Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. III. No. 32, April, 1922
The Winter Annual
(See inside back cover)
_CONTENTS_
DRIPPINGS FROM THE FAWCETT
GIRL IN BLUE VELVET BAND
FACE ON THE BARROOM FLOOR
FRANKIE AND JOHNNIE BLUES
SHOOTING OF DAN MCGREW
WEDDING OF THE PERSIAN CAT
ACE IN THE HOLE
BOOZE FIGHTER’S DREAM
DIARY OF A DIVORCEE
FABLE OF THE BULL
HIGHTY TIGHTY APHRODITE
GOLIGHTLY HIGHBALLS
HOW TO KISS DELICIOUSLY
HUNTING THE WILY POLE CAT
MOHAMMEDAN BULL
OUR OWN FAIRY QUEEN
TOOL HOUSE ON THE FARM
THE OLD SMOKEHOUSE
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
GILA MONSTER ROUTE
PASTURE POT POURRI
HOOCH CURE BLUES
DYING HOBO
LASCA
SAM’S GIRL
TOLEDO SLIM
EVOLUTION
POPPIES
AFTER THE RAID
THE HARPY
THE SUICIDE
TARNISHED GOODS
SEPARATION
LITTLE RED GOD
THE LADIES
LIMBER KICKS
NAUGHTY BUT NICE
TO THE GIRL
RURAL MAIL BOX
TIRED HIRED MAN
LIFE’S A FUNNY PROPOSITION AFTER ALL
_Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang_
[Illustration]
_America’s Magazine of
Wit, Humor and
Filosophy_
APRIL, 1922 Vol. III. No. 32
Published Monthly
W. H. Fawcett,
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 1922
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_
Readers of this little bundle of farm-yard foolishness and filosophy may
have gotten a kick out of some of our jabs at the movie colony that hangs
out at Hollywood—on the Pacific Coast near Los Anglaise.
There are estimated to be about 30,000 people engaged in the motion
picture industry in Hollywood and environs. Out of this crew there are
a lot of lame-brains, a goodly sprinkling of nincompoops, who flaunt
their peccadillos with a too-apparent wish to have them noticed and
press-agented. They wear brass-band clothes, ride around in noisy cars
with license tags like “Fatty” Arbuckle’s “606,” and live noisy lives.
By the very nature of their employment they are in the public eye and
everything they do comes under the public’s microscope. Every move they
make is published to the eager world by their zealous press agents.
A home-brew party in a bungalow comes forth a “Neroesque orgy in a
mansion,” as Waldemar Young put it. And yet, goodness knows, they
probably have enough of the real kind—and we envy them.
* * * * *
However, what are we coming to, is that the noisy movie people have their
prototypes everywhere in society and its numerous substrata, and we for
one are not going to make any scavenger’s holiday out of the William
Desmond Taylor murder mess in Los Angeles.
Taylor appears to have been an artist of high calibre—hard-working,
earnest, capable and a gentleman. But he permitted himself to be
murdered—and he was a movie director. Consequently the public immediately
put Taylor on trial. They dragged his name through the mud, swishing,
swashing. Having put Taylor on trial, it was found that he had taken a
stage name—a common thing in the movie and the fight game. But when a man
gets murdered he ought to be more careful.
Man of mystery, “Dual life.” Perhaps yes and perhaps no.
But a lot of buncombe, any way you look at is—Imbecilic, puerile. That’s
what we think of the campaign of calumny against the motion picture
colony growing out of the Taylor murder.
* * * * *
The other day we read a statement from Frank Mayo, a movie actor,
who burst out with this denunciation: “The Hollywood film colony is
a pernicious influence. Scatter it, abolish it, burn it up—I say.”
Mayo ought to be ashamed of himself. We might just as sensibly orate
Robbinsdale—burn it up, scatter red pepper in every front yard and
squirt formaldehyde through every key-hole. Somebody tried to rob the
Robbinsdale bank and got killed at it.
As we have hereinbefore set forth, there are a lot of tramps in
Hollywood—just as there are a lot of undesirables in Robbinsdale, in
Minneapolis, in Chicago. And there are just as many honest, decent men
and women in the picture business as in the ranks of the sanctimonious
reformers, even if they do not go around mouthing the scavenger’s chant
“I am holier than thou.”
If Mayo had said: “Run out the undesirables,” we might have joined with
him in a hearty “amen.” But it is childish and surely unfair to damn the
good with the bad.
The mayor of Los Angeles insists that the actresses and actors of
Hollywood are fine citizens, good neighbors and respectable ladies and
gentlemen. Adolph Zukor, who is head of the Famous Players, declares:
“There is no more immorality in Hollywood than in the New York Stock
Exchange”—not much of a boost for Hollywood but a powerful statement just
the same.
* * * * *
Finally, you find Hobart Bosworth throwing the responsibility squarely
in the faces of an audience that listened to him: “You think that we of
the motion picture world are rotten. Through the confessions of the box
office we know that you, the public, are rotten.”
Mayo’s statement is not true. The man who agrees with him has forgotten
that things exist because certain definite forces have brought them
into being—and Hollywood, even though rotten to the core, burnt up or
scattered would arise again somewhere else. The mayor of Los Angeles
spoke half the truth, at least. The motion picture people are folk
like all the rest. Bosworth is blind. He is angry when he should be
sympathetic, despising when he should be greatly moved by the pathos of
the spectacle.
If there is weakness in the movie picture colonies the imperfections are
not the result of viciousness and immorality in the public that Bosworth
calls “rotten.” It is the effect of loneliness and frustrated hopes that
sends the starved ones to the movies. It is no small thing in each human
being—that longing for beauty and the allurements of wealth, love and
triumph. But the sum of all this longing combined and packed into the
streams that flow toward Hollywood is stupendously powerful.
It makes life what it is in the motion pictures, brings out the noise in
those who have not had proper advantages and makes puppets of men and
women who ought to be just “plain folk” and ruins their lives.
* * * * *
But so far as William Desmond Taylor is concerned—We are unable to see
that the movies made a puppet out of him. He was in life respected by his
associates—a leader, a man of ideals. And that is why the little old Whiz
Banger refuses to be stampeded with the gang that is burrowing in the
Hollywood garbage can, seeking delicacies of juicy, ripe dirt to twist
their long tongues around.
* * * * *
We’ve heard the story of the lions and the lionesses, tigers and
tigresses, and bears and bear cubs, but not until we became a guest on
board the U. S. S. Niagara in Havana harbor of Lieutenants Parsons and
Faga did we really discover the superintelligence of wild animals. The
first member of the crew we met was a jovial gob, Jack Sellers, who
introduced us to his Pride and Joy, the mascot, a big black bear.
“This bear is very intelligent,” vouchsafed Sellers. “You know we sailors
sleep in hammocks on the decks. In the middle of the night when the
bear gets cold he sneaks around and steals blankets off the sleeping
gobs. He carries the blankets to a secluded spot on the ship and piles
them evenly, one on top of the other, until he gets forty or fifty. He
then retires for a comfortable nap on his downy bed. When the gobs are
awakened from the chill and find their blankets missing they immediately
search for Bruin. Would you believe it, that bear won’t let any jackie
take his bedding until he first smells him and then sniffs at the pile of
blankets? When he finds the rightful owner he pulls out his blanket from
the pile and gives it to him.”
Woof! Woof! Woof!
* * * * *
_A New York poet who knows the yearnings of a demi-virgin’s heart gave
this verse the title “Naughty—But Nice,” a plagiarized version of an
original poem under that title which was published in an early issue of
the Whiz Bang and the Whiz Bang Winter Annual. The New York Times, in
publishing this verse, believes a more fitting title would be_:
It Can’t Be Done
_I want to be naughty, but I want to be nice,_
_I don’t mind the route, but I don’t like the price._
_I want to do what the other girls do—_
_Tease ’em, and cuddle up, and bill and coo._
_Blacken my eyes, and powder my nose;_
_Roll my cigarettes and my hose;_
_Rouge my cheek and pencil my lip;_
_Carry a silver flask on my hip;_
_Tango a little, and shimmy a lot;_
_Park my corset when the weather gets hot._
_Ride and swim and golf and skate;_
_Take the fences instead of the gate._
_Break all records—yes, all but one—_
_And be good and true when the game is done._
_I don’t like pepper, but I do love spice;_
_I want to be naughty, but I want to be nice._
* * * * *
“Dear Billy,” writes Chris Corey, a Minneapolis pill pusher, “You
are always writing jokes about other tradesmen but nothing about we
druggists. Now, you know we all handle the Whiz Bang and are great
boosters for it, so please give us a joke about the pill pounders.”
All right, Chris, here’s one, having to do with your recent convention of
druggists in Minneapolis—The chairman rapped with his gavel, “You are out
of order, sir!”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Chairman,” responded the speaker, “I never felt
better in my life.”
* * * * *
They have a new way of catching whitefish at Breezy Point in the winter
months. The fisherman repairs to the frozen over river with a hammer,
a saw and a can of peas. He cuts a hole in the ice, sprinkles the peas
around the edge of the hole and when the fish comes up to take a bite he
hits him over the head with the hammer.
* * * * *
Americans in Cuba for the most part are strictly business. I hadn’t been
in Havana twenty-four hours until fellow citizens tried to sell me the
Malecon; Morro Castle; the Almendares; a boneless elephant; some finless
fish; fiddlers’ soup; and a throatless frog. I’ll tell you our brother
Americans in Cuba are great for business.
* * * * *
“Humor”
The following is a vivacious little conceit, entitled “Humor,” culled
from Laura Benet’s “Fairy Bread.” (Thomas Seltzer.)
_A fairy dances_
_In upland pastures,_
_Picking tart crabapples,_
_Swinging low;_
_Twisted and green,_
_Elfin-mouth, lean,_
_His feet may be chained_
_They are never slow._
_He slyly peeps under_
_Bushes of wonder,_
_Hunts for thistles_
_In hedgerow trees_
_And straight thereafter_
_Tickles to laughter_
_Solemn asses_
_On bended knees._
_Where his sharp wits go_
_Occasions grow,_
_The blind see meadows_
_Of waving corn;_
_Men mazed with talking_
_Find lost hopes walking_
_When he conjures roses_
_Out of a thorn._
* * * * *
Turn ’im Loose, Judge!
Judge—Are you guilty or not guilty?
Prisoner—I was going to plead guilty, yer honor, but my lawyer has
convinced me that I am innocent.
* * * * *
The Boys in the Back Room
“Vat will you haf?”
“Vat haf you got?”
“Ve haf some nice ha’f and ha’f.”
“You haf? Ha’f vat and ha’f vat?”
“Ha’f ha’f of vun per cent dark and ha’f ha’f of vun per cent light.”
“Vell, I think I’ll haf to haf a seegar.”
* * * * *
“Maud kicked the bucket,” said Gus, as he sadly surveyed the spilt milk.
* * * * *
Sob Stuff
=Dear Capt. Billy Fairfax=—I’m on a visit from the East. Fell in love
with a Western girl. For the past six months I have been faithful to her,
I thought my love was returned and never looked at anyone else. Took her
around the country some and to different places of amusement. Finally on
a beautiful moonlight night I took her in my arms. Oh, my, I can see her
now—her beautiful face, Oh, those eyes, those nose, those mouth, those
beautiful hair.
I kissed her and she closed her beautiful eyes. She was happy I thought.
Things went on fine but as I had not been in the town long I didn’t know
much of what had been going on. Then to my sorrow I found there was
someone else, a guy with a super-six and a tin ear. I was broken-hearted,
she had lied, used me for a fool. Then this shy, modest thing I had
trusted crushed me by telling others she had never cared for me and also
laughingly told them of my lovesick talk. What do you think of that for
honor and decency? She continues to talk and my life is a miserable
affair.
Please advise me what to do, because if my wife ever hears what this girl
has to say she’ll “raise ’ell.”—=Pete Olson.=
* * * * *
Iowa Frivol Pulls This One
An optimist is a man going up the river with a canoe, a girl, a basket, a
blanket and a couple of pillows.
A pessimist is the same man coming back.
* * * * *
She was so bow-legged she could wear a pair of parenthesis for stockings!
* * * * *
The Height of Ambition
I sure got a fine job since I came out of the Army.
What’s that.
Well, you know the fellow that hammers underneath the passenger cars,
well, I help him listen.
* * * * *
Ancient Stuff
El—“What did you give the baby when it was christened?”
Ella—“A silver spoon.”
El—“Was it a good one?”
Ella—“I’ll say it was. It had ‘Blackstone Hotel’ on it.”
* * * * *
Ikenstein—“Your new stenographer iss a beaut. Can she spell?”
Rubenstein—“Vat hass that to do vid it?”
* * * * *
Speaking of stingy people, I knew a fellow that had two teeth extracted
and then wanted the price of his board reduced.
_Hollywood Flirtations_
(_The following item was written a few days before the tragic death of
Mr. Taylor. Miss Normand at this time is reported the last known visitor
to Mr. Taylor’s apartment before the slaying._)
Mabel Normand is tripping the light fantastic at the Cocoanut Grove very
often. Sometimes it’s William D. Taylor, Lasky director, and we also hear
that Mack Sennett gave her a wonderful birthday party and many presents.
When the girls get Mabel to talk in the seclusion of her own boudoir,
the sly gal brings out a little bag just dangling full of nice diamond
solitaire engagement rings. When she gets a new one she gives the bag a
toss and giggles! That’s how seriously Mabel takes this matrimony stuff!
* * * * *
An ironic fact has put May Collins into the very dressing room at the
Mayer studio formerly occupied by Mildred Harris. May, you know, has been
often reported as engaged to Charlie Chaplin, Mildred’s noted ex. Miss
Collins, it is said, found a picture of Charlie in a remote drawer of
the dresser, wiped off the dust and stuck it in the mirror for her own
perusal!
* * * * *
Bebe Daniels’ grandmother, her mother and Jack Dempsey all deny that Bebe
and Jack are to wed. Reporters have even interviewed the family cat on
the subject, but the news tip has fallen flat all around!
* * * * *
And, speaking of Charlie Chaplin, his leading lady, Edna Purviance (who
was one of Charlie’s early loves as well) is reported engaged to Paul
Hunter, wealthy business man and polo player of Pasadena.
* * * * *
Lucille Carlisle again will be leading lady for Larry Semon. She formerly
was engaged to marry Semon, but suddenly the engagement was declared
off; she left the studio and nothing had been heard of her for several
months. Now it appears that all is again sweetness and light between Miss
Carlisle and the comedian.
* * * * *
Whiz Bang will soon invade a new territory. We believe that the Laguna
Beach and La Jolla artist colonies have been too long neglected in our
zeal to disclose those little personal affairs out in Hollywood. While
fair and winsome Hollywood nobly tows a few barges of stuff, Whiz Bang’s
astute investigators have discovered naughty Laguna Beach doing just
terrible things and getting away with it because there are four hours
of muddy automobile road away from any sort of town. La Jolla has this
week confirmed some of our suspicions in the bathing suit marriage which
took place when Del Carmen and Sarah Andrews plighted their serious (?)
troth in the trough of the ocean. Artist like, they just wanted to be
“different.”
Of course you wouldn’t think an artist who paints with a brush could be
as lowbrow as those Hollywood actors, but you just ought to be in on
some of the parties staged down at sneaky little Laguna Beach. An artist
colony (many of them people of national reputation, too), resides there
permanently in a little world of their own. Judging from several little
Bohemian affairs visited by Whiz Bang’s official chaperone, we would
judge that everyone’s in love with best friend’s wife, and best friend
doesn’t even care! Sandals, and loose sloppy clothes and no haircuts
usually travel with freedom of thought. That’s why it’s hard to believe
that some of Hollywood’s most athletic, healthiest, best groomed and best
clothed actors are steeped in sin!
The Hollywood Chamber of Commerce and the Motion Picture Producers’
Association have just joined forces to combat magazine and newspaper
propaganda tending to paint Hollywood as a modern Babylon. Whiz Bang
suggests the simple expedient of throwing loads of mud at somebody else
(perhaps Laguna or La Jolla), thus diverting the scandal hungry eyes
of the nation away from Hollywood long enough to pull a few more good
parties.
* * * * *
Charlie Chaplin and Douglas Gerrard gave a lovely dinner party in honor
of Mme. Anna Pavlowa, husband and company on their recent visit to Los
Angeles. This year’s party was drier than the last, but Douglas, we
haven’t forgotten that party you gave in Anna’s honor about two years
ago! The Wilshire district and Los Angeles “upper ten” gave a smart
tea in the afternoon at the residence of a well-known society woman.
Everyone in society was there and poor Anna shook hands and said polite
things until her patience was almost at an end. So, when Douglas’ party
was pulled off that evening ’tis said Anna cut loose, enjoyed a lot of
naughty stories and vowed she preferred Bohemians! You know Douglas can
tell ’em, too!
* * * * *
It was only two weeks ago that we thought we saw Mabel Normand dancing
at the Cocoanut Grove with F. Richard Jones; chief director under Mack
Sennett, but Mabel “bawled” out a morning sheet for insinuating such a
thing, so maybe it isn’t true! Anyhow, Mrs. F. Richard has just filed
suit for divorce. She asks $1,000 a month alimony, claiming hubby earns
$100,000 a year. Mutual jealousy seems to have caused the break-up.
* * * * *
“Billie” Rhodes, comedy star of picturedom, has filed a divorce action
against William Jobelmann, a theater publicity man. She charges he drank,
even stealing a bottle from her own private stock to appease his desire.
This, says Billie, capped the climax and she asks her freedom.
* * * * *
Mrs. Thelma Morgan Goetz, pretty English actress, has just divorced
Ronald Goetz, formerly a captain in the English army. They are both
members of Hollywood’s film colony. “He made a wonderful lover,”
complained the wife, “but not a good husband. He wanted his fling—he
craved variety.”
* * * * *
Paramount opened its Wilshire district studio just recently. Was it for
this reason that the Los Angeles police department found it necessary to
open a Wilshire station the same day?
* * * * *
_When a woman puckers up her lips to be kissed she is just setting her
trap._
* * * * *
Man is somewhat like a sausage,
Very smooth upon the skin,
But you never can tell exactly
How much hog there is within.
* * * * *
_“Youth must have its fling,” said the Scotchman, as he started his
bag-pipe working._
* * * * *
Torch’s Best One
She (to fair friend)—“I’m not going with Bill any more.”
Fair Friend—“Why not?”
She—“He knows too many naughty songs.”
Fair Friend—“Does he sing them?”
She—“No, but he’s always whistling them.”
* * * * *
Song of the Tire Chain
Wee, wee, wee,
Klop, klop, klop,
Squeak, squawk, squeak,
Twat, twat, twat.
* * * * *
Girls may smoke. However, the correct way to light a match still remains
a man’s privilege.
* * * * *
In Valparaiso
Why so sad, Diogenes?
I was going up College Avenue looking for an honest man, and, alas,
someone stole my lantern.
* * * * *
“That pianist sure claws a mean batch of ivories.”
“Yeh, he sure beats a nasty can!”
* * * * *
“Now do be sure to come and see us soon, won’t you?”
“Yes, we will. We’ll call on you the first time we go slumming.”
* * * * *
Soliloquy of a Hooch-hound
When my soul becomes clogged with evil deeds, my mind and conscience
inundated with hideous hallucinations, and my heart dry and acrid with
the pain of living, I imbue my soul, my heart, my mind with King Alcohol.
Then, as the morning breeze dissipates the fog, the kindly King cleanses
my soul; as the sun dries and purifies the stagnant swamp, so Alcohol
transforms the morass of my mind into a verdant meadow; as the spring
rains change the desolation of winter into flowers and grain, so my lord
and master changes the cynical, skeptical desert of my heart into an
oasis of compassion and philanthropy.
That’s why I drink.
* * * * *
The Diff’unce
Percival chews Spearmint,
John, Virginia twist;
Percy shakes a wicked hoof,
And John, a wicked fist.
* * * * *
Special For the Clergy
“Father,” explained the visitor to the priest, “I ask penance for the sin
of bootlegging.”
Father Kelly was puzzled and telephoned the superior father for advice.
“What shall I give a bootlegger, Very Reverend Sir?” the priest inquired.
“Don’t give him more than five dollars,” came the answer. “That’s all I
ever pay.”
* * * * *
London Post Toastie
“Oh, what a naughty little boy,” cried the kind lady, “to beat and kick
his poor mother like that!”
“Take no notice of the choild at all,” responded the proud mother. “Bliss
his little heart, he must do everything he sees his father do!”
* * * * *
Bones to Bones,
And skin to skin;
Ain’t it heck
When a feller’s thin?
* * * * *
Lodge Notice
The Bootleggers’ Benevolent Association of America.
Meets every Thirsty night at Wood-Alco Hall. At our next meeting the
following officers will be installed:
F. U. Selloyl, High Muck-a-Muck of the Mash.
I. Rob. Sellers, Bearer of the Boot.
Formal D. Hyde, Lord of the Leg.
R. Ott Gutt, Licker of the Labels and Seals.
A special lecture on “Making Moonshine with the Materials at Hand” will
be given, with Prof. Ray Sinn at the Still.
* * * * *
Spring Sports
Standing in the barnyard and watching the cows come in.
Questions and Answers
=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I am a young man, fifteen years old, and I am
going with two girls, one fourteen and the other twenty-seven. Do you
think it possible to love both of them at the same time?—=_Willie Bohy._=
No, Willie, not if they know it.
* * * * *
=_Dear Cap’n Bill_=—When the silverware for your meal consists of
more than three pieces, which side do you start on, the right or
left?—=_Konnick Essen._=
Start at either side, Konnick, but be sure and have one piece left for
the dessert.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Bill_=—Of late I have been having trouble with my lungs and
thought perhaps you could suggest a remedy.—=_Ada Clock._=
Dear Ada—Merely open a window and throw out your chest.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—Please give us the definition of Booster, also
Knocker.—=_Isin Yet Tu._=
A Booster is a man with something to sell, and a Knocker is one who
bought some of it.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is the difference between a dawnce and a
dance?—=_Iowa Bill._=
The difference between a dawnce and a dance is one dollar and fifty cents
and three fights.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is a goblet?—=_Frank Furter._=
A small sailor.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Bill_=—My little boy has worms; what would you
suggest?—=_Alvie._=
Feed him fish, fish like worms.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—Percy, my sixteen-year-old son, says his greatest
ambition is to sing tenor in a glee club. What shall I do?—=_Worried
Mama._=
The case is hopeless. You never should have named him Percy.
* * * * *
=_Dear Doctor Bill_=—One night at a party I met a fellow and he had to
escort me home. When we got to a dark place he pushed me into a mud
puddle and ran. Do you think he loves me?—=_Sis Hopkins._=
There can be no question of it.
* * * * *
=_Dear Captain Whiz Bang_=—I very much enjoy hunting, but also believe in
the protection of wild animal life. What shall I do?—=_Daniel Boone of
Kokomo._=
Always use blank cartridges.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—Since I enrolled at the University, I have heard
the girls talking about dates. Tell me what a date is and how to acquire
them.—=_Iowa Girl._=
Dates grow in Palestine, Arabia, and other Oriental countries. They also
flourish on the walls of telephone booths and in pool halls. Send me your
picture and you will hear from me soon or I will return the picture.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—Can you recommend a stiff drink?—=_Bill Eltinge._=
Embalming fluid.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is your idea of an ideal job?—=_Abie Friedman._=
Pork inspector for the City of Jerusalem.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What fish does a girl like most?—=_A. John._=
Her ring.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—Do you believe in reincarnation?—=_Havana Eggie._=
Can’t say as I do. However, should I ever be reincarnated my hopes are
to be either a colored man or a Hebrew. A colored man, you know, doesn’t
want anything much and a Hebrew usually has all he wants.
* * * * *
They called the baby Fish-hooks—it was such a “catchy” name.
* * * * *
The Ace of Tragedies
“It was in the spring of 1896,” related the grizzled veteran of the
Yarn-Stretcher’s Club, according to the London Post, “that I was out
in the Wild West. I was on a jury that was trying a man for homicide.
I hated to think of the fellow being hanged, so I stuck out against
the other eleven jurymen for five solid days and nights. My obstinacy
was rewarded. One by one they gave in, and we returned into Court and
returned a verdict of ‘Not Guilty.’ The only thing that spoiled my
satisfaction with the result was that some of the citizens had lynched
the prisoner the first day we were locked up.”
And he sighed, reminiscently, as he took another gulp of his
whisky-and-soda.
* * * * *
Toole’s Best One
Small boy (handing grocer two cents)—“I want two cents’ worth of bananas.”
“We have no bananas,” said the grocer, not wanting to monkey with two
cents.
“What’s them?” said the boy, pointing to a bunch of bananas.
“Pineapples,” the grocer replied.
“Well, gimme two cents’ worth of pineapples.”
* * * * *
Southern Hospitality
_Does you all like yore entatanment wit or witout?_
* * * * *
Walking with a Purpose
I love to walk.
Last Sunday I took the most wonderful stroll.
I went for quite some distance through the park, thoroughly enjoying
every breath of the cool, crisp air. I felt like a new man as I hastened
onward, increasing my speed at every step. I walked on and on, drinking
in the beauty of all about me. It was wonderful.
Finally I picked her up.
* * * * *
Coffin Nail Epitaph
_Here lies my good friend_
_Willie Betts;_
_His age was ten—_
_Cigarettes._
* * * * *
Our Monthly Proverb
A stitch in time gathers no moss.
* * * * *
In the vernacular of the Bowery,
“DE OILY BOID CATCHES DE WOIM.”
* * * * *
A Warning to Flappers
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, all good girlies go to Heaven,
8, 9, 10, e-leven, 12, all bad girlies don’t.
* * * * *
Our Latest Song Hit
“A Cat Has Nine Lives, But a Bull Frog Croaks Every Night.”
* * * * *
Our Chestnut Rack
Two Irishmen held up a Scotchman, who had put up a terrific battle,
but finally was overcome. After the two Irishmen had gotten Sandy’s
pocketbook, which was tied up with a stout string, they ran away.
Unwinding the string and poking his fingers into the corners of the
thing, Pat finally located a solitary five cent piece. Looking at it a
moment in silence, he turned to his companion and said, “My gausch, Mike,
suppose he’d had a dime, he would have killed both of us.”
* * * * *
Here’s to the good old sea gull,
That cleans up Frisco’s Bay;
With a tummy full of sardines
He flies to San Jose.
* * * * *
To Molly of Havana
Mia Mamacita, she’s una grande fool;
She makes me hot tamale,
Then sets it out to cool.
* * * * *
Our Monthly Motto
“A girl in your arms is worth two on the ’phone.”
* * * * *
“Did you hear the joke about the spoiled mulligan?”
“No.”
“’Stoo bad, ’stoo bad.”
* * * * *
Motorcycle Mike
Mike and Pat went motorcycle riding one evening. All of a sudden they had
a collision. Two hours later Pat recovered consciousness in a hospital
and learned that Mike had been killed.
“He should have been dead long ago,” remarked Pat, wryly, “he saw two
bright lights ahead of him and the dang fool said to me: ‘Watch me sneak
through there.’”
* * * * *
At Havana Races
The old sport stood on a grand stand chair,
There was muck in his whiskers and coots in his hair,
But his voice rang out in the afternoon air:
“She’ll win in a walk, bejabers.”
“She’s from blue blooded stock—can’t go slow,
Out of Black Bess by Hungry Joe;
Their money’s on her—those who know,
For she’ll win in a walk, bejabers.
“She got off behind—at the turn was third
Worked up to second, then slipped like a bird
Fell in a ditch, when hit by the switch,
And she wasn’t in it, bejabers.”
* * * * *
Pardon Me—
“I beg your pardon,” cried the convict as the governor passed his cell.
* * * * *
_I wish I was the Warden’s daughter._
_How come?_
_There’s always men hangin’ around._
* * * * *
“_My wife’s tongue is so long she doesn’t have to use a towel to wash her
face._”
* * * * *
The Traveling Man
I register, most any old hotel, some bug cage, fire trap with glue plant
smell. In darkened hall I seek the number on the door, and find the bed—a
sea of tumbled rags, used many nights before. And often I must lend my
aid to drowsy, hook-worm chambermaid, who spreads and shakes and smoothes
and tucks and toils and sweats to make it well—then I jump in and tear it
all t’ell!
* * * * *
_They were always happy until a stranger wrecked their lives,_
_For she went back to the laundry, and he went back to his wife._
* * * * *
Song of Newlywed
I must go home tonight,
Oh, I must go home tonight,
I don’t care if it’s snowing,
Blowing, I’m going,
I got married only this morning,
And it fills me with delight,
I’ll stay out as long as you want next week,
But I must go home tonight.
* * * * *
For verily he that sitteth upon a toad stool shall arise again.
* * * * *
“Might as well hitch my wagon to a star,” said the drunken teamster, as
he passed his rope around the lamp-post.
* * * * *
What Is All the Noise About?
The barber is shaving himself.
But why the argument?
He is trying to talk himself into having a massage.
* * * * *
Blank Verse
He had worked six months
In a ship yard,
And was worried
For fear they would hurt
The baby,
The day of the Baptism
When they hit him,
Over the head with the bottle.
* * * * *
_He went in to church the first time and they threw water on him; the
second trip they threw rice on him; the third time was the charm; they
threw dirt on him._
* * * * *
Back Porch Cross Fire
“Fire, Fire,” said Mrs. McGuire.
“Where, Where?” said Mrs. Blair.
“Downtown,” said Mrs. Brown.
“S’ help us and save us,” said Mrs. Davis.
* * * * *
The Penalty
Between women and wine
A man is not so smart,
For wine makes his headache,
And women his heart.
* * * * *
I never looked up my family tree but I know that I’m the sap.
* * * * *
’Twas Sweet of Her
“Sweetheart,” gushed his bride, “the grocery stores were all closed
today, and—”
“I suppose I don’t get any dinner,” he cut in, eyeing his true love
hungrily.
“No, my darling,” she gurgled, “the confectionery was open, and I’ve made
you some nourishing jelly bean soup.”
* * * * *
In the Army
He missed on four,
Crapped out on six,
Put in his own dice,
And hit twenty licks.
* * * * *
We went to a fair the other evening for the benefit of the church and
took chances on everything but did not win a prize. About twelve o’clock,
as I was leaving a friend told me to stick around and I did for an hour
and one o’clock.
* * * * *
Wild Guy
Clarence is a devilish boy,
He loves his sarsaparilla,
He drank two bottles yesterday
Then smashed his umbrella.
* * * * *
Boo Hoo, Blooey
She—When I die you’ll never find another woman like me.
He—Well, you can take it from me, I’m not going to try.
_True Confessions_
_A Fawcett Publication_
_$10,000 Short Story Contest!_
[Illustration]
Within a few weeks _True Confessions_, a Fawcett Monthly magazine, will
make its appearance on the news stands of the United States and Canada
with a new purpose and new ideas. We live in the field for distinctively
interesting based-on-fact stories of 1,000 to 10,000 words, and offer
contributors—
=Two grand prizes of $1,000 each.=
=Two second prizes of $300 each.=
=Two third prizes of $200 each.=
=Twenty prizes of $100 each.=
=Fifty prizes of $50 each.=
=One Hundred prizes of $25 each.=
The contest is divided into two sections. The first section closes June
30, 1922 and manuscripts which fail to win prizes in the first section
will be entered in the second section automatically, and thus early
contestants will have a second chance. The second section closes Oct. 1,
1922.
FIRST SECTION
(Contest closes June 30, 1922)
=$1,000 Grand prize=
=$300 Second prize=
=$200 Third prize=
=Ten prizes of $100 each=
=Twenty-five prizes of $50 each=
=Fifty prizes of $25 each.=
SECOND SECTION
(Contest closes Oct. 1, 1922)
=$1,000 Grand prize=
=$300 Second prize=
=$200 Third prize=
=Ten prizes of $100 each=
=Twenty-five prizes of $50 each=
=Fifty prizes of $25 each=
=_Suggestions_=: Confessions of a Magdalene, Confessions of a Jimmy
Valentine, Confessions of a Maniac, Confessions of a Dope Fiend,
Confessions of Faithless Love, Confessions of Hate. All stories must be
_unusual_. _True Confessions_ will not consider cut and dried fiction.
We will take our readers into the _inner chambers of real life_.
Unless otherwise requested, writers’ names will not be published. All
manuscripts not prize winners will be purchased at space rates upon
acceptance.
Further information will be supplied on request. Manuscripts should be
addressed to—
W. H. FAWCETT, Editor,
_True Confessions_
ROBBINSDALE. MINNESOTA.
Whiz Bang Editorials
_“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”_
When we were a soakey-nosed kid in Grand Forks, North Dakota, our teacher
taught us a poem headed “Abou Ben Adhem,” which went something like this,
“Then count me among those who love his fellowmen.”
It appears that old Abou Ben Adhem hadn’t been listed among those in the
angel’s Book of Gold, having a sure ticket through St. Peter’s gates, and
for that reason the old fellow merely wanted to be charted among the Dead
Game Sports who were square to their fellows; who judged not that they be
not judged; that, being pure, to them all things were pure. The Abou Ben
Adhem legend concluded by the angel making a return the next night and
listing this old time legendary Sport on Page One of the Book of Gold.
Riley Grannan, who died in April, 1908, at Rawhide, Nevada, was one
of these Dead Game Sports, and while we can’t all be angels and see
through the eyes of Billy Sunday and Doctor Crafts and lead the ordained
exemplary life, we can take a tip from the life of Riley Grannan and be
Dead Game Sports no matter what path in life we follow.
Although it has been fourteen years since he passed into the Great
Beyond, his kindly deeds and noble character centralizes conversation on
the Havana race track and at all other turf gatherings.
Just a few brief explanatory remarks before we publish from an old
issue of a Nevada newspaper the story of Grannan’s burial. This Dead
Game Sport was a famous race track plunger and his bets ran as high as
$200,000 on a single race, and the following is respectfully dedicated
to “The Gang”—that bunch of carefree fellows who follow the lure of the
turf. Riley Grannan was one of them in life, and no greater tribute
could be paid him than that found in the desire of the “gang” that
these, the last words spoken over his bier, should be preserved. None
can read them without gleaning some inspiration, for they cannot fail to
strike a harmonious chord upon the heart-strings of the coldest soul. As
chronicled by Jeanne C. Grainger—
Rawhide, Nev., April 15, 1908—Half shielded under an oil-cloth blanket,
lodged in a common express wagon, the casket of Riley Grannan was carried
recently down dusty Rawhide avenue and along Nevada street from the
tented establishment of the camp’s undertaker to an improvised memorial
chapel, a variety theatre at the rear of a saloon.
There congregated a throng in silks and corduroys, women of metropolitan
costumes, miners covered with high-grade grime, prospectors sun-tanned,
brokers, bankers, merchants, promoters, owners of saloons, bartenders,
gamblers, rounders. Tears that were shed dropped from the eyes of all.
Again, as always in mining camps, class forgotten, all men were equal.
A solemn hush came down upon the little playhouse where last night and
tonight, jostling crowds drank and smoked while listening to doubtful
wit from the coarse jesters, men and women on the variety forum. Hovered
about the bier of Riley Grannan, race track plunger of national renown,
was as solemn a group of sincere mourners as ever gathered to pay final
tribute.
Solos were offered by Mrs. Hedricks, once an actress of wide fame, now
wife of the editor of a Rawhide daily paper, and by Jack Hines, miner
of Alaska, and leaser of Rawhide. Punctuations came with resounding
blasts from a score of mines on the mountains just above. Saloons were
closed and the streets were silent throughout the service. At its end a
solemn cortege trudged with the remains, destined by automobile to travel
thirty miles to Schurz, there to go aboard the cars to Riley’s brother in
Kentucky.
Unique beyond experience and dramatic beyond compare was the eulogy
pronounced by H. W. Knickerbocker, once a clergyman, then a mine operator
of Goldfield, later a Rawhide pioneer. Hardly orthodox, but wholly in
keeping with the scene and the mute desires of the dead, was the orator’s
appearance. The once pulpit exponent stood beside the lily-laden bier,
his eyes bedimmed with tears, his voice choked with a fraternal emotion,
he was shod in high boots and clothed in the rough garb of a miner. A
stenographic report of the eulogy follows:
“I feel that it is incumbent upon me to state that I now occupy no
ministerial or prelatic position. I am only a prospector. I make no
claims to moral merit whatever or to religious authority except it be
the religion of the brotherhood of man. I wish to be taken only as a
man among men, feeling that I can shake hands and style as my brother
the most humble of you all. If there may come from me a word of moral
admonition, it springs not from a sense of moral superiority, only from
the depths of my experience.
“Riley Grannan was born at Paris, Ky., about forty years ago. He
cherished all the dreams of boyhood. Those dreams found their fruition
in phenomenal success financial. I am told that from the position of a
bellboy in a hotel, he arose to be a celebrity of world wide fame. Riley
Grannan was one of the greatest plungers the continent has produced. He
died day before yesterday at Rawhide.
“That is a brief statement. We have his birth, and the day of his demise.
Who can fill the interim? Not I. Who can tell his hopes and fears? Who
knows the mystery of his quiet hours? Not I.
“Riley Grannan was born in the sunny southland of Kentucky. He died in
Rawhide. That is the beginning. That is the end. Is there in this picture
of what Ingersoll said at the grave of his brother, ‘Whether it be near
the shore, or in mid-ocean, or among the breakers, at the last a rock
must mark the end of one and all.’
“Born where brooks and rivers run musically through prolific soil,
where magnolia gladiflora, like white stars, glow in a firmament of
green, where lakes, the greensward and the softest summer breezes dimple
the wavelets, where the air is resonant with the melody of a thousand
sweet-voiced birds and redolent of the perfume of blooming flowers, that
was the beginning. Riley Grannan died in Rawhide, where in winter the
tops of the mountains are clothed in garments of ice and in summer the
blistering rays of the sun beat down upon the skeleton of the desert.
“Is there in this a picture of universal life? Sometimes, when I look
upon the circumstances of life there comes to my lips a curse. I relate
to you only my views. If these run counter to yours, believe that what I
say is sincere. When I see the ambitions of man defeated, when I see him
struggling with mind and body to accomplish his end, when I see his aim
and purpose frustrated only by a fortuitous combination of circumstances
over which he can exert no control, when I see his outstretched hands
about to grasp the flag of victory, and to seize instead the emblem
of defeat, I ask, ‘What is life?’ Dreams, awakening, death. Life is a
pendulum betwixt a smile and a fear. Life is but a momentary halt within
the waste and then the nothing we set out from. Life is a shadow, a poor
player that struts and then is heard no more. Life is a tale told by an
idiot, full of sound, signifying nothing. Life is a child-blown bubble
that but reflects the shadow of its environment and is gone, a mockery, a
sham, a lie, a fool’s vision, its happiness but Dead Sea apples, its pain
the crunching of a tyrant’s heel. Omar says it better when he says: ‘We
are but a moving row of magic shadow shapes that come and go, around with
a sunny lumined lantern held in midnight for the master of the shore, but
helpless pieces of the game we play on the checkerboard of night and day;
hither and thither moved or checks or slaves, and one by one back into
the closet laid. The ball, no question, makes of eyes or nose, but here
or there, as strikes the player, goes. But he that tossed you down into
the field; He knows, He knows.’ He knows, but I don’t. That’s my mood.
Not so with Riley Grannan.
“If I have gauged his character correctly, he accepted the circumstances
surrounding him as the mystic officials to whom the universe had
delegated its whole office concerning him. He took defeat and victory
with equal equanimity. He was a man of placid exterior. His meteoric past
shows him invincible in spirit and it is not irreverently that I proclaim
him a dead game sport. When I use that phrase I do so filling it as
full of practical human philosophy as it will hold. Riley Grannan fully
exemplified the philosophy of those fugitive verses, ‘It’s easy enough to
be happy when life goes along like a song; but the man worth while is the
man who will smile when everything goes wrong; for the test of the heart
is trouble, and it always comes with the years; and the smile that is
worth the homage of each is the smile that shines through tears.’
“There are those who will condemn him. They believe that today he is
reaping the reward of misspent life. They are those who are dominated
by mediaeval creeds. Them I am not addressing. They are ruled by the
skeleton hand of the past. They fail to see the moral side of a character
lived outside their puritanical ideas. Riley Grannan’s goodness was not
of a type that reached its highest manifestation in ceremonious piety. It
found its expression in the handclasp of friendship. It found its voice
in the word of cheer to a discouraged brother. His were deeds of quiet
charity. His were acts of manhood.
“Riley Grannan lived in the world of sport. My words are not minced
because I am telling what I believe to be true. It was the world of
sport, sometimes of hilarity, sometimes worse. He left the impress of
his character upon us all, and through the medium of his financial power
he was able with his money to brighten the lives of all who knew him. He
wasted his money, so the world says; but did it ever occur to you that
the men and women of such class upon whom he wasted it are yet men and
women? A little happiness brought into their lives means as much to them
as happiness carried into the lives of the straight and the good. If you
can take one ray of sunshine into the night life and thereby carry a
single hour of happiness, you are a benefactor. Riley Grannan did this.
“God confined not his sunbeams to the nourishing of potatoes and corn.
His scattering of sunshine was prodigal. Contemplate. He flings the
auroral beauties round the cold shoulders of the north. He hangs the
quivering picture of the mirage above the palpitating heart of the
desert. He scatters the sunbeams like shattered gold upon the bosom of a
myriad of lakes that gem the robe of nature. He spangles the canopy of
night with star jewels and silvers the world with the reflected beams
from on high. He hangs the gorgeous crimson curtain of the occident
across the sleeping room of the sun. ‘God wakes the coy maid of the
morning to step timidly from her boudoir of darkness, to climb the steep
of the orient, to fling wide the gates of morning and to trip o’er the
landscape, kidding the flowers in her flight. She arouses the world to
herald with their music the coming of her King, who floods the world with
effulgent gold.’ These are wasted sunbeams. Are they?
“_I say to you that the man or woman who by the use of money or power
is able to smooth one wrinkle from the brow of human care or to change
one moan or sob into a song, or to wipe away a tear, and to place in its
stead a jewel of joy, is a public benefactor. Such was Riley Grannan._
“The time has come to say goodbye. For the friends and loved ones not
here to say the word, let me say goodbye, old man. We will try to
exemplify the spirit of your life as we bear the grief at our parting.
Words fail me here. Let those flowers, Riley, with their petaled lips
and perfumed breath, speak in beauty and fragrance these sentiments too
tender for words. Goodbye.”
* * * * *
Something Wrong
Little Willie—Ma, is Pop taking you out to dinner tonight?
Mother—Yes, then to the theatre.
Little Willie—What’s the matter?
* * * * *
Help! Help!
“Burglars! Burglars!” cried Jones, sticking his head out of the window
and yelling like mad.
“What’s the row, mister?” asked a passerby.
“For heaven’s sake, friend, send a burglar here—there’s a policeman in my
cellar.”
* * * * *
Speaking of Colors
My nose is red only when I blow it; then it’s blew.
* * * * *
“My dear man,” said the kind lady, “don’t you know that whisky kills more
men than bullets?”
“I don’t dispute your word one bit,” the tramp replied, “but for my part
I would rather be full of moonshine than bullets any day.”
* * * * *
She Said Thusly
Manslaughter me with kisses, daddy, then crucify me with love.
* * * * *
_Let us now sing that plaintive melody in three keys, Ikey, Jakey, and
Whiskey. The last key is where you get the spirit of the song._
* * * * *
Beautiful Optics
Her eyes were as black as jet,
This charming girl I knew;
I kissed her, and her husband came,
Now mine are jet black too.
* * * * *
George Washington washed the country and the reformers dried it.
* * * * *
“Do you like Shakespearean roles?”
“Our baker never handles them.”
* * * * *
They told me my flivver was twenty horsepower but I’ve only been able to
locate four plugs.
_Smokehouse Poetry_
_In one of our first issues Whiz Bang published ’Ostler Joe, but our
circulation was comparatively small at that time and as a result many who
sought the poem were disappointed. Many requests for it, coupled with
our inability to supply back copies, will bring the poem back to these
pages next month. ’Ostler Joe was originally published under the name of
“Phryne’s Husband” and is a story of a broken home._
* * * * *
Absolution
By E. Nesbit.
Three months had passed since she had knelt before
The grate of the confessional, and he,
The priest, had wondered why she came no more
To tell her sinless sins—the vanity
Whose valid reason graced her simple dress,
The prayers forgotten, or the untold beads—
The little thoughtless words, the slight misdeeds,
Which made the sum of her unrighteousness.
She was the fairest maiden in his fold,
With her sweet mouth and musical pure voice,
Her deep gray eyes, her hair’s tempestuous gold,
Her gracious, graceful figure’s perfect poise.
Her happy laugh, her wild, unconscious grace,
Her gentle ways to old, or sick, or sad,
The comprehending sympathy she had,
Had made of her the idol of the place.
And when she grew so silent and so sad,
So thin and quiet, pale and hollow-eyed,
And cared no more to laugh and to be glad
With other maidens by the waterside,
All wondered; kindly grieved the elders were,
And some few girls went whispering about,
“She loves—who is it? Let us find it out?”
But never dared to speak of it to her.