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CAPT BILLY'S WHIZ BANG, FEB 1921 ***




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Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. II. No. 17, February, 1921




_Moe Thompson’s Masterpiece_


I went to see my girl one night;
For her love I was seeking,
I missed her mouth and kissed her nose;
The gosh darn thing was leaking.

—_Whiz Bang Bill._




_Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang_

[Illustration]

OUR MOTTO:
“_Make It Snappy_”

February, 1921 Vol. II. No. 17

Published Monthly by
W. H. Fawcett,
Rural Route No. 2
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota

Entered as second-class matter May 1, 1920, at the post office at
Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the Act of March 3, 1879.

_Price 25 cents_ _$2.50 per year_

“_We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is
loyalty to the American People._”—_Theodore Roosevelt._

Copyright 1921
By W. H. Fawcett

[Illustration]

_Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated
to the fighting forces of the United States._




_Drippings from the Fawcett_

By CAPTAIN BILLY


Along about the first of September last year, my cellar supply gave out
and on the second day I had a look of languor like a homesick bum. Then
it was that I met my old “Turk” friend, Casey, who immediately shanghaied
me while he was cockeyed on a mixture of fusel oil, barbed wire,
turpentine, tuba, rotgut, red-eye, wood alcohol, ether and dynamite. In
fact, his mixture would make the Dove of Peace challenge the American
Eagle to mortal combat.

Casey is a vagrant minstrel of human interest and I was only too glad to
accept of an invitation to join him at his country home in Golden Valley.
But here it is necessary to explain that Golden Valley is different than
most communities in these good old dry United States. In Golden Valley it
doesn’t appear to be necessary to distill the corn. Nearly every shock
contains its gallon jug hidden away in the darkened recesses. The farmers
merely leave the empty receptacle and come back later to find it has been
mysteriously filled.

Well, friends and fellow-countrymen, Casey and I surely worked hard
that night in the corn fields and about the last thing I can remember
was Casey mumbling a story about a colored family in St. Paul named
Henderson—man, wife and two grown daughters, who had been suspected of
bootlegging for some time.

“There is also a coon in St. Paul named Johnson,” Casey explained, “who
got very drunk and was placed under arrest.”

To the police judge’s inquiry as to how and where he obtained the liquor,
the negro replied:

“I found it in a corn-field, your honor.”

“Did you ever get anything from Henderson?” asked the magistrate.

“No, sah. Nevah got nothin’ from him.”

“From Mrs. Henderson?”

“No, sah, not from Mrs. Henderson.”

“Nor from Miss Henderson?”

“Jes’ a minute, jedge—is you’ all still talkin’ ’bout booze?”

* * * * *

New Year’s morning, bright and early, Gus, the hired man, wanted to start
off right, so he whispered to my 8-year-old son to go and find something
with whiskey in it. The lad, in boyish innocence, replied: “Just a
minute, Gus, an’ I’ll go and wake up father.”

* * * * *

I remember the only time I ever was in New York. I was still a
commissioned officer in the army and had registered at a Broadway hotel
as “Captain Gunn.” I immediately got loaded; dreamed I was discharged and
awakened to find myself shot to the devil. My brother Harvey, who was a
buck private in the tank corps at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, met me at
the Marlborough hotel while he was A. W. O. Ling in New York. Evidently
on account of the lack of tanks in the tank corps, Harvey decided to
bring one back to Gettysburg. And, believe me, boys, it was a mogul tank
he had when last I saw him. Of course, he’ll say the same about me—in
fact, he accused me of being so rash as to pat a colonel on the back in
the Pennsylvania depot with the salutation of “Hello, old trapper, this
is a heluva war.” But I really don’t believe I did anything of the kind.
At least I can’t remember having done so.

On the return to Camp Lee, I carried along a goodly supply of medicine.
Somehow or other, I managed to land in an upper berth and when I awoke in
Richmond next morning, my faithful satchel and contents were safely in
bed beside me. I cannot recall having ever awakened with a more pleasant
companion than that old grip. I carefully peeked through the curtains to
see if the coast was clear before partaking of a morning’s nip.

I shall always have a good word for New York. After all, our likes or
dislikes for a city depend entirely on how we enjoy ourselves and the
friends we are fortunate enough to meet. I was treated with a reckless
abandon and true western spirit of congeniality. At first, their language
was difficult to fathom, but later I became used to the lack of the
letter “R.” If it ever happens that Ford cars go up in price so I can
sell my 1915 model, I’ll surely sneak away from friend wife for a week or
two of bright lights and green witches.




_The Vampire’s Fool_


Hello, Tom! Glad to see you. What was that crowd I saw as I came aboard
ship? Looked to me like an accident. Suicide! Young Parmerly killed
himself, and for a woman!

_“A Fool there was, and he made his prayer,_
_Even as you and I,_
_To a rag, and a bone, and a hank of hair;_
_We called her the Woman who did not care,_
_But the Fool, he called her his Lady Fair—_
_Even as you and I.”_

Good God. Here I am back in New York, alone, alone; wife and child and
friends, all gone; disgraced, dishonored, and for that woman!

_“A Fool there was, and his goods he spent,_
_Even as you and I,_
_Honor, Faith, and a sure Intent;_
_But it wasn’t the least what the Lady meant,_
_And a Fool must follow his natural bent—_
_Even as you and I.”_

Age comes, the body withers, the brain grows dull, the blood becomes
thin, the soul grows weary; and the power to live, as once we lived, is
taken from us. We sit, white-haired, blue veined, drinking in the sun,
through shriveled pores, to drive the chill from our shrunken frame. It
will come to you, to me, to all of us, and neither man nor God may stop
it.

You, Tom, you here? Before you begin, let me tell you that it is useless;
nothing that you can say to me will change me in the slightest; I’ve made
up my mind and my decision is unalterable. Gone, gone! Tell me what you
think, Tom; tell me what every one thinks; put into words the scorn and
contempt I see in every eye that looks into mine and every mirror that I
look into. Gone, gone! Tell me something of your own; tell me the things
that lie here and burn in my brain, and burn and burn, tell me something!
Alas, not that; I know that by heart! Don’t, Tom, don’t try to save me!
What is there left to save—nothing but memories, nightmares!

I drink to you, gentlemen; I drink to you, Parmerly; I drink to you,
Rogers, and to you, Van Dalm; I drink to you, even as you drink to me!
Bumpers, gentlemen, bumpers! Bumpers? Good God, what has come over me?
I thought from the beginning it was too late—the loss of honor, and
dignity, and manhood, and self-respect were all new to me, Tom, and I
couldn’t understand. I cursed myself and swore to God that I would not
become the thing I am. Look at me, The Honorable John Schuyler!

I prayed to God, Tom, but he didn’t help me. He didn’t, he didn’t; and
I couldn’t help myself. I tried, oh, I tried and tried, but it was no
use; there was something, I don’t know what it was! It was her eyes, Tom,
it was her eyes, and I couldn’t help myself. I tried to kill myself as
Parmerly did, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t, and the only forgetfulness lay
in drink.

Drink that sapped my strength and raised my veins, and shriveled up my
brain. Don’t hate me, Tom!

Pity me, for the love of God, pity me, pity me!

_“The Fool was stripped to his foolish hide,_
_Even as you and I,_
_Which she might have seen, as she threw him aside;_
_But it wasn’t on record the Lady tried,_
_So some of him lived—but the most of him died—_
_Even as you and I.”_

* * * * *

The Wrong Button

In a crowded omnibus a stout woman vainly endeavored to get her fare out
of the pocket of her cloak, which was tightly buttoned as a precaution
against pickpockets.

After she had been working in vain for some minutes, a gentleman seated
on her right said: “Please allow me to pay your fare.”

The lady declined and recommenced her attacks on the pocket.

After these had continued for some little time her fellow-passenger
said: “You really must let me pay your fare. You have already undone my
suspenders three times and I cannot stand it any longer.”

* * * * *

A woman is never so disappointed as when she asks a man to behave, and he
behaves.

* * * * *

“Oh, Dear, You Hurt”

Imagine the scene: A big, comfortable chair, a beautiful girl snuggled
down in it, her head leaned back so that she is looking up into the face
of the man who is bending so attentively over her.

Now he reaches his arm around her. Her head is pressed against his heart.
Speech at this time would be impossible.

Listen. We hear her struggled whisper: “Oh, dear, you hurt.” In a low,
earnest voice he says: “Well, I simply cannot help hurting you a little
bit. You don’t mind that, do you?”

Again we hear only silence. They seem perfectly contented.

It is not long, however, that they remain in this position. He does not
seem content with what he sees in her face.

Her eyes are a violet gray. He bends farther over so that he can see
into—well—see into her mouth.

Because, of course, it is the dentist repairing her teeth.

* * * * *

Perhaps He Was Lucky

The worried countenance of the bridegroom disturbed the best man.
Tiptoeing up the aisle, he whispered:

“What’s the matter, Jock? Hae ye lost the ring?”

“No,” blurted out the unhappy Jock, “the ring’s safe eno’. But, mon, I’ve
lost ma enthusiasm.”

* * * * *

It’s a sure sign of being in love if you shave twice.




_Movie-Land Gossip_

_Editor’s Note: In the March issue, The Whiz Bang will publish
a story for girls with movie ambitions. The scene of the story,
which is true to life, is woven about the home of a well-known
Hollywood character, Prince Troubetskoy. The Prince ranks as
one of the greatest sculptors in the world and his California
home saw many a high jinx. Do not miss this story, which tells
of the system used by designing men in leading astray the
unwary._


Doug Fairbanks must darn his own socks at night for all anyone ever sees
of him. He used to strut about town with Bull Montana, Kid McCoy, Spike
Robinson and a bunch of other retainers proudly walking in his wake. But
Mary must be charming Doug in wondrous fashion. He did show up with Mary
at the Mission theatre opening and the two marched between packed borders
of humanity at the curb.

Mary looked contented and as proud as a queen. Fairbanks formerly
appeared rather sloppy, but, in severe evening dress, he impressed his
auditors very well indeed. Evidently the two to date have made a hit with
one another.

At this writing, Nevada had poked its official nose into the
Fairbanks-Pickford marriage again. It seems the solons are about to
decide something momentous, which no one gives a hang about. As Kitty
Shepherd said down at Hamburgers: “They’re married, ain’t they?”

Mary Thurman is said to have moved from the Beverly Hills hotel. Mary
seemed to be in the money for awhile. It costs to live at Beverly. A
pretty thing, Mary, but life is just one thing after another.

Let us give vent, brethren, to a long sigh of relief that Mildred Harris
Chaplin has ceased yapping for the moment at least. Or is it just some
temporary lull that goes before another wind or brainstorm?

Now that Charles is said to have kicked thru with one (or was it
$200,000?) Mildred appears to have fired her parting shot and retreated
to a mystic place from which she is scheduled some day to emerge with a
knock ’em dead voice.

Far be it from us to dispute with a talkative lady or enter into argument
regarding the merits or demerits of her case. But the public in Los
Angeles grew almost afraid to glance at a morning paper for fear that the
fair Mildred has broken loose again with a new brand of dope regarding
the elusive Charles.

Along about the time that stomach settlers were being called into use as
a result of the slush credited to the comedian’s storm and strife, people
began to reflect that, though many crimes had been charged against his
curly head, Chaplin himself remained cloistered in a cloud of silence so
far as mention of the fair Mildred was concerned.

Millie did all the talking, or at any event the sob brothers and sisters
placed her in that light. One minute she was calling Charles a tight-wad
and the next stating that she loved him. Just how a woman can love a man
and simultaneously inform the wide, wide world that he is a cheap skate
passeth understanding.

Several million or so perfectly good white columns of newspaper space
were spoiled with the most wanton brand of domestic prattle ever dished
out in a city already weary with the frothy doings of its ultra frothy
society.

Then Chaplin’s attorneys announced that if Mildred shut up and quit using
the Chaplin name that she could take a couple of hundred thousand shekels
and call it quits.

The worst thing Chaplin ever was heard to say about his wife hasn’t been
printed, probably for the reason that the bepestered young man didn’t
say it. Chaplin may be a cheap skate, a nickel counter, and own but two
automobiles, but his closest friend and most persistent interviewer never
drew from him a word against the unfortunate partner of his domestic woes.

Chaplin has admitted that he had no business getting married in the
first place. He declared frankly that he wasn’t made that way. He said
that marriage interfered with his work and many believe that his sudden
dropping from the pictures was done with the deliberate intention of not
returning to it until his bread had been buttered on the other side.

It was more a surprise to Chaplin’s friends that he married in the first
place than a shock at reports of trouble that sounded their fanfare thru
the newspapers. Everyone thought he’d marry Edna Purviance, if he married
at all; though Miss Purviance’s feelings in the matter may not have been
given due consideration or interrogation by the gossip mongers.

* * * * *

Mary had a Thomas cat,
It warbled like Caruso;
A neighbor swung a baseball bat—
Now Thomas doesn’t do so.

* * * * *

The Mystery of Mankind

On Christmas we noticed a lot of you angling around with your
tongue hanging out,

And tearfully beseeching everybody to point your ears toward a
place where they sell licker

Made out of barbed wire and red ink, with a touch of rat poison
thrown in to take the curse off,

And you were willing to divorce yourselves from a complete set
of a dozen dollars

For the privilege of assaulting your stomach with a bottle of
it.

And when you couldn’t get it you were as peeved as a hen that
tries to get results from a doorknob.

And you are the same lads who were whooping it up for pop and
ice water at election time.

And who said that Demon Rum had killed more people than the
doctors.

If you are a dry, why do you run yourselves bowlegged hunting
for unhealthy licker,

And if you believe another lil’ drink won’t do us any harm, why
do you vote the Sahara Desert ticket?

What’s the answer?

Darned if we know. We’re a Mick.




_High Life in South America_

_Reverend Golightly Morrill, veteran of many travels in sinful
climes, will tell of the wickedness of the West Indies in the
March issue of the WHIZ BANG, and how he, sophisticated as he
is, succumbed to the enticements of one of Eve’s daughters
with a tempting bowl. He describes his experience thusly:
“Hot courtesan that yields readily, that drinks and laughs,
that stains the cloth and the gown—the ribald orgy that shows
its foot and its leg, quick to snatch its stiletto from its
garter—” Read it in the next issue._—THE EDITOR.

By REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL

Pastor People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.


Buenos Aires, Argentina, and Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, have the dual
reputation of being the Sodom and Gomorrah of South America.

The theatres of Buenos Aires begin at 9 p.m., and the Devil’s Mission
opens at the same time. I followed some of his congregation to the
“Royal Theatre” and paid $1.50 gold to stand up in the back part of
the house behind a rail and look at some silly French films. They were
followed by the real entertainment which was opened by an American chorus
whose flat voices would have been high-priced at 25 cents admission. I
endured it in shameful silence, but the audience was “cynical,” and
by barks and obscene onomatopoeic sounds, instead of hisses, showed
its dissatisfaction. So far, this was but a prelude to the interlude
intermission when everybody adjourned to an upper and lower foyer where
the band played, the men and women marched and countermarched, flirted,
paired off and sat at the tables eating and drinking.

The “ladies” were especially friendly to me, alone and idly looking on.
They spotted me as a gringo, and in French, German and Spanish, Italian
and English said “Good evening,” asking me if I would not have a drink or
go out for a little walk. One coveted my scarab pin, thinking it would
make a nice breast-pin. I compromised with her on an American flag which
she proudly bore aloft. Another as unmindful of my calling as I was of
not standing “in the way of the ungodly,” chucked me under the chin and
said, “Hello, kiddo, how’s New York?”

This was the life or death I didn’t care to cultivate. I told them I
had no time or money to waste and that my wife was waiting for me to
help pack the trunk, since we were to sail in the morning. I returned
to my standing place to get my money’s worth of torture. It was over at
twelve, when I left. Hurrying to the hotel, I met the hotel runner. He
asked where I had been. “Everywhere,” I said, and told him. He laughingly
replied I was in the “wickedest city” in the world and hadn’t seen
anything. Then he proceeded to introduce me to the Red Lamp district
across the river, where the sailors are searched and relieved of their
arms; where the arms of the frail denizens relieve them of their money
by charging dollars for dime drinks; where blistering curses and kisses
echo through the darkened rooms; and where colored movies of human and
animal life are shown that would make the pornographic pictures of Paris
and Havana look like a Pilgrim’s Progress film.

Here are the painted women whose keen eyes stab, whose vampire lips
suck life blood, whose tresses are winding-sheets, and bodies graves in
which honor and purity are buried. Happier for them had they dressed in
a shroud, clasped hands with a leper and kissed a red-hot stove than to
have dressed, drunk and debauched as they did.

These midnight marauders seemed to think the stars were lit to lead them
on from shame to shame, while the truth is they sadly look down on souls
whose beating pulses live for a pleasure that murders time, health,
wealth, character and reputation.

They follow Satan as a guide, hypocrisy as a lawyer, impudence as an art,
pleasure as an object and damnation as their end. If their minds were
like matter and could show decay, they would smell like carrion. They
wear fine clothes and live in beautiful houses, but their minds are empty
and their souls in rags.

Religion has pleasure, but their pleasure was religion, and Cupid and
Bacchus their saints.

The fabled Greek Temple of Pleasure had a large doorway for entrance,
lights, music and lovely women within, but back of it all a wicket-gate
which opened into a pig-pen.

Thus, the end of vice is not satisfaction, but satiety, and the bacchanal
worshiper of what appeals only to his physical senses is thrust out
naked, ashamed and alone. Satan smiles, and hell is happy.

A dying king dreamed he would be met on the other shore by a beautiful
woman and led to a throne. Instead, he was welcomed by a horrible hag who
leered and laughed at him. When he recoiled and asked who she was, she
replied, “I am your sins and have come to live with you forever.”

Leaving this bare-breasted, forbidden fruit untasted, I bought some navel
oranges, and went to my hotel thankful that, if I had been led into
temptation, I had been delivered from evil.

The Devil’s calling cards he gives to visitors here, have B. A. after his
name, and it does not stand for “Bachelor of Arts,” although he has that
degree from several European and American universities. Last impressions
are first in mind. I had hoped that B. A. (Buenos Aires) would stand for
“Better Afterwards,” but just before the boat pulled out I found it meant
“Bad Always.”

A well dressed man sold my wife some pretty post cards, of the city, and
while she was looking at them he took me to one side, whispered “dirty
book” in my ear, and offered me something “nice” to read on the trip. I
read the title, “The Lustful Experiences of a Physician,” and refused
him, saying I was no doctor, didn’t intend to study for the profession,
or do anything that would make it necessary to contract for medical
services in advance. As the ship sailed out of the harbor I gazed
ruefully at this roué paradise of a city, repeating the lines of the poet,

“Farewell, dear, damned, distracted town;
Ye harlots live at ease.”

Oh, that last night in Rio de Janeiro. The city was brilliantly lighted
but we saw some shady places to make the picture complete. Passing by the
brightly lighted movie foyers, where the waiting crowd is furnished with
seats and music, instead of being log-jammed as they are in the United
States, I went down the Avenida through a public park. Its main gate
opened into a street, not filled with churches, libraries and museums,
but aristocratic “maisons de joie.”

There was a corner café with a score of well-dressed women sitting at the
tables, but no men. They seemed social as I passed by and beckoned me
in. When I went on they followed me with a loose collection of Spanish,
French, German and English oaths. That was the only way they could
follow, for there was a man on horseback at the street corner prepared
to run them in if they ventured out. It was eight o’clock, we were the
only ones on the street, and must have looked lorn and lonely, for in
every doorway stood a besilked, bediamoned, benighted beauty who looked
compassionately on and invited us to come in and make ourselves at home.

A long walk brought us to a kind of Leicester Square of many theatres.
Believing they were all equally good or bad, we entered one and saw and
heard a Portuguese comic opera. It was comical to see some of the red
light scenes we had just escaped, enacted on the stage. Again we went
out of the light into the night, passing through narrow streets of dives
brighter and blacker than any we had yet seen. This was the busiest place
in Rio. Although it was midnight, an unending stream of humanity poured


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