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