Volume 3 — Drippings From the Fawcett

Ye Editor is now touring these great and glorious United States in quest of the Famed Pedigreed Bull, and in this issue we are intending to give a wider variety as a result of our visits to the East, South and the golden West.

We had the pleasure of spending an afternoon at the New York studio as a personal guest of D. W. Griffith, in addition to peeping behind Broadway’s scenes, and at this writing we are “courting Satan” in the domain of Fatty Arbuckle et al., California’s movie camps.

If we seem to carry too much gossip in this issue from Hollywood and Los Angeles, please pardon us. We’ll be leaving soon for the deer hunting grounds in Minnesota, but in the meantime, of course, we will have to go to San Francisco, “The City of Health, Wealth and Beauty,” for first-hand information on Movieland’s latest and biggest sensation!

Well, Kind Readers, I woke up the other morning with a grouch and the reason for it is just this: Gus, the hired man, jumped his job and I had to do the morning chores myself. At that moment I could waft forth onto the silvery air the sweetest scent you ever scented. To make matters all the worse, one of the cows kicked over the milk pail when I was half through the job. She also added insult to injury by swishing her mucky old tail in my face.

But to get back to Gus. Really, I don’t think he played exactly fair. After he had enjoyed several aeroplane rides and a wonderful trip to New York and Atlantic City, he became obsessed with the idea that the sun rose and set in his face—that it was his bounden duty to hang up the moon and take down the sun each evening. Really, Fellow Soaks, I couldn’t get him even to feed the pet monkey which I gave him as a present for assumed faithfulness. Previously I had a confidential talk with him regarding a boat which was badly in need of a coat of white lead and tar. He became quite haughty at the idea that I should expect him to act as Indian guide and hired man at the same time, so he threw his hands in the air and yelled: “I’m through.” And I guess he is through, for the last time I saw him that morning he was spinning away to Minneapolis.

Right at this point, I must get somewhat confidential. My opinion of Gus is that he was lonesome for Robbinsdale—and its nearby suburb, Minneapolis. Breezy Point at Pequot, Minnesota, is thoroughly dry on account of its location in the Indian territory. When Gus is thirsty, he’s good and thirsty and it is my honest belief that some day in the future he’ll come back to the old homestead again.

Well, Gus, if you ever read these lines, Good Luck to you and God bless you—though I do feel like saying Gosh Darn you instead.

* * *

Every now and then it falls my lot to awaken with deep emotions of remorse. When the harvest of a misspent night has been reaped and garnered, the “morning after” invariably finds me with a sort of null and void feeling. Here I am in the old red barn of the Whiz Bang farm endeavoring to gather some fertile copy for the November issue. My poor, fatigued brain refuses to move to action. It is quite comparable to the brain of a univalve mollusk. I can find but one palliative for my purely personal woes and that is the twentieth amendment.

Oh, for the days of Omar Khayyam. His immortal Rubaiyat is a masterpiece for the “rounder.” Had he lived in this modern generation a different title would have graced his writings. We would probably be reading a booklet entitled “The Philosophy of An Old Sport,” or probably that short and sweet title, “Wine, Women and Song.” Whenever I feel like a fatuous fathead, a certain degree of relief always can be gained in perusing Omar’s bull. And so today, while I have a look of languor like a homesick bum, I am repeating herewith some of his verses which may find an appeal to “The old sport who sat in the grand stand chair.” Here they are:

* * *

“It won’t be long now,” insisted my new Jewish farm hand, Ikey, as he grabbed the axe this morning to cut the daily supply of wood.

* * *

We surely are getting lots of tourists in Minnesota this year. Just at the close of the hunting season we saw a pennant on the back of a Ford of the vintage of 1904 or 1905 which read “Clymer, Pa.”

* * *

Fishing season was brought to an eventful close at my summer resort, Breezy Point Lodge, in the Indian country of Northern Minnesota this month and now all we have to do is sit around all winter and recount experiences with the hook and line.

The day the season closed four of us boarded a raft and put out into Big Pelican Lake for a day’s angling. I had a very strong line and towards the close of the day was rewarded with a big bite from a Great Northern pike. The pike nearly ran away with the line, but the four of us held on and Mr. Fish pulled us almost to shore. When we reached shallow water we grabbed the line and made a half hitch around a tree while one of the party pumped the fish full of shotgun pellets. It was then we discovered that the fish had swallowed a young fawn and that the fawn, after being swallowed, kicked its legs through the belly of the fish, and thus the fish, when it reached shallow water, had been able to walk almost to shore. What was that you said? Yes, sure, make it Bourb’n!

* * *

This is a plea for fair play. Fatty Arbuckle at this writing hasn’t been convicted of any crime. Testimony by one of the prosecuting witnesses is claimed by the defense as showing Miss Rappe voluntarily entering what later proved to be her death chamber. We are not taking that as evidence to remove guilt or do we claim that it excuses Fatty for his alleged actions.

The “exposure” of Fatty’s past actions by daily newspapers ought not to be news to regular Whiz Bang readers. For more than a year we have “kidded” Fatty, in our “movie pages,” for his famous “pajama parties,” and dedicated the cover of our August, 1920, issue to Fatty’s “heart-breaking” playfulness in Hollywood.

A recent report to the Whiz Bang was to the effect that Mr. Arbuckle bought the Randolph Miner home on West Adams Street, Los Angeles, because it was supposed to hold a thirty thousand dollar cellar.

* * *

We are reminded, by an enthusiastic reader, of the old story of the man who walked into a Halstead Street saloon in Chicago and ordered Sherry and Egg.

“Bartender, if your Sherry was as old as your egg and your egg was as young as your Sherry, this would be a dang good drink.”

* * *

Deacon Miller, my long-haired neighbor, doesn’t approve of the aeroplane which I purchased recently any more than he does of my Whiz Bang. When our hired man told the Deacon about my purchase of the plane, old Miller grunted and snorted and said he wouldn’t own any fool thing that would fly and not lay any eggs.

* * *

We have it from the Seattle Post Intelligencer that the Justamere farm at Mount Vernon, Washington, is the home of Colony Zarilda Cornucopia, the only 33,000-pound pedigreed bull in the state. I’d hate to be the hired man that had to throw this bull every day.

* * *

My, my, my, what an agitation we have started over the definition of a “Whiffenpoof.” A Kansas reader avers that everybody is wrong so far; that a “Whiffenpoof” is a bird that eats red pepper and has to fly backwards to keep his tail from catching on fire.

* * *

Some young men seem to imagine that they are following the fashions when they are on the trail of a pretty girl.

* * *

My new hired man, Pete, hangs around the hog pen so much that he apparently has learned most of his manners from the animals. The other night we went to supper at neighbor Nelson’s place and our hired man tried to make a hit with Tillie, old man Nelson’s daughter. A few days later I asked Tillie how she liked Pete.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “At supper he acted like a pig and after supper he was such a bore.”

So I guess that ends Pete’s love affair so far as Tillie is concerned.

* * *

Well, boys, in conclusion I wish to cheer you up with the consolation that the Bible gives to the thirsty: “Blessed are the poor in spirit.”

* * *

Those Inquisitive Aussies

An Australian editor tells this story—

An old lady, at the conclusion of the war, was paying a visit to Madame Jarley’s Wax Works. Carefully sizing up a group of figures representing various ancient queens, including Queen Elizabeth and Mary Queen of Scots, she asked an attendant if they wore any underwear under this gorgeous raiment. The attendant replied:

“No, ma’am, they don’t wear any, but the public of course thinks they do. The only visitors we’ve ’ad as knows they don’t are some Australian soldiers.”

* * *

Hot Tamales

Two jolly traveling men viewed with unmingled pleasure the charms of a beautiful maiden who sat opposite them in the palatial Twentieth Century Limited. To their surprise and further happiness, the fair charmer suddenly removed her stockings, turned them inside out and replaced them, being careful to roll them stylishly to half-hose length. The drummers were quite worried as to why she went through this performance. Finally one of them screwed up courage enough to ask her point blank. Here’s her pert reply:

“Oh, my legs were hot and I just turned the hose on them.”

* * *

An Eye Opener

She was sweet seventeen and just emancipated from the thraldom of school, but already she had her “best boy,” who on some special occasion gave her a gold watch.

Some days later he inquired if she had told her friends of his little gift.

“Oh, yes,” she said “all of them.”

“Did you say who gave it to you?”

“Of course not,” replied the artless maiden. “We always gave one kiss for each chocolate at school. But for a gold watch! Well, I thought it best to say mamma gave it to me.”

* * *

Oh, scissors, let’s cut up.

* * *

Heard On the Toonerville

It was pitch dark along the road and had anybody been listening in the shrubbery they would have heard the voice of a woman remonstrating with a man. “I won’t,” exclaimed the woman, “I think you are a brute.”

“You’ll either do what I say or get out and walk home,” roared the deep voice of the man.

“All right, I’ll walk,” said the woman, “but wait till I tell my husband. I paid my fare and you rang it up just before we left the city limits,” and she indignantly left the street car.

* * *

Ring On, Oh Bells

Bright’s wife prided herself on being resourceful and after waiting in another room while her husband talked for half an hour with a gentleman in the parlor she turned the alarm clock so it rang a second and then called, “John, you are wanted on the phone.” The caller said good-bye and John came back to his wife with an amused smile. “Well, that’s one way to get rid of them,” said friend wife. “What did he want?” “Oh, nothing,” replied her husband, “he was just a solicitor trying to get me to have a telephone put in.”

* * *

For Freedom

Convict—“I’m here for having five wives.”

Visitor—“How are you enjoying your liberty?”