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Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
 Highty-tighty Aphrodite

t present, partly owing to what is very modestly called

A
“barefoot” dancing, a severe season of clothelessness
prevails; and the aforementioned exercises afford the public
quite a fair idea of “the most admirable spectacle in nature”—
that is to say, bowlegs, knock-knees, thick ankles, spray feet,
shoulders scraggy or pudgy, knees bony or lumpy, and weirdly
shaped legs.
The modernist poets also have been seized by the mania for
nudity—but let us hope that with them it is rather theory than
practice; for the average literator is not usually “a dream of form in
days of thought.” One mocking rhymester thus makes game of such
poetic aspirations:

All the poets have been stripping,

Quaintly into moonbeams slipping,
Running out like wild Bacchantes,
Minus lingerie and panties.
Never knew of such a frantic
Belvederean, corybantic,
Highty-tighty Aphrodite,
Stepping out without a nightie.

One of these modernist bards puts her own fancies into the brain
of an old-time lady, stiff in pink and silver brocade, as she walks in a
prim garden awaiting the coming of her suitor. She would like to
leave “all that pink and silver crumpled on the ground”; for,
 Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin.

Thus divested of raiment, “I would be the pink and silver as I ran

along the paths,” and her lover, seeing her, would pursue “till he
caught me in the shade.” A writer of free verse is more candid; it is
herself she would disrobe. “Since the earliest days I have dressed
myself in fanciful clothes,” she says, trying to express herself in this
manner; but now she is weary of putting “romance and fantasy into
my raiment.” She realizes that “my clothes are not me, myself”;
hence the stern resolve:

I think I shall go naked into the streets,

And wander unclothed into people’s parlors.
The incredulous eyes of the bewildered world
Might give me back my true image ...
Maybe in the glances of others
I would find out what I really am.

Doubtless she would; but perhaps not exactly as she means it.
Wandering “unclothed into people’s parlors,” if police vigilance could
be eluded, might be a way of seeing ourselves as others see us,
since the owners of the parlors would probably be startled into
candid comment, instead of, as usual, waiting until the unclad back
of the visitant was turned. It would be a happy arrangement if only
the truly symmetrical would indulge in semi-nudity. Such exhibitions
are a form of female vanity; but if the average woman will but
realize it, she owes any admiration she may excite to the saving
graces of clothes. If she is wise she will foster the illusion. As a poet
of another era expressed it, “Oh, the little less, and what worlds
away!”
 In the Grip of a Dream

he dreamer is with us. From early youth there comes anon a

T
time when the sense of great loneliness and mysticism leads
one out to the wilderness of the Dream God. Conceptions of
dreams and of love are two difficult tasks, but Robert W.
Chambers seems to have made greater headway than other
authors. In his book, “The Danger Mark,” he thus describes the
feelings that passed over poor, troubled Geraldine:
“We’re pretty young yet, Geraldine.... I never saw a girl I cared for
as I might have cared for you. It’s true, no matter what I have done,
or may do.... But you’re quite right, a man of that sort isn’t to be
considered,” he laughed and pulled on one glove, “only—I knew as
soon as I saw you that it was to be you or—everybody. First, it was
anybody; then it was you—now it’s everybody. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” she managed to say. The dizzy waves swayed her;
she rested her cheeks between both hands and, leaning there
heavily, closed her eyes to fight against it. She had been seated on
the side of a lounge; and now, feeling blindly behind her, she moved
the cushions aside, turned and dropped among them, burying her
blazing face. Over her the scorching vertigo swept, subsided, rose,
and swept again. Oh, the horror of it!—the shame, the agonized
surprise. What was this dreadful thing that, for the second time, she
had unwittingly done? And this time it was so much more terrible.
How could such an accident have happened to her? How could she
face her own soul in the disgrace of it?
Fear, loathing, frightened incredulity that this could really be
herself, stiffened her body, and clinched her hands under her parted
lips. On them her hot breath fell irregularly.
 Rigid, motionless, she lay, breathing faster and more feverishly.
Tears came after a long while, and with them relaxation and
lassitude. She felt that the dreadful thing which had seized and held
her was letting go its hold, was freeing her body and mind; and as it
slowly released her and passed on its terrible silent way, she awoke
and sat up with a frightened cry, to find herself lying on her own bed
in utter darkness.

* * *

In France, we are told, the English officers stepped about as

though they owned the whole d——d country, whereas
The Americans walked about as though they didn’t give a d——n
who owned the country.

* * *

New York liquor spotters have discovered liquor in baby dolls.

That’s nothing new. Lots of baldheads have been buying wine for
baby dolls in New York for generations!
 Questions and Answers

Dear Captain Billy—I am 15 years old and have a sweetheart

who is just 18. He owns a flivver and wants me to go riding with
him. Should I?—Lizzie.
Walking is healthier.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—I have a girl friend who insists on writing to

me and demanding an answer. What shall I do?—Charlie.
Tell her to enclose a stamp.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—My husband is going out with another

woman all the time. What can I do to keep him home nights.—Mrs.
Brown.
Take the other woman in as a boarder.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—I am a young lady attending a church

college. Do you think it would be all right for me to wear skirts 15
inches from the ground.—Marie.
That depends on your height. If you are six feet tall it would be all
right, but if you are only 29 inches “tall,” Not Yet Marie.

* * *
 Dear Captain Bill—What would you call the unoccupied side of
an old maid’s bed?—Simple Susan.
No Man’s Land.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—My daughter has a sweetheart who just got

back from France. He talks to her in French and says: “Villa vouz
promenade,” or something like that, and then they go to some park.
What does that mean?—Anxious Father.
That’s all right, old man. Your daughter’s sweetheart was only
asking her to take a walk.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—What’s good for cooties?—Returned

Soldier.
Bread crumbs.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—Please explain the uses of salpeter.—

Tommy.
You are hereby referred to any soldier who will tell you its principal
usage is in the manufacture of high explosives.

* * *

Dear Captain Bill—What’s worse than a cow with the cooties?—

Hi Ball.
A horse with a buggy behind.

* * *
 Dear Captain Bill—We are organizing a new lodge in ’Frisco to
be known as the “Ancient Order of Modern Cavemen.” Will you kindly
suggest a motto for our lodge? Yours truly—Rough on Cats.
My suggestion is: “Catch ’em young; treat ’em rough, and tell ’em
nothin’.”

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—Why do they use castor oil in racing

automobiles and aeroplanes?—Eunice.
To make them run, of course, Eunice.

* * *

Dear Bilious Billy—What would you write about if the country

went wet again and you didn’t have the dry reformers to poke fun at
and kid about?—Reginald Pewter.
We cannot tell a lie—we wouldn’t be able to write during the first
few weeks.

* * *

Dear Whiz Bang—My husband, a returned soldier, did not get

home until 3 o’clock this morning. He said he was at the Fort all
night playing golf. Do soldiers play golf in the middle of the night?—
Worried War Bride.
Yes, Worried Wifie, they do. One of the favorite sports of the
naughty doughboy is the game known as African golf. Two galloping
dominoes are used in place of a small ball. Instead of the greens,
the latrine floor is usually garnished with greenbacks and set off in
silver. “Big Dick” and “Little Joe” act as caddies and there is more
cussing at a “flock of box cars” than a minister foozling a putt. I
indulged in a friendly game of dancing dominoes last night with my
old buddy, Mr. “Eighter from Decatur.” “Jimmy Hicks” and “Long
Legged Liz” were there, but before I got through I had “fever in the
South” and “crapped” out several points under par.

* * *

Dear Captain Bill—Please tell me what is golf?—Ignoramus.

Well, Ig., golf is a game where old men chase little balls around
when they are too old to chase anything else.

* * *

Dearest Billy—What’s the difference between a bachelor and a

worm?—Andy Gump.
Somebody told me there was no difference—the chickens get
them both.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—I have been married a year and am the

mother of triplets who are now three months old. My husband has
asked me to take dancing lessons this winter because he says he
cannot afford to have any more children and that dancing will keep
one’s mind off maternal cares. What do you think about it?—Triple
Trixy.
Dancing’s all right, Trixy, providing you tango in the morning, fox
trot in the afternoon and hesitate at night. Fine exercise, I say.

* * *

Dear Captain Bill—I am struggling with myself to keep from

falling in love with a handsome football player because I heard that
football players were so terribly rough.—Troubled Tillie.
Move to the South Sea islands where it’s too hot to play football,
or else to Norway where the summer sport is fishing and in winter
it’s too cold to fish.
 * * *

Dear William—I recently met a cute little second lieutenant on

the train and am very anxious to get in touch with him. He said his
name was Joe Latrino and that he was in the Sanitary Corps. How
may I find him?—Winsome Winnifred.
Write to him in care of the Captain of the Head, U. S. Navy.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—What is the difference between Spanish Flu

and Spanish Fly?—Swede Harriet.
Spanish Flu is a disease. Spanish Fly is a drug, technically known
as cantharides and is used as a plaster to cure rheumatism.

* * *

Dear Billy—I am infatuated with a handsome young man from

Akron, Ohio, but when he comes to visit me in a neighboring village
he acts so embarrassed and appears always to be in a mood of deep
thought. Do you suppose he wants to pop the question but hasn’t
the nerve?—Hellenic Helen.
Now, Hellenic Helen, how in Hell’s Gate or Helena do I know?
Overlook his seeming taciturnity and remember that “deep rivers
move with silent majesty; small brooks are noisy as hell, and actions
speak louder than words.”

* * *

Dear Doctor Billy—Please give me the definition of the spinal

column.—Slippery Lizz.
It’s a long disjointed bone, covered with knots—your head sits on
one end and you sit on the other.

* * *
 Dear Captain Bill—What is meant by “bigamy?” Dandy Dillon.
Bigamy is a form of insanity which causes a man to pay three
board bills instead of two.

* * *

Dear Billy—What’s the definition of a “humdinger?”—Iva

Hangover.
A man who can make a deaf and dumb girl say: “O, daddy.”

* * *

Dear Bilious Billy—I was married last June and my wife wants
me to obtain some polish in my manners so suggests that I take
music lessons. What do you think about it?—Silas Hopkins.
It’s a very good idea, Si. You’ll soon gain a musical education by
playing second fiddle. But beware of the jazz.

* * *

Dear Skipper—Why is a certain specie of beans called Navy

Beans?—Battle-Axe Liz.
I dunno, Liz. You might as well ask me why I labelled The Whiz
Bang an “Explosion of Pedigreed Bull.” No reason at all.

* * *

Dear Bill—They say there are germs on money. Do you think,

then, it is safe for a poor working girl to carry her salary home in her
stocking?—Sadie Woolworth.
Perfectly safe, I’d say. A germ couldn’t live on a working girl’s
salary.

* * *
Betty’s Better Batter

Betty Botter bought some butter,

“But,” she said, “this butter’s bitter.
If I put it in my batter,
It will make my batter bitter.
But a bit of better butter
Will make my batter better.”
So she bought a bit o’ butter
Better than the bitter butter,
And made her bitter batter better.
So ’twas better Betty Botter
Bought a bit of better butter.
 Seeing Los Angeles

By JACK ANDREWS
ubbernecking via the bally-ho wagons has received a terrible

R
set-back in the beautiful city of the Angels. No more will the
gossip-hungry tourists be fed on the scandal of the movie
colony from a megaphone in the hands of a husky-voiced
“spieler.” An edict has gone forth forbidding these caterers to
wet the appetites of the unlearned and seeking visitors of Los
Angeles to exploit the “affairs” of the celebrities in press agent
fashion.
Los Angeles officials contend that it is no nice way to entertain
their guests where skeletons are said to exist in every closet in
Hollywood.
There is no question but what the moving picture business has a
lot of deserving people in it, and some of the most admirable
characters to be found are of the cinema crowd, but we have
recently had a few stellar lights before the international eye in roles
that were disgusting.
Here are some of the utterances the city fathers say should be
dispensed with:

“To your right, folks, is the home of Charlie,

now used exclusively by Mildred and her
mother, who is also her business manager.”
“On your left is the home of Lottie, sister of
Mary, who has a standing offer to fight any
 woman in the business.”
“Jack, who is also one of the family, was living
in the bungalow on yonder hill before his wife
came back from New York. He left for Arkansas
on the advice of his doctor the day before she
arrived. He was also in the service during the
war.”
“Now folks this beautiful chateau on the right
covering ten acres is the possession of an
illiterate cow-puncher, whose salary is greater
than the President’s.”
“To your left is the former home of Mable,
when she wasn’t at Vernon, and who is credited
with staging a “come-back” after the star of
Sennett passed below her horizon.”
“The one who was once called “America’s
Sweetheart” used to live in sweet simplicity in
the white bungalow on the right. She used to be
the idol of all children, but the page of her book
is closed that the youth should learn aright.”

Is it any wonder that these “rubberneck” wagons did a thriving

business in Los Angeles? It is said that each “spieler” tried to outrival
his competitor and from all reports the tourists were well supplied
with scandal.

* * *

Girls should remember that when they confide in a married

woman they are probably confiding in her husband also.
 Whiz Bang Bunk

As you show so shall we peep.

* * *

A shimmy dancer has to struggle for a living.

* * *

Many a rough neck is hidden by a silk collar.

* * *

Be it ever so homely there’s no face like your own.

* * *

You can’t feather your nest running after chickens.

* * *

Keeping whisky in your home is no crime—it’s an art.

* * *

Never slap children on the face; Nature provides a more suitable

place.

* * *
 Close the saloon and save the boys; close the garage and save the
girls.

* * *

Sign in dry goods store: “Our woolen underwear will tickle you to
death.”

* * *

A Shorthorn Bull
A man called for hair restorer at the drug store. The new clerk
gave him something to apply. In the course of time the man
returned with a complaint. He declared the stuff powerful enough for
some purpose but not to grow hair. His head was as bald as ever but
he was getting two big lumps like cocoanuts on the top. The clerk
looked at the empty bottle and turned ghastly pale as he exclaimed
“My Gawd, man, I’ve made a terrible mistake. I gave you bust
developer.”

* * *

Gosh All Hemlocks!

Listen my children and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of a bucket of beer;
Up the street and down the line,
I’ve got the bucket; who’s got the dime?

* * *

“What’s Sauce for the Goose”

 A colored woman and her husband were conversing together
when the latter happened to express curiosity as to the meaning of
the word “propaganda” which he was constantly running across in
the newspapers.
“Well,” said his wife, “ah is not sure, but ah thinks ah know what
propaganda is. F’r instance, wif mah fust husband ah had one chile,
and two wif mah second. You’re mah third husband an’ we hain’t got
none at all. Now, I’m the propah goose, but you ain’t the
propahganda.”
 Whiz Bang Editorials
“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”

Is the theater becoming immoral? The majority of critics claim it

is. The WHIZ BANG disagrees on this point. We claim the motion
picture development has stopped the sporadic growth of suggestive
plays on the legitimate stage.
The immoral, or at least suggestive plays made their first
appearance in any large number twenty years ago. Witness “Three
Weeks,” “Sappho,” “Du Barry,” and others, and still today you will
find these plays in oblivion. Together with them, the women who
starred in such plays are almost unheard of today. Most prominent
among these is Olga Nethersole.
She was an English governess in the ’80’s and startled London
with her portrayals of “The Transgressor,” “Magda” and other
productions of like character.
Twenty years ago Miss Nethersole shocked two continents with
her “Sappho Kiss.” She always maintained that playing the parts of
these easy women would “make” her. Witness her interview of more
than five years ago, in which she is quoted as having said:
“People have not understood that I chose to play prostitutes
because I have felt it my work to aid the world by showing the
suffering in it. If I felt that I had not been chosen for this task I
should never have given my life to it.
“Do you know the story of Alexander Dumas, the younger? He
was an illegitimate son, whose father refused to wed his mother.
Thereupon the son gave up his life to the cause of woman and wrote
his plays with the suffering of woman uppermost. ‘Camille’ will live
forever.
“I have felt that if I could show the suffering and the misery that
illicit passion causes I could do something for the world, could point
a way toward removing the evil.”
And today, Olga Nethersole’s prediction has fallen flat. Her name,
or the names of her mimics, no longer are blazoned on the electric
signs of Broadway. Olga Nethersole, and the principle for which she
stood, are in oblivion.

* * *

This is the era of keepers, too. Our collective national appetite has
been entrusted to the keeping of four Bills. I refer to Bill Bryan, Billy
Sunday, Bill Anderson of the Antisaloon League and Billy-Be-
Damned. Those of us who once owned thirsts rapidly are becoming
reconciled to the prospect of seeing about every other man in this
country established in the role of his brother’s keeper—not his
barkeeper, perish the thought—but the sort of keeper who keeps his
charges locked up in an iron barred cage and whacks them across
the nose with a steel rod of sumptuary discipline should they
manifest a desire once in a while to indulge in a little personal
liberty.
It has become the custom for many police departments to resort
to underhanded methods in obtaining evidence wherewith to bring
guilty persons to trial for certain offences, the plan adopted being
the employment of what is commonly known as “stool pigeons”—go-
betweens who act in direct conjunction with the police. Concerning
those who allow themselves to be so employed there is little to be
said other than that they are not fit for decent society. It is a
sneaking way of securing a living and those who lend themselves to
it ought to be ostracized by citizens who believe in conforming to the
ordinary decencies of life.

* * *
 Moral reformers are altogether too ambitious. They want to
abolish vice but they cannot do it. Vice is not crime, although the
two things are often confounded. The word “vice” literally means a
fault or error. A crime is a deliberate violation of the law of God or
man.
Why should we be so serious and so violent in our attitude toward
human vice? The root of the evil is in the weakness or wickedness of
human nature. What is needed is to invigorate humanity with that
moral strength which resists the inroads of vice. There are periods in
the history of every nation when certain forms of vice are
particularly flagrant. This was so when civilized Greece had lost her
pristine manliness. It was so when pagan Rome was near her fall. It
was so, unhappily, in England in the nineties of the last century,
which saw the popularity of such literary and artistic decadents as
Oscar Wilde and Aubrey Beardsley. Wise reformers will not ever
deceive themselves by thinking that they can eradicate vice. They
will try to lessen vice by moral suasion and by removing the
economic causes which are the promoters of evil living. To put
wretched people into jail is not the best way to reform them. It is
better to make them see that a life of virtue pays better than a life
of vice. This may be a low utilitarian standard, but it will appeal to
those who are altogether guided by considerations of profit or loss.

* * *

The alimentary canal of the business world needs a physic. It’s the
same in business as with the human system, when things get
clogged. We’ve been gorging the system of the business world until
its tripe needs scraping. We’ve kept the hopper too full for a healthy
elimination, and we need calomel and rhubarb for a change. Capital
has allowed its cormorant-like propensities to assume the
proportions of a boa constrictor in trying to swallow not only the calf
but the whole herd. Labor, following closely in the wake of capital
and profiting by its example, has pulled the bridle off of the horse
and started it down the road of reason for a head-on collision with
the captain of industry, who is stepping on the tail of his big
Packard, and both will be injured. Cornering the earth and setting
the price of all things required for man’s welfare has come home to
roost in demands for wages double and treble what they used to be,
and both capital and labor must be purged of this overload on the
liver of righteousness or the undertaker will have an unusually
thriving business very soon.
The tendency of present-day writers and authors of fiction stories
to deal in suggestiveness is perhaps explained in the popularity of
the magazines which cater to these outpourings. Gouverneur Morris
is one of these, and who can say that Mr. Morris is not one of the
foremost writers of the day? In his latest masterpiece, “The Wild
Goose,” which appeared recently in Hearst’s, he writes, for instance:
One of the shoulder-straps of her night-gown had slipped so that
Diana’s left breast was almost wholly bare. At her husband’s next
words she hastily pulled the night-gown back into place, as she
might have done if he had stepped suddenly into view.
“I could crawl to you on my hands and knees,” he said, “if I could
lay my head on your breast just one little moment.”
“Frank,” she exclaimed, “I am so sorry! But please, please—this is
no time to discuss what’s been and gone and happened. Do go back
to bed.... Count the sheep going over the hurdle.... Don’t you know
I’d do anything—anything—anything—except the things I can’t
do?...”
There was a long silence. Then the man spoke again.
“Do have pity,” he said, “for Christ’s sake!”

* * *

Then we have Arthur Somers Roche who quite often reveals much
truth in his fiction. Writing recently in the Cosmopolitan, Roche,
perhaps unconsciously, reveals a time-worn trick of the woman of
the street in “working” a male victim. He writes:
 The difficulty with the Waiters’ Union had resulted in the engaging
of girls as waitresses at the Central. An extremely pretty girl had just
served Mr. Dabney with something. Inspiration had come to him as
he started to tip her.
“Worth just fifty cents, m’dear, if I put it in your hand. Worth five
dollars if I put it in your stocking. What say?”
The waitress essayed coyness, but failed in her endeavor. Five
dollars was five dollars. She turned slightly to one side; her skirt was
raised; into her stocking-top Dabney slipped the five-dollar bill.
No invention of modern history has ever been acclaimed with the
enthusiasm that greeted Mr. Dabney’s strikingly original idea. There
was a yell from Mr. Ladd’s table; as explanation shot about the room,
hilarity reached its highest pitch. Immediately a dozen girls stood
close to tables, while unsteady hands that held bills fumbled at the
tops of stockings.

* * *

Mary, Mary, quite contrary,

How did your brewing do?
It has the smell, and kicks like hell,
But tastes like rotten glue.

* * *

Pass Her a Palm Fan

“What sort of tree is that?” queried a Chicago girl, touring
California.
“Fig tree,” replied her escort.
“My goodness, I thought the leaves were larger.”
 * * *

A. W. O. L. means, according to officers who ought to know, “After

Women Or Liquor.” Usually it’s both.
 Smokehouse Poetry

The Passing of Old Smokehouse

When memory keeps me company and moves to smiles or

tears,
A weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years,
Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more,
And hurrying feet a path had made, straight to its swinging
door.
Its architecture was a type of simple classic art,
But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part;
And oft the passing traveler drove slow and heaved a sigh
To see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.

We had our posey garden that the women loved so well.

I loved it, too, but better still I loved the stronger smell
That filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer,
And told the night-o’ertaken tramp that human life was near.
On lazy August afternoons it made a little bower,
Delighted, where my grandsire sat and whiled away an hour.
For there the summer morning its very cares entwined,
And berry bushes reddened in the steaming soil behind.

* * *

Poor Girlie
My parents told me not to smoke;
I don’t.
Nor listen to a naughty joke;
I don’t.
They told me it was wrong to wink
At handsome men, or even think
About intoxicating drink;
I don’t.

To dance or flirt was very wrong;

I don’t.
Wild girls chase men and wine and song;
I don’t.
I kiss no men, not even one—
In fact, I don’t know how it’s done;
You wouldn’t think I have much fun—
I don’t.

* * *

Hunting the Wily Pole Cat

(As told by a French-Canadian).
I’m hunt de bear, I’m hunt de rat
Sometimes I’m hunt de cat;
Las week I’m tak ma ax an go
To hunt de skunk pole cat.

Ma fren Bill says hees ver good fur,

Same time good for eat,
So I tell ma wife, “I get fur coat
Same time get some meat.”

I walk, one, two, three, four mile.

I feel one awful smell—
I theenk that skunk hees gone and died
And fur coat’s gone to hal.

Bime-by I get up ver ver close,

I raise ma ax up high—
Dat gaddum skunk he up and plunk,
Trow something in ma eye.

Sacre blu; I tink ahm blin—

Gee Cri! Ah cannot see,
Ah run aroun and roun and roun
Till bump in gaddum tree.

Bime-bye I drop de ax
An light out for de shack
I tink about a milyun skunk
Hees climb upon ma back.

Ma wife she meet me at de door,

She sick on me de dog,
She say, “You no sleep here tonight,
Go out and sleep wit hog.”

I try to get in hog pen,

G Ci h t ti k
 Gee Cri, now what you tink,
Dat gaddum hog no stan for dat
On count of awful stink.

So I no hunt de skunk no more

To get hees fur and meat;
For if hees breath he smell so bad,
Gee Cri! what if he speet.

* * *

The Girl with the Blue Velvet Band