Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. III. No. 32, April, 1922

The Winter Annual

(See inside back cover)

CONTENTS

[1]

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang

America’s Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy

APRIL, 1922 Vol. III. No. 32

Published Monthly W. H. Fawcett, at Robbinsdale, Minnesota

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

Price 25 cents $2.50 per year ONE DOLLAR FOR THE WINTER ANNUAL

Contents of this magazine are copyrighted. Republication of any part permitted when properly credited to Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang.

[2]

“We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is loyalty to the American people.”—Theodore Roosevelt.

Copyright 1922 By W. H. Fawcett

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang employs no solicitors. Subscriptions may be received only at authorized news stands or by direct mail to Robbinsdale. We join in no clubbing offers, nor do we give premiums. Two-fifty a year in advance.

Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated to the fighting forces of the United States

[3]

Drippings From the Fawcett

Readers of this little bundle of farm-yard foolishness and filosophy may have gotten a kick out of some of our jabs at the movie colony that hangs out at Hollywood—on the Pacific Coast near Los Anglaise.

There are estimated to be about 30,000 people engaged in the motion picture industry in Hollywood and environs. Out of this crew there are a lot of lame-brains, a goodly sprinkling of nincompoops, who flaunt their peccadillos with a too-apparent wish to have them noticed and press-agented. They wear brass-band clothes, ride around in noisy cars with license tags like “Fatty” Arbuckle’s “606,” and live noisy lives.

By the very nature of their employment they are in the public eye and everything they do comes under the public’s microscope. Every move they make is published to the eager world by their zealous press agents. A home-brew party in a bungalow comes forth a “Neroesque orgy in a mansion,” as Waldemar Young put it. And yet, goodness knows, they probably have enough of the real kind—and we envy them.

[4]

However, what are we coming to, is that the noisy movie people have their prototypes everywhere in society and its numerous substrata, and we for one are not going to make any scavenger’s holiday out of the William Desmond Taylor murder mess in Los Angeles.

Taylor appears to have been an artist of high calibre—hard-working, earnest, capable and a gentleman. But he permitted himself to be murdered—and he was a movie director. Consequently the public immediately put Taylor on trial. They dragged his name through the mud, swishing, swashing. Having put Taylor on trial, it was found that he had taken a stage name—a common thing in the movie and the fight game. But when a man gets murdered he ought to be more careful.

Man of mystery, “Dual life.” Perhaps yes and perhaps no.

But a lot of buncombe, any way you look at is—Imbecilic, puerile. That’s what we think of the campaign of calumny against the motion picture colony growing out of the Taylor murder.

The other day we read a statement from Frank Mayo, a movie actor, who burst out with this denunciation: “The Hollywood film colony is a pernicious influence. [5]Scatter it, abolish it, burn it up—I say.” Mayo ought to be ashamed of himself. We might just as sensibly orate Robbinsdale—burn it up, scatter red pepper in every front yard and squirt formaldehyde through every key-hole. Somebody tried to rob the Robbinsdale bank and got killed at it.

As we have hereinbefore set forth, there are a lot of tramps in Hollywood—just as there are a lot of undesirables in Robbinsdale, in Minneapolis, in Chicago. And there are just as many honest, decent men and women in the picture business as in the ranks of the sanctimonious reformers, even if they do not go around mouthing the scavenger’s chant “I am holier than thou.”

If Mayo had said: “Run out the undesirables,” we might have joined with him in a hearty “amen.” But it is childish and surely unfair to damn the good with the bad.

The mayor of Los Angeles insists that the actresses and actors of Hollywood are fine citizens, good neighbors and respectable ladies and gentlemen. Adolph Zukor, who is head of the Famous Players, declares: “There is no more immorality in Hollywood than in the New York Stock Exchange”—not much of a boost for Hollywood but a powerful statement just the same.

[6]

Finally, you find Hobart Bosworth throwing the responsibility squarely in the faces of an audience that listened to him: “You think that we of the motion picture world are rotten. Through the confessions of the box office we know that you, the public, are rotten.”

Mayo’s statement is not true. The man who agrees with him has forgotten that things exist because certain definite forces have brought them into being—and Hollywood, even though rotten to the core, burnt up or scattered would arise again somewhere else. The mayor of Los Angeles spoke half the truth, at least. The motion picture people are folk like all the rest. Bosworth is blind. He is angry when he should be sympathetic, despising when he should be greatly moved by the pathos of the spectacle.

If there is weakness in the movie picture colonies the imperfections are not the result of viciousness and immorality in the public that Bosworth calls “rotten.” It is the effect of loneliness and frustrated hopes that sends the starved ones to the movies. It is no small thing in each human being—that longing for beauty and the allurements of wealth, love and triumph. But the sum of all this longing combined and packed into the streams that flow toward Hollywood is stupendously powerful.

It makes life what it is in the motion pictures, brings out the noise in those who have not had proper advantages and makes puppets [7]of men and women who ought to be just “plain folk” and ruins their lives.

But so far as William Desmond Taylor is concerned—We are unable to see that the movies made a puppet out of him. He was in life respected by his associates—a leader, a man of ideals. And that is why the little old Whiz Banger refuses to be stampeded with the gang that is burrowing in the Hollywood garbage can, seeking delicacies of juicy, ripe dirt to twist their long tongues around.

We’ve heard the story of the lions and the lionesses, tigers and tigresses, and bears and bear cubs, but not until we became a guest on board the U. S. S. Niagara in Havana harbor of Lieutenants Parsons and Faga did we really discover the superintelligence of wild animals. The first member of the crew we met was a jovial gob, Jack Sellers, who introduced us to his Pride and Joy, the mascot, a big black bear.

“This bear is very intelligent,” vouchsafed Sellers. “You know we sailors sleep in hammocks on the decks. In the middle of the night when the bear gets cold he sneaks around and steals blankets off the sleeping gobs. He carries the blankets to a secluded spot on the ship and piles them evenly, one on top of the other, until he gets forty or fifty. He then retires for [8]a comfortable nap on his downy bed. When the gobs are awakened from the chill and find their blankets missing they immediately search for Bruin. Would you believe it, that bear won’t let any jackie take his bedding until he first smells him and then sniffs at the pile of blankets? When he finds the rightful owner he pulls out his blanket from the pile and gives it to him.”

Woof! Woof! Woof!

A New York poet who knows the yearnings of a demi-virgin’s heart gave this verse the title “Naughty—But Nice,” a plagiarized version of an original poem under that title which was published in an early issue of the Whiz Bang and the Whiz Bang Winter Annual. The New York Times, in publishing this verse, believes a more fitting title would be:

It Can’t Be Done

[9]

“Dear Billy,” writes Chris Corey, a Minneapolis pill pusher, “You are always writing jokes about other tradesmen but nothing about we druggists. Now, you know we all handle the Whiz Bang and are great boosters for it, so please give us a joke about the pill pounders.”

All right, Chris, here’s one, having to do with your recent convention of druggists in Minneapolis—The chairman rapped with his gavel, “You are out of order, sir!”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Chairman,” responded the speaker, “I never felt better in my life.”

They have a new way of catching whitefish at Breezy Point in the winter months. The fisherman repairs to the frozen over river with a hammer, a saw and a can of peas. He cuts a hole in the ice, sprinkles the peas around the edge of the hole and when the fish comes up to take a bite he hits him over the head with the hammer.

Americans in Cuba for the most part are strictly business. I hadn’t been in Havana twenty-four hours until fellow citizens tried to sell me the Malecon; Morro Castle; the Almendares; a boneless elephant; some finless fish; fiddlers’ soup; and a throatless frog. I’ll tell you our brother Americans in Cuba are great for business.

[10]

“Humor”

The following is a vivacious little conceit, entitled “Humor,” culled from Laura Benet’s “Fairy Bread.” (Thomas Seltzer.)

Turn ’im Loose, Judge!

Judge—Are you guilty or not guilty?

Prisoner—I was going to plead guilty, yer honor, but my lawyer has convinced me that I am innocent.

[11]

The Boys in the Back Room

“Vat will you haf?”

“Vat haf you got?”

“Ve haf some nice ha’f and ha’f.”

“You haf? Ha’f vat and ha’f vat?”

“Ha’f ha’f of vun per cent dark and ha’f ha’f of vun per cent light.”

“Vell, I think I’ll haf to haf a seegar.”

“Maud kicked the bucket,” said Gus, as he sadly surveyed the spilt milk.

Sob Stuff

Dear Capt. Billy Fairfax—I’m on a visit from the East. Fell in love with a Western girl. For the past six months I have been faithful to her, I thought my love was returned and never looked at anyone else. Took her around the country some and to different places of amusement. Finally on a beautiful moonlight night I took her in my arms. Oh, my, I can see her now—her beautiful face, Oh, those eyes, those nose, those mouth, those beautiful hair.

I kissed her and she closed her beautiful eyes. She was happy I thought. Things went on fine but as I had not been in the town long I didn’t know much of what had been going on. Then to my sorrow I found there was someone else, a guy with a super-six and a tin ear. I was broken-hearted, she had lied, used me for a fool. Then this shy, modest thing I had trusted crushed me by telling others she had never cared for me and also laughingly told them of my lovesick talk. What do you think of that for honor and decency? She continues to talk and my life is a miserable affair.

Please advise me what to do, because if my wife ever hears what this girl has to say she’ll “raise ’ell.”—Pete Olson.

[12]

Iowa Frivol Pulls This One

An optimist is a man going up the river with a canoe, a girl, a basket, a blanket and a couple of pillows.

A pessimist is the same man coming back.

She was so bow-legged she could wear a pair of parenthesis for stockings!

The Height of Ambition

I sure got a fine job since I came out of the Army.

What’s that.

Well, you know the fellow that hammers underneath the passenger cars, well, I help him listen.

Ancient Stuff

El—“What did you give the baby when it was christened?”

Ella—“A silver spoon.”

El—“Was it a good one?”

Ella—“I’ll say it was. It had ‘Blackstone Hotel’ on it.”

Ikenstein—“Your new stenographer iss a beaut. Can she spell?”

Rubenstein—“Vat hass that to do vid it?”

Speaking of stingy people, I knew a fellow that had two teeth extracted and then wanted the price of his board reduced.

[13]

Hollywood Flirtations

(The following item was written a few days before the tragic death of Mr. Taylor. Miss Normand at this time is reported the last known visitor to Mr. Taylor’s apartment before the slaying.)

Mabel Normand is tripping the light fantastic at the Cocoanut Grove very often. Sometimes it’s William D. Taylor, Lasky director, and we also hear that Mack Sennett gave her a wonderful birthday party and many presents. When the girls get Mabel to talk in the seclusion of her own boudoir, the sly gal brings out a little bag just dangling full of nice diamond solitaire engagement rings. When she gets a new one she gives the bag a toss and giggles! That’s how seriously Mabel takes this matrimony stuff!

An ironic fact has put May Collins into the very dressing room at the Mayer studio formerly occupied by Mildred Harris. May, you know, has been often reported as engaged to Charlie Chaplin, Mildred’s noted ex. Miss Collins, it is said, found a picture of Charlie in a remote drawer of the dresser, wiped off the dust and stuck it in the mirror for her own perusal!

[14]

Bebe Daniels’ grandmother, her mother and Jack Dempsey all deny that Bebe and Jack are to wed. Reporters have even interviewed the family cat on the subject, but the news tip has fallen flat all around!

And, speaking of Charlie Chaplin, his leading lady, Edna Purviance (who was one of Charlie’s early loves as well) is reported engaged to Paul Hunter, wealthy business man and polo player of Pasadena.

Lucille Carlisle again will be leading lady for Larry Semon. She formerly was engaged to marry Semon, but suddenly the engagement was declared off; she left the studio and nothing had been heard of her for several months. Now it appears that all is again sweetness and light between Miss Carlisle and the comedian.

Whiz Bang will soon invade a new territory. We believe that the Laguna Beach and La Jolla artist colonies have been too long neglected in our zeal to disclose those little personal affairs out in Hollywood. While fair and winsome Hollywood nobly tows a few barges of stuff, Whiz Bang’s astute investigators have discovered naughty Laguna Beach doing just terrible things and getting away with it because there are four hours of muddy automobile road away from any sort of [15]town. La Jolla has this week confirmed some of our suspicions in the bathing suit marriage which took place when Del Carmen and Sarah Andrews plighted their serious (?) troth in the trough of the ocean. Artist like, they just wanted to be “different.”

Of course you wouldn’t think an artist who paints with a brush could be as lowbrow as those Hollywood actors, but you just ought to be in on some of the parties staged down at sneaky little Laguna Beach. An artist colony (many of them people of national reputation, too), resides there permanently in a little world of their own. Judging from several little Bohemian affairs visited by Whiz Bang’s official chaperone, we would judge that everyone’s in love with best friend’s wife, and best friend doesn’t even care! Sandals, and loose sloppy clothes and no haircuts usually travel with freedom of thought. That’s why it’s hard to believe that some of Hollywood’s most athletic, healthiest, best groomed and best clothed actors are steeped in sin!

The Hollywood Chamber of Commerce and the Motion Picture Producers’ Association have just joined forces to combat magazine and newspaper propaganda tending to paint Hollywood as a modern Babylon. Whiz Bang suggests the simple expedient of throwing loads of mud at somebody else (perhaps Laguna or La Jolla), thus diverting the scandal hungry [16]eyes of the nation away from Hollywood long enough to pull a few more good parties.

Charlie Chaplin and Douglas Gerrard gave a lovely dinner party in honor of Mme. Anna Pavlowa, husband and company on their recent visit to Los Angeles. This year’s party was drier than the last, but Douglas, we haven’t forgotten that party you gave in Anna’s honor about two years ago! The Wilshire district and Los Angeles “upper ten” gave a smart tea in the afternoon at the residence of a well-known society woman. Everyone in society was there and poor Anna shook hands and said polite things until her patience was almost at an end. So, when Douglas’ party was pulled off that evening ’tis said Anna cut loose, enjoyed a lot of naughty stories and vowed she preferred Bohemians! You know Douglas can tell ’em, too!

It was only two weeks ago that we thought we saw Mabel Normand dancing at the Cocoanut Grove with F. Richard Jones; chief director under Mack Sennett, but Mabel “bawled” out a morning sheet for insinuating such a thing, so maybe it isn’t true! Anyhow, Mrs. F. Richard has just filed suit for divorce. She asks $1,000 a month alimony, claiming hubby earns $100,000 a year. Mutual jealousy seems to have caused the break-up.

[17]

“Billie” Rhodes, comedy star of picturedom, has filed a divorce action against William Jobelmann, a theater publicity man. She charges he drank, even stealing a bottle from her own private stock to appease his desire. This, says Billie, capped the climax and she asks her freedom.

Mrs. Thelma Morgan Goetz, pretty English actress, has just divorced Ronald Goetz, formerly a captain in the English army. They are both members of Hollywood’s film colony. “He made a wonderful lover,” complained the wife, “but not a good husband. He wanted his fling—he craved variety.”

Paramount opened its Wilshire district studio just recently. Was it for this reason that the Los Angeles police department found it necessary to open a Wilshire station the same day?

When a woman puckers up her lips to be kissed she is just setting her trap.

“Youth must have its fling,” said the Scotchman, as he started his bag-pipe working.

[18]

Torch’s Best One

She (to fair friend)—“I’m not going with Bill any more.”

Fair Friend—“Why not?”

She—“He knows too many naughty songs.”

Fair Friend—“Does he sing them?”

She—“No, but he’s always whistling them.”

Song of the Tire Chain

Girls may smoke. However, the correct way to light a match still remains a man’s privilege.

In Valparaiso

Why so sad, Diogenes?

I was going up College Avenue looking for an honest man, and, alas, someone stole my lantern.

“That pianist sure claws a mean batch of ivories.”

“Yeh, he sure beats a nasty can!”

“Now do be sure to come and see us soon, won’t you?”

“Yes, we will. We’ll call on you the first time we go slumming.”

[19]

Soliloquy of a Hooch-hound

When my soul becomes clogged with evil deeds, my mind and conscience inundated with hideous hallucinations, and my heart dry and acrid with the pain of living, I imbue my soul, my heart, my mind with King Alcohol.

Then, as the morning breeze dissipates the fog, the kindly King cleanses my soul; as the sun dries and purifies the stagnant swamp, so Alcohol transforms the morass of my mind into a verdant meadow; as the spring rains change the desolation of winter into flowers and grain, so my lord and master changes the cynical, skeptical desert of my heart into an oasis of compassion and philanthropy.

That’s why I drink.

The Diff’unce

Special For the Clergy

“Father,” explained the visitor to the priest, “I ask penance for the sin of bootlegging.”

Father Kelly was puzzled and telephoned the superior father for advice.

“What shall I give a bootlegger, Very Reverend Sir?” the priest inquired.

“Don’t give him more than five dollars,” came the answer. “That’s all I ever pay.”

[20]

London Post Toastie

“Oh, what a naughty little boy,” cried the kind lady, “to beat and kick his poor mother like that!”

“Take no notice of the choild at all,” responded the proud mother. “Bliss his little heart, he must do everything he sees his father do!”

Lodge Notice

The Bootleggers’ Benevolent Association of America.

Meets every Thirsty night at Wood-Alco Hall. At our next meeting the following officers will be installed:

F. U. Selloyl, High Muck-a-Muck of the Mash.

I. Rob. Sellers, Bearer of the Boot.

Formal D. Hyde, Lord of the Leg.

R. Ott Gutt, Licker of the Labels and Seals.