Volume 2 — Arthur Neale’s Page
Reading edition
I took my girl out last night, but when I tried to kiss her she smacked my face and carried on something terrible. When I got back to her house with her again I said: “Katie, what’d you want to lose your head for like that tonight?” She said: “Well, maybe I did lose my head. But I kept my reputation, thank God!”
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Something to Worry About
In the new Folies Bergere show, Paris, the girlies are clad entirely in paint, news dispatches state.
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“Are your feet insured?” I asked A dancing girl from France. No answer. Then she said at last: “It’s not that kind of dance.”
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In any newspaper you can find pictures of charming women underneath which it reads: “Miss So-and-So, 20 years of age.” (Why do those printers always leave out that word “was”?)
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As I was toying with the N. Y. Coffee Cake in the Times Square Automat the other day, I sighted an old friend I hadn’t seen for several years. I went up to him and said: “Why, Billy, where have you been keeping yourself all these years?” He said: “Well, early in 1914 I went to Paris to study art.” “Is that so?” I said; “and did you get far with your studies?” “Well,” he said, “it was like this. When I arrived there in June, 1914, we began by taking studies from the head. In July it was head and shoulders; and in August, in August that darned war started. Bad luck to the Germans!”
* * *
To make their dresses nowadays, Girls use a lot of cloth. But looks as if in future days, It’s hardship for the moth.
* * *
HE: “I’d be tickled to death to teach you to swim.”
SHE: “I’d be tickled to death if you did.”
* * *
I saw a statue yesterday, And on the quiet between us, I think it’s quite correct to say The lady’s name was Venus. Unveiled in such and such a year Was written at the base. But those who took the veil, ’twas clear, Did not again replace.
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If she has a past, she needn’t tell— The girl in a musical show. But if she possesses a birth-mark as well, It’s something the whole world will know.
* * *
They say that for a smart, wise lot of lads the New York hotel clerks are hard to beat. But not always. The other day I happened to be in the Astor lobby when a pair of young newlyweds came in from the street. The rice and confetti was still over them for all to see. The happy groom went up to the desk to register. In the course of the conversation I overheard this from the clerk: “Yes, sir; and do you want a room with twin beds?” Can you beat it!
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“To follow horses isn’t right,” My father always said. So what I follow every night Is chickens round instead.
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Reserved Seats
The Amorous One: Do you ever peep through the key-hole when I am sitting in there with your sister?
Small Brother: Sometimes. When mother ain’t there.
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Tasty Stuff
“His lips moved lazily over her face. ‘You taste so good,’ he sighed, and held her closer.”—From “This Side of Paradise.” There is a great difference in tastes, however. No person of discrimination would compare the taste of a sunkissed, flower scented maiden of the prairies with the flavor of a sootladen damsel from Pittsburgh or South Chicago.
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Musings of a Bachelor
Don’t kiss him with a snap; be coy about it. Don’t let him see the practice you’ve had.
Woman spends much time in thinking what she would do were she a man, while man spends much time knowing what he would do if he were a woman.
Some folk take pleasure in seeing that others have none.
A married man fell in a vat of moonshine mash and drowned, but the papers said he died in good spirits.
Love is an itching of the heart—a place where you can’t scratch.
Girls, you can always tell if a man really loves you. If he says, “I love you,” and drawls it out as if it hurt him, he’s silver plated goods. If he says it as if he were ordering a glass of beer, that shows he is sizing up your dad’s pocket book, but if he says “I love you,” and hugs as if he’d never let go, and flushes up like a lobster, nail him; he’s it.
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A Telephone Retort
“Operator, if you will give me this number I will give you a nice, sweet kiss.”
“Go to it, kid, I am standing on the receiver.”
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High Explosive
We have received a report of a New Orleans newspaperman who took a big swig of white mule hootch and then backed up against a bale of cotton and said: “Come on, big boy, let’s go!”