all “perspiry” and then let go and rub off and get a fresh hold again?

* * * * *

_When I die I want to be cremated so I can carry my remains around in my vest pocket._

_Whiz Bang Editorials_

_“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”_

Recently there came to our notice a booklet containing what purports to be a sermon delivered by one Bob Shuler, pastor of the Trinity Methodist Church, Los Angeles, bearing on its cover the statement that it is “published in pamphlet form because of the utter impossibility of securing the publication of such a discussion through any Los Angeles daily newspaper.”

Taking for his text, “The Movie Industry vs. The Public,” Rev. Shuler devotes approximately four thousand words to what seems first a conviction and then a trial of the only screen star ever charged with a felony. He says:

“That he was directly and absolutely responsible for her death, I am certain.”

The worthy pastor then proceeds with the admission that “the attitude of the movie luminaries toward the marriage relation; their continuous ‘souse’ in divorce and scandal; their quarter of a century of screened sex appeal; * * * the evident looseness that has sprung up among them; their booze parties; their cigarette smoking beauties; their behavior as reported by scores who live neighbor to their studios; * * * all has forced me against my will and over my protest to believe that a majority of the movie crowd are of the same stripe * * *.”

Having already found him guilty, Dr. Shuler then asks whether this actor is a fair, fit sample of a type, and promptly answers his question by saying:

“I think you will have no trouble in recognizing that he is a most splendid example of a type, a most certain sample, of a variety of folk who have decided to be the independent authors of their own standards of morality or immorality, without regard to or respect for the public.”

On the same day there was brought to us a copy of a daily newspaper containing about four thousand words under the heading, “In Loving Memory of Harry S. Duffield,” being a transcript of an eulogy delivered a few weeks ago by James Neill at the bier of his brother-actor and lifelong friend, from which we quote:

“In all these years I never heard from these dead lips one irreverent oath. His thoughts were white and his speech was clean. By nature he was devotional. He believed in church attendance and private prayer, and in the constant reference of daily concerns to Divine guidance. His reputation for gentle judgment of his fellows was well known. Save to report good of his fellowman, he spoke not at all. * * * So good-bye forever, dear Harry Duffield, our best beloved, and may the dear, gentle God be very tender with you and give you everlasting peace and rest.”

What power is theirs to soften pain, to educate, to instruct, when sent on some constructive mission.

And what a world of destruction they can accomplish when their author’s purpose is to gain notoriety through misrepresentation, to besmirch clean men and women by fastening to a majority the alleged shortcomings of a few, and to entirely disregard the command of our Creator, “Judge not that ye be not judged.”

* * * * *

The Difference

Marshal Petain, before he married, was once delivering some pretty frank invective against marriage in the presence of some friends. He ended by saying nearly all married couples led a cat-and-dog life. “But, look here,” said one friend, “that’s an absurdly sweeping statement. Besides, cats and dogs don’t always quarrel. Look at those two on your hearth at this moment. They get on well together.” Petain smiled. “Tie them together and watch,” he said.

* * * * *

Judge—Are you guilty?

Prisoner—I haven’t heard the evidence yet.

_A Dish of Pot Pourri_

Put on your muzzle, father, here comes the dog catcher.

* * * * *

Salesmanship

A man was hit by an automobile in front of the Whiz Bang News Stand at Sixth Street and Hennepin Avenue, Minneapolis, the other day. He arose rather dazed and ventured “Where am I?”

“Here you are, sir,” replied the book seller, “a map of Minneapolis for ten cents.”

* * * * *

_Doctors ought to get wise to themselves and hire some cabaret singers to entertain their prescription hounds in the waiting rooms._

* * * * *

Mighty Obliging

_Kiss me cute, kiss me cunning; kiss me quick, my daddy’s coming._

* * * * *

Brother, ah’s tough; ah’s so tough mah shadow won’t walk down the street with me, an’ when ah gargles mah throat ah has to use carbolic acid an’ boilin’ water to even feel it.

* * * * *

_You must sleep well, you lie so easy._

* * * * *

Beg Your Pardon

Our hired man Pete informs us that it wasn’t a six-foot tank of solid concrete that he dove into, as announced in our last issue, but that it was a six-foot tank filled with tapioca pudding instead.

* * * * *

I’ve heard of a lot of absent-minded guys, but the one who scratched his hot cake and poured the syrup down his neck beats ’em all—What say?

* * * * *

Whiz Bang’s Monthly Motto

_Never look a blind pig in the eye._

* * * * *

Peroxide Blues

He—You were a red head last night.

She—Now I’m a black head.

He—I’ll have to squeeze you.

* * * * *

We know a certain “reformer” in Santa Ana who could make a fortune if he would sell his pictures for puzzles.

* * * * *

A Little Cotton Tale

“Really, I seldom cross my feet in a street car.”

“I hardly ever wear silk ones either.”

* * * * *

Heard in a Beanery

Waiter—“One stew for a bum! He has his own bread!”

* * * * *

Our Monthly Special

Ashes to ashes, sand to sand; please show me a butcher that won’t weigh his hand.

* * * * *

_I know a man who refuses to shave until he gets a drink of good liquor. He is now tripping on his beard._

* * * * *

Were you ever at sea?

No, madam, I came over from Ireland in a wagon.

How could you cross the ocean in a wagon?

Why, my good woman, I rowed over.

* * * * *

They All Do That

I am wild, wild with glee; because I kissed my sweetheart, and she slapped me—That convinced me that she loved me.

* * * * *

Question

_Woman thinks that man is rude_ _If he stares at skirt to knee,_ _But, lady, do you wear it short_ _Just for other girls to see?_

* * * * *

My girl’s name is Niagara. She falls for anybody.

* * * * *

The Villain

_They shot him with limburger cheese and then killed him for smelling bad._

* * * * *

He—My father has a rabbit tattooed on his arm.

She—That’s nothing. My father has hares all over his chest.

* * * * *

Memories of the Depot Man

Down on a depot platform, Bathed in the bleak wintry breeze, Shy long ago of its contents, With nothing inside it to freeze; Shy long ago of its contents, Drained of its last amber dreg, Bungless and beerless and friendless, Stands an empty eight gallon keg.

* * * * *

She—You married me for love and got it.

Old Foggie—You married me for money and got it.

She—I’ll tell the world I earned it.

* * * * *

Truck Driver to Barber

Don’t put any of that powder on my face, see! What ya tink I am, a sissie?

* * * * *

A fashion magazine reminds us that one way to get away from the city Bustle is to move to the Outskirts.

* * * * *

A Home Run

While swimming someone stole his clothes, so he painted a number on his B. V. D.’s and ran home like a track man.

* * * * *

Line Up For Mess, Boys

Cora, Cora, I adore you, And for home I hate to start, But the beans are ready, Cora, And the best of friends must part.

_Confessions of a Bride_

_A Daily Newspaper Raving_

“Call up a steeple-jack today and get him to paint the flag pole on the garage,” said Warren as he finished his sixth helping of ham and eggs, and folded the morning paper preparatory to leaving for the office. “Why, Warren,” Helen exclaimed, “I can do the job as well as a steeple-jack, and the money saved can be used to buy a new worm for our still; the old one is almost worn out.”

Since Warren’s salary had been reduced from $3,000 to $2,984 a month Helen had watched every dollar, and the thought of paying a man 50 or 75 cents to paint the flag pole caused big tears to form in her eyes and run down her cheeks into the platter of fried mock turtle, which was her favorite breakfast dish.

“There, there, little wife, don’t cry,” pleaded Warren, placing an arm on her shoulder and gently kicking her back of the right ear, “We’ll say no more about the matter today, but if I hear of you trying to climb that flag pole I’ll cave in half a dozen of your ribs” and flinging her a kiss he dashed blithely out of the house and hailing a passing whisky runner’s car, was soon out of sight on his way to work.

Helen busied herself around the house and tried to keep her mind off of the painting job. Since they had dispensed with the services of three maids and there was no one to assist her with the house work except Bridget, the Japanese house girl, there was much for her to do. Getting Baby Winifred ready for school was the biggest task, and this morning the little girl was more unruly than ever. Only by giving her a large glass of potato whisky mixed with snuff, of which the child was intensely fond could Helen induce her to stop breaking the cut glass decanters on the sideboard, and allow herself to be dressed.