The rich are manicured who have money to burn

Things started off wrong in the beginning when Adam had to give up one
of his ribs for Eve, but in spite of this, he, like a game sport, tipped
his fig leaf to her upon their first introduction. All ran smoothly until
Eve raised Cain, and thus our ancestors (after the monkeys) kept up a
constant increase until Noah got inside dope about the flood, whereupon
he built the Ark.

Our troubles might have been relegated to the word finis, but Noah stuck
up a good old boat and saved his wife, his animals, and their wives.
Then Nero played havoc with Rome and made the fiddle famous as the city
burned. We’ve been fiddling ever since.

Job next started showing his rights with the off shoots of the chosen
people and they said they would stone him to death if he didn’t stop. He
came right back by saying, “If you do I’ll turn my bears loose and they
will eat you.” The people did, Job did and the bears did. Then Job was
King.

I’d like to take some of your time and present the argument between
Anthony and Cleopatra, but there was so little between them that it is
hardly worth while.

In the days when Cleopatra and Anthony were such good friends, Anthony
had just won a big battle and he sent his runners to Cleopatra to tell
her to doll up in her glad rags and they would go out stepping. On the
way to her flat he met his runners returning. They announced, “Oh, Kind
Sir: Cleopatra is down with Tonsilitis.”

“Darn those Greeks,” said Anthony, “I shall declare war on Athens
tomorrow.”

Henry Ford started one thing that he played wrong (his cars play good
tunes though), when he decided to end the World’s War by taking a lot
of men and old maids to France and Germany. If he’d taken some of
Ziegfield’s chorus girls the war would have been over and President
Wilson would still have been a great man. Just march those girls up No
Man’s land, and there would have been so many soldiers following them
that a Burroughs adding machine couldn’t count them in the time it takes
light to travel from the Sun to Jupiter. Army recruiting stations would
have been as popular as senators’ cellars, and the sentiment between
the two would have been much stronger than the antagonism between the
Bolshevists and the anti-saloon league. But here we are presenting this
valuable dope several years too late. Tell your children about it, and
they can stop the next war though (if the pretty girls aren’t all dead).

Then a bunch of senators, with big cellars and stills in their attics,
passed a law that the combination of wine, women and song must be reduced
to women and song. Suppose we substitute nut-sundays, women and song.
Substitute your eye, we’ll just play the two undeceased members of the
combination a little stronger, unless we get into some senator’s cellar.

Don’t cry, little children, the war is over, and so is a lot of your
money, but Uncle Sam will make a lot more, and the Brigadier Generals and
the movie actors will get it.

At present we can assume that this is the Movie Age and Out-rage. We walk
right past a speech made by the President or some other vote-made man,
and several miles to see “Doug” Fairbanks skin his shins by walking up
the side of a seven-story building on his hands or to see Charlie Chaplin
swing a broom at the villain and hit the Queen of Russia, who is dressed
in sackcloth and ashes because of the murder of her last thirty-three
husbands.

Movie actors are all right, though. Why, they make more money than we
ever hear about. Figures compiled by the Secretary of the Treasury show
that a man and wife and family of seventeen children and pets, could
live on what Mary Pickford spends for silk stockings, but that is the
reason we go to the movies, says the henpecked man as his wife drags
him home to their little boiler factory where rolling pins are used as
sledgehammers.

If prices keep increasing and clothes decreasing, we will be restricted
as to the number of leaves we can wear, and they will be fastened to our
shivering yet magnanimous anatomy with paper fasteners of the Henry Ford
type. Shimmying will then be automatically abandoned, while courting will
only take place over the telephone. When we think of Theda Bara it will
be as a heavily clad woman.

Just one thing further, and that is, if this world keeps increasing its
speed as it has in the past, our heads will be going so fast that they
will look like fish bowls. Everything will just work backwards, our nose
will run and our feet smell. Just now we’re traveling so fast that our
hip pockets dip sand as we go around corners, and our feet come up so
often that people will think we are laying down. Put on your brakes, dear
old United Statesers, and let’s slow down to 100 per, or we’ll skid into
Mexico.

* * * * *

You Win Rubber Pajamas

Lecturer (in a loud voice)–I venture to assert there isn’t a man in this
audience who has ever done anything to prevent the destruction of our
vast forests.

Man in the audience (timidly)–I’ve shot woodpeckers.

* * * * *

January First

The other day Adam approached Peter at the pearly gates and said:

“I should very much like, Peter, to get a pass the first of the year to
revisit my old haunts on earth.”

“Nothing doing, Adam. You started too much trouble down there when you
were a young man.”

“Aw, Pete, be a good sport and let me go.”

“What do you want to go down there for anyhow?”

“I want to turn over a new leaf.”

* * * * *

Gus, our hired man, one of those lucky birds that had imbibed rather too
freely of the sacred liquid, had fallen into a watering trough. When I
tried to help him as he floundered about, he said: “Offzer, I ken save
m’self, you save the womin’n shildern.”

* * * * *

If You Look That Way

It’s oft been said that woman is a mystery to us that we will never
quite see through, no matter how we fuss. It’s said that woman is a book
forever closed to man, though now and then she condescends slightly to
lift the ban. It’s oft been said we cannot hope to fathom womankind and
to that fact the other sex might well make up its mind. But we have
called the libel out and dragged it in the dirt. We see right through her
now with ease–thanks to the modern skirt.

Movie Skeletons

_America is blessed with a flock of motion picture magazines,
some of them with real stories of the public performances of the
screen folk, and some of them a collection of press agent yarns
at so-much per column. The Whiz Bang won’t invade their sacred
field. We’ll bar the press agents and, instead, will endeavor
to give our readers some inside dope direct from Hollywood and
Universal City, written by our own staff author whose position
within the sacred circle at Hollywood makes it necessary for him
to transcribe under the nom de plume of “Richmond.” All right,
director, let ’er shoot–_

By RICHMOND

=Reel One.= At last hearing “Doug” Fairbanks and Mary Pickford were
living here happily in their little grey home in the west, on top of a
big Beverly hill. Every day or so appears a dispatch that the Nevada
authorities intend to dissolve the partnership but this is taken to be
the final, spasmodic throb of a dying determination.

Doug thinks he’s married to Mary. Mary believes she is married to Doug.
Owen Moore, Mary’s former hubby, is quite certain he isn’t married to
Mary and what the state of Nevada thinks isn’t causing any particular
excitement. If Nevada proved a convenient place to arrange the legal
break and figures her dear judges or lawmakers were slip-shoddy she
should get some new judges and lawmakers. What is done is done.

=Reel Two.= Recent presentation of the new Griffith play, “Way Down
East,” caused a laughable situation for those who were aware of the
facts. The laughable situation did not get into the newspapers because
some of our very best families would have suffered humiliation. It
appears that “D. W.” issued several invitations to prominent society
women for the opening night, as his “guests”–though he was in New York.

What a flurry and flutter there was among the high-brows when they
learned that the invites had gone out. Who had been asked? It did not
occur to the high-brow ladies that D. W. Griffith is truly the master
mind of pictures and that his use of Mrs. Belmont in the picture was
smart bait to draw society. Mrs. Belmont really didn’t have much to do
but appear in an up-to-date gown and give Lillian Gish a haughty look.

But society here went daffy when it became known that some society women
had been invited by Mr. Griffith’s representatives, while others had not.
Immediately there was a buzz of phones and considerable indignation,
denouncements and heart-burnings seared the wires. “How came it that Mrs.
Such and So had been invited and ‘I’ have not? It reflects upon my social
standing.”

How crafty old D. W. must have grinned as the reports went into him
of the society ladies’ wrath. For lack of brains, poise and downright
self-respect society women cart off the well known cake. Newspaper women
laughed themselves sick at the coy admissions discreetly tendered them
that “Oh, by the way, Mr. Griffith sent me a personal invitation to be
present at the opening of ‘Way Down East.’” It possibly is stretching it
to say that the paper gals laughed themselves sick. They have become so
used to such situations that they scarcely laugh at all. They just grin
and “bear it”–and proceed openly to kid society in the papers without
society apparently becoming the wiser.

It is almost pitiable to watch fair and heavy matrons, who have done
well, raising a family or starting one, long for a chance to see
themselves upon the screen. They gaze upon Lillian Gish as some ravishly
blessed mortal lifted by the Gods but they see no reason why they would
not be just as good if given a chance.

Much of the nasty gossip which follows prominent picture folk emanates
from the society morgues where every skeleton known to scandal is laid
carefully away for future reference.

The fat ladies of wealth who are unable to fit into the screen take a
girl, perhaps like Lillian Gish, and in seeming fury that the girl has
succeeded, tear what they may of her character to pieces. About any
fashionable hotel where gather the disappointed “widows” and dames whose
husbands have let them come west for a “rest” may be heard the most
intimate details concerning the private life of every person prominent
on the screen. Nine times out of ten these details are featured by
everything but the truth.

Every girl that ever worked for Griffith, whether she knows it or not,
has been the victim of whispers relative to what price she paid for
her success. Griffith is a muchly misunderstood man. He is shrewd, too
smart for the average picture maker. His people appear to reverence
him. Probably no girl regrets her experience and training under this
particular director–though not as much can be said for many other
directors.

The name of Lillian Gish and Griffith have been mentioned in unsavory
tones more than once. The girl is a remarkably fine young woman who
scarcely would know what was meant by the insinuations cast abroad
concerning her and the director. Wherever Lillian goes her mother is not
far away. The two sisters, Lillian and Dorothy, are among the hardest
workers upon the screen. It is understood that the late Robert Harron was
extremely fond of Dorothy and it is understood that this admiration was
not returned in the way that young Harron would have wished.

Harron had a number of sisters, who spent much of their time about the
studios where their brother worked. The Gish and Harron families were
constantly together and a great friendship existed between them all. It
is understood that Dorothy admired Harron tremendously but could not
reciprocate his reported love for her. Bobby Harron was an exceptional
young man from a moral standpoint. He was clean and wholesome. In fact a
number of the Griffith stars have been marked for their personal virtues.
In view of these facts it is a relief to point out that some of the
unmentionable vices which beset Movieland are partially offset by the
cleanliness of many really great stars.

=Reel Three.= One of the greatest “parties” yet staged in Los Angeles,
was given by a well known director several nights ago. Now it should not
be assumed that the picture parties are particularly different than some
of the pajama and kimono parties tendered in Hollywood and Pasadena.
In fact many of the picture ladies “hold out” longer than their more
discreet sisters who get their kick out of a monthly party, whereas a
picture girl has an invite a night and knows every step and parry of the
game.

One of the best known girls of the screen sat in one chair throughout a
recent party and visitors remarked upon her serenity and refusal to rush
the bar.

A wild woman from one of the comedies gave her the once over. “Say,
Edna’s been stewed for two hours and can’t stand up. But she’s got sense
enough to keep still.”

But, referring to the big party. It lasted several days. Some of the
guests went home, changed their clothes and came back again. The affair
must have cost thousands of dollars. The guests were not numerous but
well selected. A number of orchestras were employed, one coming on as one
went off shift.

The host was a man of parts. He employed chauffeurs with cars ready to
grab any guest who wished to stumble home and might possibly not be
deemed able to guide his own car had he come without a driver. Most of
the drivers who came to the party left unceremoniously when the party
waxed late into the next day. Even chauffeurs have feelings.

The newspaper accounts mostly were suave and soft pedally. But it is said
that some of the best newspaper people remembered only the quietness of
the opening hour or so and were in no editorial mood to recollect just
everything that did happen.

=Reel Four.= A great social mix-up occurred at Hollywood the other
morning. One of our best matinee idols, a year or so ago separated from
his wife and half dozen children. He took unto himself another wife. The
decree allowed that the father could have the children part of the time,
or half of the time.

Following his new matrimonial venture the matinee star found himself
blessed one morning with a new baby. Just recently the former wife
emerged from the east and took apartments at one of the most fashionable
Hollywood hotels. She was accompanied by a flock of children.

The moment had come for the former husband to have his time portion of
the children. Bright and early on the day after their arrival they made
for the father’s home, where they were happily received by the foster
mother who showed them their half sister, her own child.

Kids will be kids, so it was no wonder that the mother of the flock was
surprised and amazed during the course of the morning when one of her
brightest young hopes trundled a baby carriage into her room and gaily
announced that he had a new sister to show her. He had come down from
the home of his father and foster mother with sure enough evidence that
father still was raising children.

The papers stated that the mother was threatened with hysteria and bade
her surprised child take his charge back to its father’s home. For comedy
and tragedy, go watch in the halls of childhood.

* * * * *

Eve tempted Adam with an apple. Were you ever tempted by an apple?

* * * * *

Our Language

Here are a few of the difficulties of the English language:

A flock of ships is called a fleet.
A fleet of sheep is called a flock.
A flock of girls is called a bevy.
A bevy of wolves is called a pack.
A pack of thieves is called a gang.
A gang of angels is called a host.
A host of porpoises is called a shoal.
A shoal of buffaloes is called a herd.
A herd of children is called a troop.
A troop of partridges is called a covey.
A covey of beauties is called a galaxy.
A galaxy of ruffians is called a horde.
A horde of rubbish is called a heap.
A heap of oxen is called a drove.
A drove of blackguards is called a mob.
A mob of whales is called a school.
A school of worshippers is called a congregation.

* * * * *

Bull Frog Bull

The Frog is a slick member of the reptile family deriving its name from
the Latin words E Hopus Jumpus, meaning “Warts.” It has four legs, but
only finds use for two–the hind ones, which are built on altogether
different lines than the front ones, being about five times as long, and
fold under his body at a very convenient angle, affording ample seating
capacity. The most common species of the Frog Family are the Toad Frog
and the Bull Frog. The French people consider the Bull Frog quite a
delicacy, and all snakes are very fond of Toad Frogs. Some scientists
say the snake has far better taste than the Frenchman when it comes to
choosing its food. The Frog can catch more flies than Tris Speaker, with
far less effort, and is about the only thing left in this grand and
glorious country with any hops in it.

* * * * *

You Can’t Fool a Horse-Fly

Mike and Pat were telling stories. During the conversation a fly lit on
Pat’s nose.

“What kind of a fly is that, Moike?” asked Pat.

“Why, that’s a horse-fly, Pat.”

“Begorra, Moike, and what’s a horse-fly?”

“Why, a horse-fly, Pat, is a fly that lights on a horse’s neck.”

“You don’t mean to say O’im a horse’s neck, do you, you dirty blaggard?”

“No, Pat, but you can’t fool a fly.”

_India’s September Morns_

_In this article, Reverend Morrill tells of the “royal baths”
of East India, where men and women recognize no sex. In the
February number of the WHIZ BANG, the traveler-author will take
our readers on a brief expedition to South America, which,
“Golightly” assures us, is “the white slave market of the world.”
Night scenes in Rio de Janeiro, “the Gomorrah,” and Buenos Aires,
“the Sodom of South America,” will be depicted as only Reverend
Morrill can do._

By REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL

Pastor People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.

Though the River of Time may wash away most of my India memories, there
is one thing that will remain as long as I live–my royal bath at Delhi,
and the time, the place, and the girl.

Bathing has not only been a fad with me, but an article of faith. At home
I take a cold plunge every morning, and on shipboard it is the thing I
look forward to with pleasure. A country is known by the baths it gives,
and in Constantinople, Moscow and Budapest I learned that every little
movement had a meaning all its own. The bath, that like Moses’ rod
swallowed up all others, was the one at Delhi, where cleanliness is not
always next to godliness.

India is a hot and sticky place for fleshy people, and like Falstaff
I was larding the lean earth as I walked along. After hours of dusty
driving and hard sight-seeing I asked my guide if I could have a bath,
and he said, “Yes, Durbar bath.” I had missed the royal pageant, but
hoped to get the splash, so we drove off the crowded street to a building
which invited us with shady walks and flowers. The native proprietor
ushered me into a darkened room and handed me a napkin. I had been in
India long enough to know what to do with that square of linen, so I used
it for a loincloth.

When I stepped into the bath I was “horrified” to find a beautiful
Mohammedan maiden standing there before me with nothing on plus a
bracelet. In agitation I rang. The master came, and I told him I did not
want that woman there with the bath. He seemed surprised, because she
was part of it, shrugged his shoulders, ordered her out, and beckoned
to two stalwart natives. They seized me, threw me down on the marble,
put a wooden pillow under my head, and then splashed, massaged, pounded,
twisted and kneaded me, worked my arms like a windmill, rolled me like a
log, used me as a punching bag, went through a whole course of gymnasium
exercises on me, then grinned and said, “Not finished.” I felt I was,
when back came the “sweet sixteen” smiling like Spring, and with less
covering than September Morn. I sprang up, but she grabbed a towel and
basin and laid me low, then soused me and began to put on the finishing
touches. In broken English she tried to tell me all her physical, mental
and moral charms, which I admitted because she was a woman, but I knew
her Koran didn’t square with my Old Testament, so thanking her, I fled,
like Joseph from Potiphar’s wife, to my room, where my guide “Kim” came
to the rescue, helped me to dress and rushed me to the train or I might
have been there yet.

The letter “I” in India stands for indecency and immorality in nearly
everything I saw from Calcutta to Bombay. Benares is washed by the
Ganges, the worshippers in the Ganges, and though every day is washday,
still the city and people are dirty. They need a new Hercules to turn
the Ganges through its Augean stables filled with holy fakirs, anointed
priests, pestiferous pilgrims, obscene carvings and sacred bulls.

I entered the Cow Temple, stable of sitting and standing bulls. The bull
is a beatified beast. Priests pet him, the godly natives garland his
horns and kiss his tail, virgin votaries bathe their hands, beautify
their faces and plaster their hair with the divine emanations which
Minnesota farmers use for fertilizer. At weddings, for good luck, to
keep evil spirits away, and purify the place, a cow is backed up to
the bride’s door to decorate the threshold with fresh dung–bossy’s
contribution to the joyous occasion. The “Bull Durham” of India is some
of the same, dried and mixed, with a little tobacco and paper. I have
often imagined that our yellow-fingered dudes imported it for cigaret
purposes–at any rate it smells like it. Like another ill-fated Gulliver
in the land of giants, I slipped around in the filth till I got a kodak
shot at his royal Bullship.

Benares is called the “Holy City” on the principle, I suppose, that
“in religion, what damned error, but some sober brow will bless it and
approve it with a text.” As well call ice hot, vinegar sweet, vice virtue
or hell heaven. One morning we pious pilgrims left the ladies, who were
not permitted to accompany us, and climbed to the secluded spot where
stands the Nepalese temple ornamented with gymnastic and obscene carvings
that would make the red pictures of Pompeii blush with shame. These
filthy figures of men and women, carved to please and pacify the gods,
are not mentioned in the guide-books or referred to above a whisper in
polite society. If this sex perversion marks the high tide of Buddhist
faith, I am ashamed, though I have photos of the carvings which I keep in
my strong-box packed in chloride of lime. Kali Hinduism may be bloody,
but Buddhism here is beastly.

Almost as bad are the stone images and inscriptions in the caves of
Elephanta out from Bombay. The temple columns, aisles and figures
are hewn from the living rock. I looked at the three-faced Siva, and
noticed the stylish headdress; saw another figure with cap ornament of
human skulls; Virag, half-male and female, and the Siva shrine with the
“lingam” altar before which millions of barren wives and hopeless girls
had prostrated and prostituted themselves in Sivaite festivals. The
temple keeper beckoned me to one side and gave me a private lecture on
these “lingam,” phallus or Priapus symbols of sex organ worship which I
had found in other lands. While he proceeded, my blush illuminated the
dark cave, and as I left the “altar” a lady of our party approached and
asked me what I had been looking at and what the guide said. I replied,
“Forget it!” She wouldn’t, I couldn’t, and since she was past middle age
and married, I looked her square in the eye and reeled it off as if it
were an Edison record. “Thank you,” she said. “It is always well to know
about religion from a priest.” I told her I was no priest and this was
no religion. There was a pool of clear water here and the frogs, big as
turtles, were standing on their hind legs, with folded arms and eyes wide
open with amazement, as if they were more shocked at what I had said than
at the suggestive statues and symbols round about. If I had been alone I
would have divested myself of all baggage but my trunks and plunged in to
keep them company.

The blasé or bored can always find something new at a Hindu wedding or
Nautch dance. I saw Nautch girls–dressed in scarlet skirts trimmed with
gold, caris or scarfs of brightest colors, trousers tight-fitting and
gilt-embroidered, bracelets or anklets of gold, and silver bells–dancing
for hours, illustrating pictures of thought, passion and emotion, to
love-throbs, tune and time. Once I heard a story of the origin of the
Nautch dance: A Rajah’s daughter was stolen and raped; the ravisher was
caught by the father, strung up, slashed like ribbons on a Maypole, then
whirled around, and anyone on whom the blood spattered was privileged to
assault any woman he met.

India has no old maids or bachelors. Cradles are robbed of their babies
for marriage, and some suitors are promised before born if sexed right.
The proverb reads, “Every girl at 14 must be either a wife or a widow.”
Many men in India are slaves–all women are. Woman is not to be trusted,
and is held the cause of man’s sin whether she be sage or fool. She is
object and subject as a child to her father, as wife to her husband,
and as widow to her son’s or husband’s relatives. To obey her hubby is
supposed to be the only God she needs or wants. To obey and worship him
is to worship the gods (though he be a devil). Caste injures them more
than men, and she is old before 25 and looks it. Child-marriage is the
style and prevails in places, though the British government made a law
that a girl might be married yet not live with her husband till she was
12 years old. Imagine a 10 year old girl marrying a 30 year old man. Any
negligent father, who does not find a husband before his daughter is 12,
is held to be a public monster and criminal. Of course, boys and girls
mature earlier in the tropics and have families when people North haven’t
gone so far as to be even sweethearts.

In the comparative study of other religions I could always find some
sweetness and light, but Hinduism is darkness and dirt. Its votaries
are vile, their gods are deified beasts, and their devotees are beastly
depraved. Caste, child-marriage, obscene worship, Nautch girls,
ignorance, superstition, poverty and plague prove Hinduism to be a hell
on earth and a disease that dwarfs and damns man’s body, mind and soul.

_Questions and Answers_

=Dear Captain Billy=–My two sisters and myself have been gratified this
week by the arrival in each family of a set of twins. Kindly suggest
names for these six darlings.–=Patriotic Patricia.=

My moss-covered suggestion: “Pete and Repeat, Kate and Duplicate, and Max
and Climax.”

* * * * *

=Dear Capt. Billy=–I am a sweet eighteen year old girl and last night I
met a nice man with a limousine that wants to take me for a ride. Will it
be alright to go?–=Alice.=

Let your conscience be your guide.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=–Do you think it would be alright if I took a tramp
in the woods.–=Sweet Sixteen.=

Yes, it’s excellent exercise.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billious=–I have been married a few months and my hubby is
always saying our baby is a much abused creature. What do you think he
means?–=Mrs. Guey.=

He probably means that your darling baby gets a bust in the mouth every
hour or so.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bull=–Do you like cocktails?–=Ana Monyous.=

Yes, I should say so. You finish the answer.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=–I’ve often heard the toast: “To George Washington,
first in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen.” Do
you think he was always first?–=Willie, age 12.=

Yes, with the exception that he married a widow.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=–What kind of a woman should I marry?–=Sandy Henna.=

Venus would be fine. She would be perfectly safe, as both her arms are
missing and she couldn’t throw things.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=–What is a definition for man and woman?–=Pinkie
Cherry.=

Man, Pinkie, is the Lord of Creation, and Woman is the lady of Recreation.

* * * * *

=Dear Banger=–I want to be married secretly. What shall I do?–=Pussy
Foot.=

Go to a justice of the peace.

* * * * *

=Dear Phiz=–Is strychnine effective in stopping heart ailments.–=Co-ed.=

Yes, if taken in sufficient quantities, strychnine will stop anything.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=–You’ve been in the army, Cap, so will you kindly
tell us the difference between an engagement and a battle?–=Ida Clare.=

Yes, Ida, and I’m married, too. The engagement, you realize, takes place
before the marriage.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bull=–What are wedding bells?–=Katinka Stinka.=

Lemon peals.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=–What is the solution of the liquor problem?–=A.
Boozem Friend.=

A solution of malt and hops containing about 5 per cent of water.

* * * * *

=Dear Farmer Bill=–How’s your corn crop this year? What did it go to the
acre?–=Acorn Farmer.=

Wa’al, I reckon it’ll go about 350 gallons to the acre, by gum.

* * * * *

=Dear Doctor Billy=–Will you kindly inform as to the bacterial proteins
for cutaneous tests?–=Sheesa Whopper.=

She sure is a whopper for a farmer to answer. In fact, I found it
necessary to call in the professional advice of old Doc Yak, who gives
this reply: The bacterial proteins are staphylococcus aureus, micrococcus
tetragenus, diphtheroid, streptococcus viridans, non-haemolyticus and
pneumococcus. (Thank you, doctor.)

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=–What is the proper definition of an oyster?–=G.
Howie Snortz.=

An oyster, Mr. Snortz, is a peculiar fish better known as a bivalve and
looks like a nut.

* * * * *

=Dear Bilious Billy=–Does cider really get hard enough to cause
intoxication? I have a few gallons at home and do not care to indulge in
strong drink?–=Molly Coddle.=

Hard? I should say it does, Molly. I drank three glasses one night last
week while in Minneapolis and before long I thought I was crushed rock.
Friends tell me I laid down on Nicollet Avenue and tried to pull the
asphalt over me.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain=–Is it quite proper for a lady to let her husband look at
her Whiz Bang?–=Lotta Ginger.=

Quite right, we would say–providing, of course, that it’s Captain
Billy’s.

* * * * *

=Dear Bill=–I have been troubled with the seven-year itch. What shall I
do?–=Ticklish Tillie.=

Scratch yourself.

* * * * *

The First Hundred Years

Discouraged prohibition enforcers should remember that the first hundred
years are the wettest.

* * * * *

When my shoes wear out I’ll be on my feet again.

His Test of Faith

By RUDOLPH KUEFFNER

A couple, on their wedding trip, met a gypsy whose prophecies so greatly
amused them that they gave her an extra dollar for good luck. In
appreciation of the gift, the grateful gypsy presented her benefactors
with a little white, glass phial containing a clear liquid. She
admonished them to hold this phial as a sacred treasure, because the
liquid would retain its crystalline clearness only so long as the loving
couple were faithful to each other. But, warned the gypsy, unfaithfulness
on the part of either will cause this liquid to turn a grayish hue.

The couple laughingly accepted the small bottle, took it home and,
although disbelieving the gypsical dope-sheet, placed it carefully in an
unused linen closet. They soon forgot the incident and lived in happiness
for some time.

One summer, a few years later, the wife journeyed afar to visit
relatives. Letters of love were exchanged and the hubby gave all his time
to business cares, with the exception of Sundays, when he would entertain
a few friends at his home. At one of these Sunday parties he amused the
guests with the gypsy story of honeymoon days.

At the finish of the host’s recital, one of the men with an eye to a
practical joke suggested pouring a bit of ink in the phial so as to make
the liquid turn to gray. “On her return you can have a lot of fun at her
jealousness,” he said, “and then call us in to prove your faithfulness.”
The trick was done and in a few days Friend Wife came home.

While house-cleaning next day, she thought of the phial. Great horrors!
Its contents had turned from pure white to a grayish tint. “My God, is it
really so?” But after a few moments of hesitation she quickly poured out
the gray substance and refilled the phial with clear water, placing it
back in its former location.

Needless to say, it was not necessary for hubby’s friends to call to
testify in his behalf.

* * * * *

The Difference

The two school friends accidentally met in the whirl of the city, and, of
course, began a rapid fire of questions.

“What am I doing?” said Gladys, in reply to a query. “Oh, I’m a
stenographer.” “What’s the boss like?” “Well, he’s quite young, and is
awfully kind to me. See, he gave me this bangle and this brooch, and
nearly every week he takes me to dinner and the theatre. And the salary’s
quite good–$25 a week. And you, Ethel–what are you doing, dear?”

“Same as you,” snapped Ethel, “only there’s no shorthand-typing mixed up
with it.”

* * * * *

For Men Only

Some of us poor, down-trodden he-men, and farmers, chuckle with glee when
our sturdy wives drag us to church on Sunday to listen to such passages
of Scripture regarding the weaker (?) sex as follow. In view of granting
the ladies equal rights at the ballot, these few lines appear to be
particularly timely, so follow closely, boys, and chuckle again:

“Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection; suffer not
woman to think or usurp authority over man, for Adam was formed
first, not Eve.

“For a man indeed ought not to cover his head, forasmuch as he is
the image and glory of God; but the woman is the glory of man.
For the man is not of the woman but woman of the man. Neither was
the man created for the woman, but the woman for the man. Wives,
submit yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the Lord, for
the husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of
the church.

“When thou goest forth to war against thine enemies, and the Lord
Thy God hast delivered into thine hands, and thou hast taken them
captive, and hast seen among the captives a beautiful woman and
hast a desire unto her that thou wouldst have her for thy wife,
then thou shalt bring her home to thy house, and she shall shave
her head, and pare her nails.”

* * * * *

Fast Workers

They were introduced at 7:15.

By 8:10 they were talking cozily in a movie.

At 9:30 they were regarding each other intimately over the remains of a
chicken sandwich.

At 9:44 they stood wistfully near on the front porch.

Promptly at 9:45 he kissed her.

By 9:50 she kissed him.

At 10:00 with a touch of sadness they parted.

He walked down the steps dejectedly, but upon hearing the door close, he
snapped out and walked briskly home and cut another notch in his military
brushes.

“How they fall,” he murmured, “probably I am a handsome devil.”

She, sitting before her dressing-table, yawned.

“How they fall,” she sighed; “perhaps I am a sweet and delightful girl.”

And she put his name in a thick little book she had been keeping since
she was sixteen!

* * * * *

Shortcomings

A negro woman went into a department store and said to the clerk:

“Mister, can I exchange these stockings?”

“Why, certainly, madam; don’t they come up to your expectations?”

“Lawdy, no; dey hardly come up to ma knees.”

* * * * *

Marjorie Was So Obliging

Little 5-year-old Marjorie was the sunshine of her mother’s heart and on
all possible occasions her brightness was paraded before “company.”

It was at a meeting of the Loyal Ladies’ Card club that Marjorie’s mother
contrived to “show up” her darling daughter. First she asked the little
tot to get Mrs. Jones a drink of water. Marjorie got the water and
was thanked for it. She was then asked to get Mrs. Smith a drink. She
complied and again was thanked. She went through the same procedure for
four more ladies. After the last one had drank, the mother proudly asked
little Marjorie to bring in a drink for her before going out to play.

In a few moments Marjorie returned, but without water for mother.

“Muvver, I tant det any more water,” she childishly lisped.

“Why not, my child, surely you’ll get your mother a drink?”

“I tant, muvver, the water’s all don and I tant weach the chain.”

* * * * *

Fits Most Lunch Foundries

A Holyoke, Mass., lunch room displays over the counter a large sign which
reads as follows:

Don’t make fun of our coffee. You may be old and weak yourself
some day. Use one helping of sugar and stir like hell. We don’t
mind the noise.

* * * * *

They Both Walked

The other evening a swell appearing young couple asked if they might
leave an automobile cushion at the Whiz Bang farm while they hiked to
Robbinsdale to report the theft of their motor car. I said “Sure,” and I
still have the cushion.

* * * * *

Before July First

The policeman watched the man creep slowly out of the saloon. Hastily he
approached the unfortunate culprit:

“I just saw you come out of that saloon!”

“Sh’ever see me before?”

“No!”

“Then how ’djou know it was me?”

* * * * *

Page Mr. Croton

Are you acquainted with Olive Oil?

Very well, indeed.

Well, I’m her brother, Castor.

* * * * *

Something to Worry About

The famous race horse, Man o’ War, receives more personal attention than
any being, human or otherwise, since Cleopatra. He has a retinue of
servants and is housed more expensively than the Gaekwar of Baroda or the
Jhilwar of Jhock.

* * * * *

Love isn’t blind–just near-sighted.

_Whiz Bang Editorials_

“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet_”

Did you ever feel embarrassed? We did, the other day when the boss cow,
Ethelbert, kicked over our bucket at milking time and ripped our trousers
in front of the chickens. Write to us about your embarrassed moments
and let’s console each other. For instance, Gus, our hired man, was in
Minneapolis the other day getting his usual supply of moonshine and was
riding on the street car to the depot.

“I noticed a girl sitting across the aisle that I had met while in
swimming at Lake Minnetonka last summer,” said Gus when he got home,
“I had not seen her since until then. I tipped my cap and said ‘Hello!
How are you?’” and for a minute she looked at me blankly and then burst
out: “Oh, why, hello! I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.’ Of
course this attracted the attention of the passengers and I found it more
comfortable by getting off the car at the next stop for another little
drink.”

Now, of course, that may have been only Gus’s alibi for coming home
intoxicated.

* * * * *

I had a similar experience myself last time I was in the city. A girl
was telling me how embarrassed she was. “Do you know,” she confided, “I
was standing in a doorway fixing my garter when a gust of wind came along
and blew the hair from off my right ear. I was so embarrassed, don’t you
know.”

* * * * *

Newspapers tell of a woman who, in order to become a mother, obtained
a divorce and married another man for a year, after which she and her
child went back to her first husband. This is an exception. Some women,
it seems, now are inclined not to trouble with the divorce proposition at
all.

* * * * *

Diogenes grabbed his trusty lantern and hiked from the Presidio of Frisco
to the Bronx of Manhattan searching for an honest man. Old Diog was a
wise bird; he never even looked for an honest woman.

* * * * *

He seeks relief in vain who will not follow advice.

We always remember those who have done us a favor when we want another
favor done.

Running down other people’s reputation won’t run up your own.

The trouble with the average man is that he seldom increases his average.

Many a “good fellow” is so stingy with his family that he’ll stand
between his wife and a show window.

When holding a straight flush it is better to stay in and raise and win
than not to have raised at all.

* * * * *

The pretty manicurist, Louise,
Has very many beaus;
She calls these fellows, if you please,
Her manicurios.

Holding hands is dangerous business. The hand is the lightning conductor
of love and lust. The manicurist, like Othello, would find “occupation
gone” if hand-holding were practised by men or old women. It is the sex
element that usually attracts and holds.

Many modest and decent manicurists go regularly and professionally to the
homes of their patients, or are found in office, parlor or barber annex
position. Anywhere and everywhere they are pure and true womanly.

People who won’t work with their hands are known by the manicures they
keep. Nails are peeled, pared, polished and painted, while the owner’s
rough mind lives in the cellar and garret of mental and moral poverty.

Manicuring is a society luxury for men and women who form the polished
horde of bores and bored. The world is still deceived with fuss and
feathers and people who hide grossness with fair ornament.

The manicure is a necessity for musicians, doctors–and dudes and
darlings in society who, beyond the actual care of their body, in food,
dress and drink, think their hands were only made to wear gloves, rings,
be manicured, held or united in a “good catch” marriage.

The rich are manicured who have money to burn. The idle are manicured
who have time to waste. The idiots are manicured who have no idea of the
value of time or money. Libertines are manicured who play guilty Fausts
to pure and innocent Margarets. Hotel leechers and loafers are manicured
who forget mother, sister, wife or sweetheart.

They have no time or money for church or charity, but sit by the hour
holding a girl’s hand, looking into her face, trying to fan a spark of
passion into their burnt-out cinder body while with hand, foot, eye and
tongue they try to make a date.

The word “hand” means to hold or seize and is to man what the claw is
to the bird, fin to fish, and hoof to horse. The hand is marvelously
made with 27 bones, 8 of which are in the wrist, 5 form the palms, and
14 the bones or phalanges, or fingers. The hand was made for work, as
proved by anatomy and Scripture–“Go to work”; “Work earnestly with
both hands”; “Handsome is that handsome does”; and black or white hands
are fine which do good work. Angelo carving marble, Raphael painting
Madonnas, Shakespeare writing immortal dramas, Beethoven copying heavenly
symphonies, Washington drawing his sword for liberty, and Lincoln penning
the Emancipation Proclamation, spent little time or money in manicuring
parlors.

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