* * * * *
=Dear Bill=—Women are generally referred to as the “weaker sex.”
Is it because they are more cowardly than men? My experience as a
hen-pecked husband has led to the belief that this expression is sadly
misplaced.—=Palefaced Peter.=
Once again I referred a question to Mrs. Bill, which, at the outset,
showed my weakness. Then the fight was on, but she got in the last word,
or words, and here they are:
“Our moral courage is infinitely superior to man’s. No male being would
dare go into a shop and pull everything off the shelves only to walk
out and buy nothing. Men say they wouldn’t like to give the trouble for
nothing. But it isn’t that at all. They haven’t the courage. We don’t
pull things about to be spiteful, but to see if we can get what we want.
If we don’t find it—how can we buy it? And to buy something else to make
up is sheer cowardice.”
* * * * *
=Dear Captain=—I see in your Whiz Bang where you answer some puzzling
questions. I have one. What is a gollywhopper?—=Rott N. Peaches.=
A gollywhopper, according to the Encyclopedia Bullconica, is a species of
humdinger, descendant of the whangdoodle and cousin of an icthyosaurus.
* * * * *
=Dear Capt. Billy=—Why is the moon like a woman’s heart?—=Lovelorn.=
Because it’s always changing and it always has a man in it.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain Fawcett=—If it takes an eight months old woodpecker with a
rubber bill six months to peck through a cypress log big enough to make
300 shingles, how long would it take a six months old grasshopper with a
corkscrew leg to kick the seeds out of a cucumber?—=Johnny Jumpup.=
Our hired man, Gus, says that he was told by Gus, our village butcher,
that an Alabama black man had got a straight tip from the jockey’s bible
that it would take just as long for the grasshopper to do the trick you
mention as it would take a two-stripe member of the 27th Division to pick
off 3,000,001 cooties with a pair of 16-ounce boxing gloves.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain Billy=—If you had a girl out riding in your automobile, and
she complained of being cold and said she would be all right if she only
had something around her, would you drive back, as I did, and get her
coat?—=Bashful Bob.=
No, but I wouldn’t do what you did, you cheerful prevaricator.
* * * * *
=Dear Capt. Whiz Bang=—I am about to attend a “dry” party, but would like
your suggestion as to a good “wet” toast for dry days.—=Ike Atchum.=
How about this one? “Here’s to the little doggy that met a little tree.
The little tree said: ‘Come, purp, have one on me.’ The little purp
replied, as gentle as a mouse, ‘No, thank you, little treelet, I’ve had
one on the house.’”
* * * * *
=Dear Skipper=—What’s the difference between old fashioned and new
fashioned kisses?—=Movie Maid.=
About five minutes.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain of the Aft=—I see where you are taking a stand for personal
liberty. Still, wouldn’t you be willing to admit that rum is your
foe?—=Al K. Hall.=
I can’t help admitting, Al, that I’m disgusted with the way the coward
Demon has gone into hiding.
* * * * *
=Dear Kernel Bill=—What is meant by the expression: “bones of
contention?”—=Willie Wringlenut.=
It probably refers to cocked dice.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain Billy=—Unless I am too presumptuous, would you mind telling
me what is your average income?—=Curious Pussy.=
I referred your question to Mrs. Bill, who insists it is after midnight
and about a quart a day.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain=—What would make a good wedding anniversary present for
Douglas Fairbanks?—=Madge Talma.=
Why not give him an autographed book on “How to be happy, though Mary’d.”
* * * * *
An angel of a girl generally plays the devil with a man.
_Pajama Parties ’n Everything_
Hollywood is still talking of the “wonderful” social season that
surrounded Hallowe’en, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s. Even away
out here on the snow-covered Minnesota prairies there filters through a
story or two. But the best one we’ve heard is the pajama affair tendered
by one of the real picture queens. The party was probably not as rich
as really painted, but it is known, however, that in the wee sma’ hours
anyone in pajamas could glide into the festivities whether invited or
not. The hostess, we are told, is such a grand little lady that we will
not embarrass her by any undue publicity.
It appears that during the course of the evening one of our best
actorinos struck up a friendly flirtation with a prim and very agreeable
married woman. That is, it was friendly at first; becoming so lovely
later on. For reasons best known to themselves, the pair decided to leave
the storm and fret and booze behind and go and find—but that is the first
part of the story.
Oh girls, before you risk a kiss,
And tie up for your lives,
Recall if singleness is bliss
’Tis folly to be wives.
Along about five in the morning, an hour or so after he had returned
with his fair conquest, Mr. Man, now rather bibulous, was reciting some
alleged woes and calling down his wrath upon the “long hairs.” “Long
Hairs” is right in Los Angeles just now, except in high society. There
isn’t a night but that the “morals squad” or “break-in cops” charge down
on some rooming house and there do batter and probe, dragging out the
unfortunate wights who cannot show a wedding license. It appears that
the actor and his fair conquest, after leaving the pajama party, had
experienced some embarrassment, at least such was the impression the man
left by his startling conclusion. He said:
“It’s getting so you can’t take a decent married woman to a rooming
house in this town without running into some cops looking for a bunch of
painted dames.”
Needless to say the fair charmer, who had been listening somewhat
nervously to the initial outbreak, all but collapsed when she heard the
final denunciation. If her husband hasn’t heard the story, he’s the only
one in town not laughing about it.
The midnight bathing parties in Los Angeles and Hollywood are a little
passé just now, on account of the weather for one thing. Since one of
our best known citizens was suddenly taken with cramps in one of the
Romanesque pools without wearing even his B.V.D.’s, the sport has assumed
a classification regarded as “dangerous indoor sports.” In this instance
most of those who ran to the troubled man’s assistance are said to have
been ladies with—well, the wife of one of our leading politicians was
nervous for some weeks lest the newspapers print the names of those
present, so we’ll pass her up this time.
The ladies who bathe in midnight pools, especially if considerable liquor
has been provided, are not particular about their sea-going attire. They
quite often prefer the no-piece bathing suit, although the shock of the
water often arouses a sober moment. Then milady wonders with dismay how
she can emerge amidst the highly interested group of lookers-on.
The cops who raid the little rooming houses and resorts of the less elite
would reap a mighty harvest if they cared to intrude upon Wilshire or
Hollywood. But what’s a little party of pajama-clad men and women bred in
the purple if the copper gets a few choice jolts.
* * * * *