Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) Captain Billyâs Whiz Bang, Vol. III. No. 28, December, 1921 1,500,000 Readers! SUBJECT GREAT NORTHERN RAILWAY COMPANY M. J. Woulfe St. Paul, Minn. Sept 29th, 1922. Editor Whiz-Bang, Robbinsdale, Minn. Dear Sir: On September 27th our train #12 was held at Robbinsdale 37 minutes loading what is stated to have been 36,000 lbs. of mail. In order that provision be made to handle such large quantities of mail without causing unreasonable delay to trains, would you kindly furnish the following information: First, Frequency of publication of the magazine. Second, Days or dates when regularly due to be placed in the mail. Third, Approximate weight or number of copies of each issue. With this information we will consider the making of some special arrangement for bringing to the cities. It might be advantageous to set a baggage car out at Robbinsdale the day before the magazine due to be forwarded. Yours truly M. J. Woulfe The letter tells the story! If our Winter Annuals had been loaded at one time Captain Billy would have filled an entire mail train. Hereafter, Gentle Reader, your news dealer will have the Whiz Bang on the 15th of the month, and because of our enormous orders, we will, in future, mail a few truck loads every day throughout the full month, all magazines to be held at the various postoffices until the 15th for delivery. In conclusion, I thank you for your indulgence at delays in getting your Whiz Bang and your Winter Annual. The old Whiz Bang Farm has been a busy spot these past few months. Yours for fun, CAPTAIN BILLY. _Captain Billyâs Whiz Bang_ [Illustration] _Americaâs Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy_ DECEMBER, 1921 Vol. III. No. 28 Published Monthly W. H. Fawcett, Rural Route No. 2 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. Billyâs Whiz Bang. âWe have room for but one soul loyalty and that is loyalty to the American people.ââTheodore Roosevelt. Copyright 1921 By W. H. Fawcett Captain Billyâs 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_ It is a long jump from a one-horse town like Robbinsdale to the land of deciduous fruits, forbidden fruits, fruitless fruits, movie stars, reformers, abilone cuff links, outdoor plumbing and all-night burglar serviceâmeaning California, of course. I am at this writing occupying a room in that well known San Francisco hostelry which âFattyâ Arbuckle tried to convert into an ice-house. The only kick I have against the St. Francis is that the room clerk assigned me to twin beds. Being of a bullsheviki theosophical frame of mind and also very lonesome, I moved the other twin alongside my twin and slept soundly ever after. Lolled around for two weeks at the Alexandria, in Los Angeles, and before that at a hotel at Coronado that fairly âoozedâ hospitality, although older than the handles on Solomonâs wheelbarrow. There is an ancient quip about the three divisions of liarsâplain liars, dââ liars and Native Sons. Also there used to be one that went something like this: âThe miners came in â49 and the janes in â51,â etc., etc. But they are both all wrong. Despite what Gusâ brother said about Robbinsdale not being a one-horse town after he had spent a week wearing the âwhite wingâ vestments, I am willing to admit that Los Angeles and San Francisco have opened the eyes of an inquisitive farmer from the aforesaid Robbinsdale. They seem to have everything here including the Whiz Bangâand in this connection permit an old farmer the privilege of remarking that the leading California news distributors, Egbert Brothers, tell me the little old Banger leads all 25-cent magazines in California in the matter of circulation. So Robbinsdale is on the map in California even if we donât call our hen-coops âRenaissance architectureâ and our dog-houses âColonial garages.â * * * * * We landed in Los Angeles just in time to plunk down in the center of a quarrel between expert fanatics and the motion picture people. A flock of moonbeam-chasing neurasthenic preachers insist that evil was not brought into the world by the serpent in Eden but was created by Thomas Edison, who invented the motion picture machine. The latest synthetic scheme of the reformers calls for Los Angeles censorship for every picture manufactured and exhibited in the city. If the âlong hairsâ get away with itâand we donât think they willâit will be a huge moral victory. Los Angeles youth will then be limited to such amusement as may be gleaned from shooting craps, joy-riding, dancing at road-houses, poker and looking for oneâs umbrella. This umbrella story has spinach on it, but in small towns like Robbinsdale it is still good. Has to do with the church-goer who arose hurriedly and left the church as the pastor was in the midst of reading the Ten Commandments. He explained to the pastor afterward that it had just been recalled to his memory where he had left his umbrella. However, we didnât travel all the way out to California to find our umbrellaâor to lose oneâand it is nobodyâs business except our old Minneapolis friend, Dick Ferris, if we did. Dick is living at the Alex in Los Angeles and is one of Southern Californiaâs most popular and esteemed citizens. Dick has begun bobbing his hair since his early days in Minneapolis, but says that if hair was brains an old-fashioned parlor sofa would be vice president. Dick is one of the best entertainers in the Southland. One can step inside the âFerris Haremâ almost any time of day or night and meet anybody from âdiggers of the ditchesâ to the âdignitaries of the ducats.â Roscoe Sarles, famous race driver; Bill Pickens, Barney Oldfieldâs old manager; Julian Eltinge, the actor; Harry Grayson, sports editor of the Express; âScottyâ Chisholm, golf editor and star; King Young, publicity director for Kathrine MacDonaldâs pictures; Ham Beall, another publicity director extraordinary; Bob Henderson, wealthy oil operator and owner of the most beautiful home I have ever spilled ashes inâthese are only a few of the legion of good fellows with whom I had the pleasure of swapping stories at the Ferris chateau. * * * * * And speaking of stories, I attended a Motion Picture Press Agentsâ banquet and heard a good one on the reformers. According to the story, Rev. Wilbur F. Crafts was addressing an audience of the hoi poili and he started off bombastically like this: âYou cigar suckers; you cigarette suckers; you pipe suckersââ At this juncture a tenor voice in the rear of the hall sung out: âHey, Doc, you ainât going to forget us, are you?â Evidently a willy boy with an all-day sucker in his hand. Getting back to Dick Ferris, the former Minneapolis theatrical magnate, is head of a big taxi concern and on the side is a âpromoting fool.â Rummaging around in one of Dickâs dresser drawers, I ran across a box containing a pair of white silk pajamas. Inside was a card which, in feminine scrawl, informed Dick that they were to be worn when âAloneâand Feeling Blue.â Dick hasnât been able to wear themâsays he hasnât felt blue since Mt. Lassen was a small hill. * * * * * During our busy two weeks in Los Angeles we found time to accept invitations to inspect several motion picture studios, among them Universal City and the Katherine MacDonald studio. Miss MacDonald is a very charming and very good-looking young womanâand we feel sorry that such estimable young artists as Miss MacDonald, Miss Bebe Daniels and others must suffer some of the reflected criticism that is brought against the motion picture colony by the antics of some of the lame-brained and low-browed satyrs and satellites. Out at Universal, Director Eddie Laemmle grabbed a picture of us in a wild-west sceneâa Minnesota farmer entirely surrounded by cowboys and âInjuns.â While in the south I also enjoyed a trip to Tia Juana, the Mexican Monte Carlo, just across the border from San Diego. Started to fly down from Rogersâ airport in Los Angeles, but had to confine my aerial pilgrimage to a jaunt over the city and beaches. They donât allow American planes to fly across the border because there is so much booze running. * * * * * Through the good offices of the Oil King of Breckenridge, Texas, Bob Henderson, it was our fortune to meet Vice Admiral Wm. Shoemaker. We were gathered in Bobâs magnificent home in Los Angeles, formerly occupied by Mary Pickford and Mary Miles Minter (on the q. t., folks, youâll have to admit it was pretty soft for a decrepit old Robbinsdale farmer) indulging in the ornery duties of testing the champagny contents of Robertâs cellar. It was while the sparkling bubbles bubbled that the subject of a visit to Admiral Shoemakerâs Pacific fleet bobbed up. Next day we received a personal invitation from the Admiral, who insisted that we board his barge at the San Pedro dock. On the Red River of the North my Dad hauled wheat for the Northern Pacific railroad in a barge and not having been on speaking terms with naval language I assumed that a barge was a heluvan ugly looking thing. Imagine my surprise, please, when the bare-foot jackies heaved ho with an immaculate launch with three golden stars. Pretty soft for a hardened old rascal, I claim. We rolled on to the Flagship âPennsylvaniaâ and were greeted by the Admiralâs aide, Lieut. L. S. Lewis. It was my first view of a battleship and at once I was impressed with the fact that the âPennsylvaniaâ probably could have licked any of the numerous boats that father once owned on the Red River. I was surprised to learn that the 14-inch guns I had read about were really about 40 feet long instead of 14 inches. Anyway, we had a delightful time aboard the âPennsylvaniaâ and it was the first time in my life I ever cussed Josephus Daniels (say it sweet and low: âgawsch darn himâ) I had to drink tea. But the Admiral was a wonderful fellowâhale, hearty and well met. We exchanged anecdotes and spent a grand, though dry afternoon. Lieutenant Lewis and his crew of noblemen returned us to the dock in the starry BARGE. Now in the day of retrospection I fain would believe that the Admiral or his aide must have been in collusion with the âPennsylvaniaâ gobs because every last one of them either was bare-footed or reading Sam Clarkâs Jim Jam Jems or the little old Banger. Wonderful fellows, these jackies, but the pesky cusses just insisted on looking onward and upward (mostly upward) when the fairly formed feminines in the party mounted from deck to deck. They just couldnât control their naughty eyes. Possibly it had something to do with Bull of the Durham, for I am told that the sailor boys love to roll their own. * * * * * Now, Gentle Readers of this journal of uplift, I have one little wee surprise for you. Gus, my old time hired man, who jumped the job two months ago, located and surprised me at the Alexandria. Gus is a pestiferous cuss and has the faculty of bobbing up at the crucial moment. My âsupplyâ had given out and promptly, even more promptly than had been his will to paint boats at Breezy Point Lodge, he supplied the missing medicine. It was âterrible stuffâ but with the sailor boys Iâll sayâAny port in a storm. His juniper juice created a tempest within me but I was glad nevertheless once again to shake the hoary hand of toil. In parting I slipped Gus a five simoleon note. He whispered that he was âon the rocksâ and hadnât worked since he left Minnesota. We then and there entered into a gentlemanâs agreement that he never again would work for me unless his duties would be solely acting as Indian guide at Breezy Point at a wage of nothingâexcept the maternal or fraternal friendship of Maggie, our cook. Gus loves Maggie, I think, but better still, he loves her flapjacks. Adios to you, Gustav, and hereâs hoping I donât see you till the fishing season next spring. * * * * * Just one more drop or so before turning off the tap. It happened to be my good luck to be invited by Bill Eltinge, better known in the theatrical world as Julian, to attend a stag party in honor of the Los Angeles and Vernon baseball teams at the Maier brewery in Los Angeles. Doc Stone was master of ceremonies and he treated us lonely two hundred homeless and wifeless old stags in a royal manner. From a purely personal standpoint there was but one action that marred the entire evening. After being entertained to a realistic view of the grand canyon and a wonderful dance performed by Slim Summerfield and Bobby Dunn of the Fox studio, the right honorable toastmaster called on âCaptain Billy Whiz Bangâ to recitate. Imagine a rube farmer trying to spread the fertilizer over the rathskeller of an up-to-date Loz Onglaz brewery. Impossible, Iâll say. Here I had been trying all evening to âput on the dogâ with Frank Chance of Cub fame next to me, Julian Eltinge, world renowned actor, to my right, Dick Ferris, best known privateer in the public eye in front of me, not to mention such luminaries as Bill Essick, Wade Killifer, Larry McGraw and Jack Milligan all around. Then there was âShineâ Scott doing the honors back of the ânearâ beer bar, and âShineâ is well known to every ball player on the Pacific Coast. Oh, by the way, I certainly cannot overlook the immortal Tod Sloan. Either I followed Tod or he followed me because it was my good fortune to drink Manhattans with him in the Sunset Inn at Tia Juana and near beer near here. Now, readers, to tell the truth, itâs quite trying to write about this wonderful party while the writer has a perfectly good Scotch highball on the desk beside him. (Here goes another âHappy Day.â) One must, as one says, review oneâs bunk to see where oneâs left off. Talk about Southern hospitality, well, give me the Coast. Anyway, I never made the speech. How could I after Eltinge had brought tears of joy to members of this famous gathering? Like the lowly backward shyster of pedigreed bull that I am, I failed to carry out the principles of my âdeahâ old friend Volstead. (This effort calls for one Scotch heeball.) So I walked upon the brewery stage. And when I made my bow Iâll tell you one thing which every ball player and umpire of Southern California will verify. The stein of near beer was clutched fondly in my sturdy right hand. It was a rotten speechâin fact, no speech at all. My Los Angeles physician had prescribed that I take âone tablespoonful in milk every hour.â The milkman and my watch both went hay-wire. But I had a good timeâan elegant time and awakened next day with fond remembrances of the morning after the night before. * * * * * There are still a few rumbling in San Francisco regarding Arbuckle and his now famous party. The stories they tell are wonderful to listen to by way of teaching us farmers what strange means certain persons have devised to get a kick out of life. For instance, as my friend Barney Google would say, take this little âroomerâ: Two of the numerous members of the party decided to entertain their guestsâthe party was âdraggingâ as it were. The form of entertainment provided so I am told, was the kind few of us number among our accomplishments. Somehow or other, we have never gotten over that old-fashioned idea that certain ceremonies listed in the regular catalog or otherwise, are not for an audience. Rather, they are for occasions dedicated solely to the gods and ourselves. And then there was another. That when certain restrictive measures were indulged in, the Arbuckle counsel had it whispered about that should things get too strong, the defense might allow the names of certain men and women, socially prominent in San Francisco, to be introduced as possible witnesses to testify as to the actual happenings. Needless to say, the well known Mr. and Mrs. Consternation immediately entered upon the scene. * * * * * And there was Captain Al Waddell, who commanded a battery in our late fracas. Al is the boy who made a hero out of Cliff Durant out hereâreally put over the son of the âMaster Mindâ of the automotive world, W. C. Durant. Al, who knows everybody and everything in California, might have made a fortune in writing a Hearst feature about the Durant divorceâbut heâs too busy selling the Perfecto two-speed axles for Fordsâwhatever they may be. It seems that for six years young Cliff had been telling his wife what to do. When he returned from an important conference in New York with his dad, who was still president of the General Motors, she calmly announced: âFor six years Iâve been listening to you tell me what to do. Now for six seconds just listen to me tell you what to do.â The inside of the bomb contained these sweet tidings: âJust give me one-half of what you own.â Since Cliff was worth eight or ten millions, youâll advise it was disastrous news from the front, inasmuch as she âmade it stick.â And now, so the story goes, Cliff wonât have to worry and fret about any mysterious looking gentleman coming to stop at his hotel at Le Bec when he blows in. * * * * * Thereâs another echo from the town of fogs and poodle dogs that doesnât ring of Robbinsdale. Just shortly after that infamous Howard Street Gangsters affair the police raided a âLove Nest.â It seems that, regardless of race, creed or color (or sex) you indulged your favorite diversion while in the âLove Nestâ with your neighbor. Inasmuch as minors were involved, there was another âRoman holidayâ expected for those who would crowd the prisons. Just when they were getting ready to point thumbs down, the defense asked for continuance. âAnd on what grounds?â demanded the prosecution. âSo that we may bring witnessesâwomen of high social rank in the cityâto testify, by way of the indisputable means of photographs, that my clients are nothing more than artistic photographers, specializing in taking photos of women in the nude.â It is a rather singular fact that the continuance was granted, that little more was heard about the case and that instead of being sent to San Quentin for fifty years the defendants got off with light sentences. Asked how they could account for these women posing in the Altogether, one of the âArtistic photographersâ replied, âWell, every woman seems to feel that she has the form divine.â * * * * * Running across old friends is one of the best things you do on these jamborees. Here in âFrisco I found two old Minneapolis Journal men holding down important jobsâJim Callahan, now business manager of the Examiner and generally considered one of Hearstâs âright handâ men, and Chris Helin, manager of The Examinerâs Automobile Department. I am sorry to say that they are both back sliders and wouldnât trade the nip of the peninsula for half of Minnesota. Funny how these fellows go loco when they reach California. Really, folks, you wouldnât expect your friends to try to sell you real estate, would you? * * * * * My visit to San Francisco was the first since 1904, when I came home from doing my Spanish-American war âbitâ in the Philippines. Sheâs a different city since the fire. California is a great state for new buildingâbuildings going up here and everywhere. Among other enterprises they are building a lot of old missions, I understand. Saw a sign over a Mission street doorway reading: âVirtue & Co., Ltd.â It used to be âunlimitedâ here back in the Dupont street days in 1904, but I thought that had all gone with Barbary Coast. Am off for New York but hope now to come back later. * * * * * Canadian Stuff A little glass of near-beer; A little drop of ether, Will make the world spin merrily, In any kind of weather. * * * * * Times Are Improving âHowâs business?â asked the passenger. âBetter,â said the conductor as he shoved his hands in his pockets, âI can feel the change already.â * * * * * Fable of a Sap _He sitteth and enjoyeth_ _The Evening_ _And Spendeth only_ _His Time._ * * * * * An Opulent Love Letter! Oh, dearie! just the lucid thought of your love, yes just to think of it fills my combined heart and soul with the most limpid fulgency. Every time I think of you my erotic pumping organ vibrates all through my body. It is just your love that keeps my soul from sacrifice. One minute I imagine you are exulting your thought on me in the most wonderful way, and then I feel, Oh, so strong and lusty, and it encounters the greatest exultation of my life, but before I know it the door flies open and the entire thought escapes without impetus, and then the next thing to come is a thought rather much undesirable. I just imagine you think very little of me and that you are keeping it concealed just to see how jejune you can drain my poor heart from that pure living love of yours, and, Oh! it makes me feel so impotent that I want to loll my life away. It is just the lack of your levity that hurts, and my heart turns gelid and cold but after I carry that muse for a minute then the most mellifluous thought comes to my mind telling me that you are thinking of me in the most elegant way and my eyes fly wide open with fraught fulgency and I feel as though I am floating on a lovely pink cloud eating ice cream smothered in violets, and Oh! * * * * * Itâs a strong stomach that has no turning. * * * * * In Good âGrace is in luck.â âHow so?â âTwo fellows are calling on her. One is a florist and the other owns a candy store.â * * * * * How Otherwise? Eve had no Christmas, Neither did Adam, Never wore socks, Nobody had âem, Never got cards, Nobody did, Did they enjoy Christmasâ Weâll say they did! * * * * * Pat and Mike Stuff An Irishman, who was very drunk, was riding on the back platform of an old-fashioned trolley car, and with every pitch and swerve he would sway and nearly fall off. The conductorâs warning to be seated inside were waived aside with âIâm all right.â Soon the car swung around a curve where the bank was steep and rocky. The Irishman swayed and pitched head-long down the bank, being badly bruised and knocked unconscious. While being carried back up the bank he regained consciousness and asked: âWas anyone hurt in the wreck?â âThere wasnât any wreck,â replied the conductor. âBegorra!â exclaimed the Irishman: âIf I had known that I wouldnât have jumped.â _The City of Lost Angels_ _The following article, written by Rev. Golightly Morrill, was inspired by a tour he made of the movie camps two years ago. We cannot agree that Rev. Morrillâs description fits the present day Hollywood and Los Angeles. Indeed, we found the situation quite pleasing. It is true that Los Angeles is brimful of wim, wigor and witality, and why shouldnât it be? If one was to take a thousand of the worldâs most beautiful women and implant them on Robbinsdaleâs virgin soil, or in any other town, Rev. Morrill would find as much to scorch his burning pen. So before you read this, gentle reader, letâs give three cheers for California.âThe Editor._ BY REV. âGOLIGHTLYâ MORRILL Pastor, Peopleâs Church, Minneapolis, Minn. One night I went out from Los Angeles with my moral telescope to make some observations in the movie firmament. Music was playing, but the Muse of Music would never recognize it. In Collinsâ Ode, Music was a âheavenly maid,â played in Greece and was Wisdomâs aid, chaste and sublimeâperhaps, but not here. It was jazz gone drunk and crazy, to the great delight of prodigal sons and daughters. Through clouds of cigarette smoke I saw the movie stars. These âheavenly bodiesâ have very earthly souls. Some were fixed stars at tables, others falling into partnersâ arms, and shooting stars were shooting love glances at each other. Some other stars seemed votaries of Astarte, the licentious goddess to whom a temple has been erected in Hollywood, where I was entertained by a French countess, who regaled me with tea, fresh cakes and a veritable Madame de Stael (not stale) vivacious conversation on travel, music, art, literature and religion. Although she was French, I fully understood her good English accent and gesture, as I did the meaning of her charming sister who went to the piano and sang, âI love you.â Morals and movies are not inseparable. Hollywood is the modern Daphne Grove where the Seventh of the Ten Commandments is frequently forgotten or erased. Southern California, the âland of the flea,â is also an artistsâ paradise. The paint most advertised is cosmetics. The dearest paintings I noticed were those walking on the streets. The Angelenos are expert painters of scenery and theatre signs, of auto bodies, and of their own faces with liquor. But why is art necessary at all? They have climate, and that divides the honor with charity in covering a multitude of sins. Nature has placed all California artists in the shade by placing on her easel the matchless pieces of sea, field and mountain. Practical art is found in the âdrawingsâ of gold ore from the soil and money from the pockets of the speculators. The water color is irrigation that turns the brown earth green. The âoilâ is petroleum from which modern mining masters are making millions compared with the price the oils of the old masters bring. Murder is one of the fine arts of Los Angeles, promoted by autos which assume the pedestrian has no rights and deliberately knock him right and left and leave him bruised and bleeding. The trouble is not so much wine as auto-intoxication. There is an auto to every thirteen inhabitants, which may account for so many unlucky accidents. The auto roads in the state are the finest in the world. They canât be called ârottenâ even though they are made from decomposed granite. Most attractive are the beaches near Los Angeles. Here caterpillar trams crawl along, sidewalks which swarm with gum-chewers, popcorn-munchers, gingerale-guzzlers, peanut-masticators, hawkers of red hot dogs, spitters of tobacco, ice cream cone venders, stylish freaks and freakish styles, nice and naughty men, good and bad girls, and roller skaters. I grew dizzy at Ferris wheels, aeroplanes, rollercoasters, the plunge bath of the great unwashed, pavilions of dirt, drink, dancing and dissipation. Over all there hung a Cologne variety of smells. Couples were swinging in pier dance halls to ragtime orchestras. There were high dives in the water, and low dives on the street where the innocent were doped, debauched and robbed. Noise was raised to the nth power. Instead of the sweet sea breeze there was the strong aroma of popcorn and perspiration. At the beach you discover many things Columbus never found in his travelsâpeanut shells, dippy dippers, tin cans, can cans, tin horn sports, human lobsters and jelly fish, shell games, gulls and gullibles, papers, lunch boxes, bags, flasks, mermaids, mere men, kids with pails and shovels, playmates, families, spoony couples, kelp, garters, dead fish, fishermen, lines, nets, boats, cottages, hotels, resorts, boardwalks, promenades, bare legs, arms, feet, busts, driftwood and piers. Here one can find lost souls without exploring the shores of Phlegethon, Cocytus and Avernus. L. A.âs Elysium Park is like the classic one in one respect. When Aeneas went through the Elysian fields all the objects were clothed in a purple lightâhere it is the haze from innumerable autos whose exhausts wrap everything in smoky pall and smell. The park is a good place to spend hours with the Houris, and to keep it from being a Paradise Lost, one is prohibited from spending the night there. Many enact here the myths of the nymphs and satyrs. Holiday guests are often found âstar-scatteredâ on the grass, acting out the Rubaiyat. There is only one âLostâ Angeles in all the world. * * * * * Dalâs Filosophy Itâs easy enough to be pleasant, With a lass and a glass and a song, But the man worth while is the guy who can smile, When heâs got the old woman along. * * * * * Oh, I Wisha Wuza Lightninâ Bug! (From Cortland, (N. Y.) Standard) Mr. and Mrs. H. C. Tayntor entertained Mr. and Mrs. Charles Olds and son, Walter, of Syracuse, on Monday, and learned from them that Mr. Oldsâ daughter, Mrs. Hazel Hammond, was struck by lightning during a recent thunder storm, the skin being burned from one leg some six inches, and then the lightning followed a water pipe and came out of a faucet. * * * * * Letâs Swell Up and Bust A man took his wife out to dinner at a hotel restaurant the other night. A short-skirted damsel breezed in and, there being nobody else in sight, proceeded to vamp him. âMy dear,â grinned the fatuous chump to his wife, âthat girl over there is smiling at me.â âThatâs nothing,â replied the better half, âwhen I first saw you I laughed like hell.â * * * * * Joys of Matrimony PapaââHas the young man who has been calling on you given you any encouragement?â DaughterââOh, yes, father! Just think last night he asked me if you and mother were pleasant to live with.â * * * * * Scottyâs Wail O wad some power the giftie gie âem, To see their legs as others see âem! It was frae monie a short skirt free âem, And foolish notion, That toothpicks and piano legs Inspire devotion. * * * * * Did It Ever Happen to You? Met a pretty girl one day, Took her down to see a play; Bought her candy, cake and cream, And other things that she had seen. Thought I was in good all right, When I took her home that night, Hung around and begged a kiss, And what think you she said, this miss? âOf all the cheap skates I ever lamped with my âonce overs,â You are the crustiest two by twice, hair-brained gazeke on Gawdâs earth, Shake those gunboats of yours and evaporate. GOOD NIGHT!â * * * * * Answer This One, Girls HeââI am going to ask you a question. If you answer âyes,â you mean âno,â but if you do not answer, I am to have a kiss.â She, after much deliberationââAll right, âshootâ.â HeââIf I should kiss you, would you be angry?â Sheâââââ _Limber Kicks_ Gal Oâ Mine _When first I kissed my little gal,_ _And felt her sweet embraces,_ _I knew Iâd found an âonly palâ_ _And would soon get down to cases._ _Alas, it proved a ghastly joke,_ _My friends began to snicker;_ _I found myself K. O.âd and broke,_ _Dang that gal. of liquor._ * * * * * âI will be true while youâre away,â Thus ran the damselâs song. âI will be true; but, oh, I say, Donât be away too long.â * * * * * Beware, Oil Men! By Casper Y. Homing. Oh, mother, may I go out to swim, Way down behind the willers, Iâll hang my clothes on a hickory limb, And wonât go near the drillers. * * * * * Hibrow Poetry _Her petticoat was georgette blue,_ _Her dress was cheese cloth red,_ _When she passes âtween me and light,_ _I always turn my head._ * * * * * Courting Up to Date âThe demure, shrinking type of maiden used to be able to walk to the altar with the matrimonial bacon,â complains Miss Etta Kette, âbut the one who brings home the husband now-a-days seems to be the one who grabs him and bites her initials in his cheek.â * * * * * A Sundodger BabyââI want my bottle.â MotherââKeep quiet. Youâre just like your father.â * * * * * Crossing the âBarâ Midnight, a gleaming star, On one who pinches me, For hanging on a âsoft drinkâ bar Till I can hardly see. Curled peacefully in ash barrel I would sleep And dream of foaming mug, But policeman with a bass voice deep, Tuts me in the jug. * * * * * Knock âer On the Kiss! A discussion on dancing became quite heated. The Girl in the case challenged her partner to prove his contention that any man could kiss a girl against her will. They clinched and after a brief but determined struggle, the girl was being ardently osculated. Upon being freed from the fervent hold the girl sighed and said, âWell, you won but it wasnât fair. My foot slipped. Letâs try it again.â _Questions and Answers_ =_Dear Captain Billy_=âCould you explain the latest dance called âThe Horse Trotâ?â=_White Capp._= According to our New York correspondent, âThe Horse Trotâ is done with a little wagon behind. * * * * * =_Mon Captaine_=âWhat ees zis theeng zey call ze âall day suckairâ?â=_Suzanne Lengthen._= An âall day sucker,â Suzanne, is a poor simp who buys a girlâs lunch and supper; takes her to a show; puts on a midnight feed, and has the taxi wait while he bids her good night at the door of her flat. * * * * * =_Dear Captain Billy_=âKissing causes my heart to flutter violently. What should I do when my sweetheart tries to kiss me?â=_May Leigh._= Letter flutter. * * * * * =_Dear Keptin_=âWhat is the quickest lunch you ever heard of?â=_Pholush A. Ginn._= Hasty pudding on a Jewish Fast day. * * * * * =_Dear Captain Billy_=âI have several gentlemen friends whom I would like to give presents to on Christmas. Would you kindly give me a list of suggestions?â=_Miss Goo C. Lou._= Below are ten suggestions which I think would make gifts appreciated by almost any man: 1. A quart of hootch. 2. A quart of hootch. 3. A quart of hootch. 4. A quart of hootch. 5. A quart of hootch. 6. A quart of hootch. 7. A quart of hootch. 8. A quart of hootch. 9. A quart of hootch. 10. A quart of hootch. * * * * * =_Dear Captain Billy_=âWhat is a husband?â=_Little Willie._= Something no respectable woman should be without. * * * * * =_Dear Captain Billy_=âWhat is steam?â=_Talo Pott._= Steam is water gone crazy with the heat. * * * * * =_Dear Bilious Skipper_=âI am a bride of two weeks and my husband has broken my heart accusing me of extravagance and failure to economize in the home. I have tried lots of cheap dishes without success. Could you suggest a few menus which would enable me to make both ends meet?â=_Worried Marjorie._= Well, Marj, I am not much of an expert at cooking so I have referred your question to Maggie the hired girl. She suggests as a cheap dish, beans, but if you have tried them without success, why not try serving tongue and eggs? * * * * * =_Dear Captain Billy_=âCan you tell me where moonshine comes from?â=_Hugo Chaser._= No, thatâs a secret still. * * * * * =_Dear Captain Billy_=âI am informed that it is absolutely proper for a lady to shake hands when sitting. If so, has the gentleman the same privilege?â=_Minnie Haha._= When shaking hands in this glorious land of the free and the home of the Drys, a Gentleman does it standing, a lady has the privilege of shaking sitting down, and a Dog does it standing on three legs. * * * * * =_Dear Captain_=âWhat makes the ocean so blue?â=_T. N. T._= Because it has to embrace so many objectionable people. * * * * * =_Dear Bill_=âWhy does a chicken cross the road?â=_Slim Jim._= Because she sees some fellow over there who looks like easy picking. * * * * * Pat, Lady Killer A son of Erin wandered into a revival meeting one night. After listening to the revivalist catalogue the crimes and misdemeanors of which his hearers were guilty and enlarge upon the danger of spending eternity in a warm but insalubrious climate, the poor Irishman felt that he was âhair hung and breeze shaken over hellâ as Elder Means said. Soon he was under deep âconvictionâ and in due time was soundly converted. A few evenings later he arose to give his âtestimonyâ and said: âLadies and gintlemen; Oh, Oi beg yer pardonâMy Dear Sisters anâ Brothers; you know Oiâm not used to spakinâ in meetinâs like this. But Oi want to tell you that Oiâm glad Oiâm saved. Anâ be the way, it took a helluva lot of grace to save me, for Oi was a dom bad man. Oi lied anâ dhrank anâ swore anâ stole anâ gambled anâ did everytâing that was low and vile anâ mean. Anâ more than that, Oi was a âkillerâ among the women, as many of the sisters here present kin testify.â * * * * * A Chaplin Prayer Danny was a good boy. Jimmy was not. Danny said his prayersââGive us this day our daily bread.â But Jimmy interruptedââStrike him for pie, Danny.â * * * * * The Bray of An Ass A man who was walking through a train inadvertently left the door of one of the cars open. A big man sitting in a seat in the middle of the car yelled: âShut the door, you fool! Were you raised in a barn?â The man who had left the door open closed it and then, dropping into a seat, buried his face in his hands and began to weep. The big man looked somewhat uncomfortable and, rising finally walked up to the weeper and tapped him on the shoulder. âMy friend,â he said, âI didnât intend to hurt your feelings. I just wanted you to close the door.â The man who was weeping raised his head and grinned. âOld man,â he said, âI am not crying because you hurt my feelings, but because you asked me if I was raised in a barn. The fact is that I was raised in a barn, and every time I hear an ass bray it makes me homesick.â * * * * * âThrow Out the Life Lineâ âHow did you like the banquet last night?â âFine. There was a lady at the table across from me who had one of those âtable line gownsâ on. She looked like Venus.â âHow do you know she had on a gown, then?â âI dropped my fork.â _Whiz Bang Editorials_ â_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet._â There are many âCalamity Janesâ in the U. S. A. One of their stock cries, just after a crime has been committed is, âIf she gets off, sheâs going in the movies!â Let us look at the real facts. Searching the history of the moving picture business, in not a single instance has a murder been starred in pictures. About seven or eight years ago a wealthy married man in Virginia was shot by his wife (or was it by a girl in the case?)âBeulah Binfordâbecause he had trifled with her affections. The courts proved the man a rotter, and because Beulah was a very young girl, she was released without a prison sentence. Beulahâs heart and life were broken and she wanted to bury herself in her little home town and try to start over again, but she needed money. An unscrupulous promoter from New York who thought he could profit by the notoriety caused by the crime, made her an offer to be starred in pictures. Beulah went to New York. The picture was taken but the police closed Madison Square Garden when it was scheduled to show there. Even in those early days of picturedom, movie companies of any standing were bitterly incensed against promoters who wanted to make money by exploiting crime. The tragic figure in this case was Beulah Binford herself. When the picture failed to bring in receipts she was left alone and penniless in a strange city. She went from studio to studio asking for work, but despite the fact that she was beautiful, no one wanted to take a chance with her. Finally the Republic Film Company, of New York, gave her a job sorting papers in their office. She went through countless hardships in the city. What has become of her, we do not know. A few years later, in Wisconsin, a boy student killed his sweetheart in a lonely wooded section not far from the state university buildings. The case was never proved to have been premeditated murder and he was not given a prison sentence. A well known New York syndicate writer, a woman went out to Wisconsin and tied up the boyâs services for pictures. She then hastened back to New York to sell the contract for a profit. Every picture company in New York turned down her proposition to star the boy! After Marie Edwards shot Senator Lyons a year or so ago in California, she visited all the studios in Los Angeles in an attempt to get into the movies. Not a single position was offered her. Mrs. Louise Peete, who was recently sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder of J. C. Denton at his home in Los Angeles, made overtures to the picture companies during the time she thought she was going to be freed. Not a single studio executive paid the slightest attention to her attempts to be exploited on the screen. The âsonâ of Senator New, who brutally killed his sweetheart in Topanga Canyon near Los Angeles about a year ago, also thought he might follow a picture career, but this was cut short when he was sentenced to twenty years in the penitentiary. Mrs. Marie Bailey, who shot her sweetheart, Clarence Hogan, in Pasadena last December, told all reporters that she was going to be featured in pictures as soon as she was released. Mrs. Bailey had previously played in pictures, but when she was arrested, picture studios all made the notation that she would never again be hired even as an âextra.â Marie has gone âupâ for ten years. The Clara Hamon picture, âFate,â although already produced, has not been exhibited in the theatres. In the light of the history of past cases has it a chance? * * * * * Burning kisses always go with sparks. * * * * * An authority once established is hard to controvert. That is why it is going to be one heck of a job to knock any kind of a dent into the present Volstead law prohibiting even a smelling acquaintance with wine, beer or regular hard âlicker.â Organized minorities vote solidly in politics; the vote of the majority is scattered. There is nothing more easily swayed than popular opinion and popular âpassionâ with the right kind of propaganda. I remember when Carpentier, the French fight champ, came across to get his bump on the beak, Gus and I were discussing the antics of the New York society women who âliterallyâ fought with each other for the privilege of kissing him at a garden party. It is the human nature of the female of the specie to kiss the male brute at every opportune occasion, and, under stress of easily aroused emotions, under other conditions as well. Emotion is a primitive human instinct and if women swarm to kiss a prize fighter in these enlightened days, it is easy to understand how an unorganized majority of males, as well as females, might be moulded by proper propaganda to a conviction that this country will go to the bow wows unless booze of all character and description is kicked into the discard. We must admit that the prohibition minority did not slip anything over on the majority when it wasnât looking. First they sneaked into a few legislatures and then they put it through Congress and had it ratified by their legislatures. The majority found out about it when it was too late. All the majority can do now is to defy the Volstead law and vote down the enforcement provisions of it. Some of them are doing thisâwhile others are becoming Cunard addicts and going to Europe and Havana. Europe used to be a continent of kingsânow it is only Americaâs corner saloon. We have never held any particular briefs for Squirrel whisky and other forms of 100 proof âhootch.â But even our former president, Woodrowâwhat was his name?âWilson, is strong for wines and beers and we are willing to stack with him on this question, at least. It is going to be a hard jobâgetting any concessions from the prohibitionists. We believe Gus has the right idea, however, when he says the day of the âbum voyageâ to Europe is nearing a close, and that the old familiar sign âWines, Liquors and Segarsâ may soon be dusted off and tacked up outside the front door. * * * * * The Way They Sing It We will now sing that little Nanny-goat song entitled âMammy.â Also that well known ballad âJust a Japanese Ashcan.â * * * * * The stage contortionist leads a double life. _Smokehouse Poetry_ _Every once in a while we get regular he-man verse prompted by dreams in some feather bed, but from the pen of Budd L. McKillips, Whiz Bang readers again are to be treated with a poem inspired by real life. In the Winter Annual of the Whiz Bang we reproduced Mr. McKillipsâ poem âAfter the Raid,â inspired while Mr. McKillips, as a newspaper reporter, âcoveredâ story of the raid on the National Dutch Room cabaret in Minneapolis. Recently pretty Zelda Crosby, picture scenario writer, of New York, committed suicide in a hotel by drinking poison, as a result of a prominent film magnate spurning her after teaching her the ways of love and folly. This magnate, like many other alleged reformers, has been a leading figure in the movement for purity in pictures. The title of Mr. McKillips poem, written exclusively for the Whiz Bang, is âThe Girl From Over âThereâ.â In addition to that poem we are publishing a crackerjack rival to the âGila Monster Route,â with which Winter Annual readers have fallen in love, called âThe Blanket Stiff.â_ * * * * * The Spirit of Mortal Oh, Why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, like a fast flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passeth from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, And be scattered around and together be laid, And the old and the young and the low and the high, Shall molder to dust and together shall lie. The infant a mother attended and loved, The mother that infantâs affection who proved, The husband that mother and infant who blessed, Each all are away to their dwellings of rest. The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne, The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn, The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who limbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. So the multitude goes like the flower or the
{'title': "Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 3, No. 28, December, 1921 by Various", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}