Published Monthly by
W. H. Fawcett, Rural Route No. 2
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota
Entered as second-class matter May 1, 1920, at the post office at
Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the Act of March 3, 1879.
_Price 25 cents_ _$2.50 per year_
_“We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is loyalty to
the American People”--Theodore Roosevelt._
Copyright 1920
By W. H. Fawcett
[Illustration]
_Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated to the
fighting forces of the United States, past, present and future._
_Skipping with the Skipper_
Just one short year ago, under the above caption: “Skipping With the
Skipper,” Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang exploded for the first time. It was
the publisher’s idea at that time to compile a snappy joke-book for
former soldiers, sailors and marines living in the immediate vicinity of
the village of Robbinsdale. The demand greatly exceeded the initial press
run, and we’ve been running ever since.
For the benefit of new readers, the opening explanation for our existence
on this mundane sphere is herewith re-published. It explains itself, I
believe:
=Whiz-z Bang!!! We’re off and in our trail follows a mighty
explosion of pedigreed bull. “Make It Snappy” is our motto.
Snap! Pep! Ginger! Even more. The first issue of CAPTAIN BILLY’S
WHIZ BANG is off the press and with its advent the editor and
contributors hope to have added something really worth while to
brighten the atmosphere of human existence. Captain Billy’s only
and original WHIZ BANG will explode in every issue. No “duds”
allowed in our monthly Literary Indigestion. Today we are the
Cherry Sisters of journalism with the fond hopes for “Big Time”
sometime.=
=As the old saying goes, “Laugh and the world laughs with you,
near beer and you drink alone.” If we dance we must pay the jazz
band; no matter what we get we must “put up or shut up.” Doctors
of Dope and Doctors of Divinity must have the price of our life
and love and the undertaker smiles with a self-satisfied grin as
our mortal flesh and bones are delivered to the charnel house.=
=Therefore the motto of the WHIZ BANG will be: Be happy while
you live; live a full life and while you are living, live on
the square so you may be able to follow that quaint western
philosophy and look every man in the face and tell him to go to
Hell.=
=Please do not get the impression from the title page that the
WHIZ BANG is to be a military publication only. There will be 100
laughs for the service man and 97¼ laughs for the civilian. We
will give the soldier, sailor and marine the benefit of two and
three-quarters per cent because we believe he is fairly entitled
to it. (Brewers please note.)=
=THE WHIZ BANG is only in its infancy, so look for the November
issue. Then we will burst out and explode into a full-grown bull.
We will be fatter, lovelier, snappier and juicier and--oh, girls,
we just hate to tell you. Watch for Mr. November and see if we
don’t make Bill Bryan’s Commoner drier than an Algerian caravan
in the Sahara desert, 20 miles from the oasic grog shop and the
Cliquot Special two weeks overdue. The bull is only half grown
and he surely will be some lively animal next month when we sling
him over to our readers.=
=Those of us who have lived through the past five years have the
satisfaction of knowing that we have seen the mightiest and most
stirring five years in history, and we are watching from day to
day the unfolding and ending of the colossal drama. Never has
there been such a crashing of empires, such a falling of thrones,
such righting of wrongs and deliverance of the oppressed,
such vivid demonstration of the wickedness, the folly and the
weakness, the nobility, the wisdom and the courage of which human
nature is capable.=
=As a grand finale, an alleviation from the terrific strain,
Billy’s WHIZ BANG will come as a relieving Balsam--an ointment
on the checkered skein of life. Please remember that the
oldest truths are the freshest. They are rich with the blood
of humanity. As the apple tree in your yard may be a sprout
from the apple tree in the Garden of Eden, so the idea that
just came to you may be the same that struck King Solomon.
Thoughts are deciduous, as trees, and appear green and fresh to
each generation, and like desert soil, we are unfurrowed and
unfettered. THE EDITOR.=
_The Crap Shooting Major_
By SKIPPER BILL.
This is a story of a major in the Motor Mechanics brigade, Signal Corps,
U. S. Army,--A. C. Rebadow, by name. He hails from the city of Buffalo,
N. Y., where he was employed in an automobile manufacturing plant and
received his commission because of the supposition that he was a motor
sharp.
“Soldiering” and gambling go hand in hand. The greatest indoor sport
of the military man is to riffle the “pasteboards,” while his outdoor
pastime consists of blowing on a pair of galloping dominoes as he prays
for a “natural” to rear itself heavenward. Rebadow is neither soldier nor
gambler but a dyed-in-the-wool squawker.
The “major’s” system was simple. If he lost he merely issued checks
on his bank at Tonawanda, N. Y., and then “Stopped Payment,” on them.
So simple, in fact, that his racial instinct led him promptly to the
telegraph office to void the payment.
The Major relied upon military discipline to save him from his outraged
victims. He believed that none would have nerve enough to make complaint
against his ungentlemanly and indecent behavior, but at least on one
occasion he reckoned without his host. That was at Camp Hancock,
Georgia, where Rebadow lost $400 during several days’ indulgence at
craps. The victim, however, took the matter up with the superior officers.
Rebadow was traced to an air post far behind the whiz bangs’ zone where
he possibly imagined himself safe from his debtors as well as from the
Jerries. This is a letter which compelled payment. It was written by one
superior officer to another, the commandant at the air post where Rebadow
was then situated:
“1. It is requested that the Commanding Officer of A. A. A. P. No. 1
take this matter up personally with Major Rebadow, as the following
are the facts in the case, as can be supported by the record of the
Motor Mechanics Brigade, which records I have personally inspected.
Several months ago an exhaustive investigation of the merits of this
case was made and it was shown that Major Rebadow was entirely in the
wrong in this matter and was dropped on account of an indorsement he
signed in which he stated he would make good the amount of these checks,
approximately $400.
“2. The unprincipled manner in which Major Rebadow now treats this matter
is considered so reprehensible that effort is being made to secure the
forwarding of the personal file of Major Rebadow and he may be informed
that unless this account has been settled by the time those records are
received that this office will make all efforts to have Major Rebadow
brought to trial as a result of his derelictions.”
Needless to say, Major Rebadow cowered before the eye of his superior
officer and forthwith repaid the broken pledge.
I look back on my days in the ranks, where a man was a man, true blue and
shorn of falsity, insolence, domineering and double-crossing ways. They
were the days when we got paid together, painted the town together, and
went broke together, where every man “shot square” with his “buddie.”
As for this crap-shooting major, he is in civies again and military
discipline will afford him no protection for such breeches.
* * * * *
Willie and Mollie played in the sand,
Indulging in youthful folly;
The sun was hot on Willie’s back,
And the sand was hot to Mollie.
* * * * *
’Twas Ever Thus
Every time we see an article offered at an uncommonly low price--whether
it be shoes, prunes, fountain pens, wood blocks, or a personal service of
some kind--we are reminded of Chief Big Smoke.
The owner of this picturesque name was a copper-colored native employed
as a missionary to his fellow smokes out in Oklahoma. A tourist once
asked him what he did for a living.
“Umph!” said Big Smoke, “me preachum.”
“That so? What do you get for preaching?”
“Me get ten dollars a year.”
“Well,” commented the white man, “that’s d----n poor pay.”
“Umph!” replied Big Smoke, “me d----n poor preacher.”
* * * * *