Judge, 1916-08-12 · page 12 of 28
Judge — August 12, 1916 — page 12: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains two distinct pieces of satire: **The Judge cartoon (top):** A speeding driver claims he wouldn't hit a child in a mud puddle at forty miles per hour—an absurd defense. The satire targets reckless drivers who make ridiculous excuses for dangerous behavior. **"Bungalow Thoughts" (main article):** A humorous essay about the disappointments of bungalow ownership. The satire targets early-20th-century middle-class aspirations: friends assume the modest home signals financial desperation; wives fill it with family castoffs; neighbors prove insufferable; city visitors condescendingly ask where the garage is. The piece mocks the gap between romantic ideals of "simple living" and rural authenticity versus suburban reality—a property deteriorates quickly, and renting with purchase option proves hollow. **"The Hoop Skirt" (bottom):** Brief commentary on fashion's cyclical nature, predicting hoop skirts' return while sardonically noting modern space constraints make them impractical. All three target contemporary middle-class pretensions and social anxieties.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Judge—The officer says you were going forty miles an hour! Chauffeur—Listen, Judge! The kid was playing in a mud-puddle ! Would I run into a thing like that at forty miles an hour,? BUNGALOW THOUGHTS By JJ. O'CONNELL T IS NICE to have your friends come out to visit you and I you are thankful for the break in the monotony until you happen to overhear them say that they are sure you merely rented the bungalow in order to cut down expenses. The cozy little den you planned out for yourself looks far from inviting after your wife has fitted it up with a bunch of rummage she has resurrected from the family garret. The pocket in a woman’s dress is a mystery, but when you are in a hurry and try to find something in the innumerable “s bungalow apron you are ready to swear e puzzle. Despite its drawbacks, bungalow life had its charms until that dreadful day when your wife found out that the other women owned more gowns than she did. Then it was either a new outfit for her, or move. No nightmare can compare with your state of mind when a sudden wind storm wakes you up in the wee sma’ hours, and as the shivers run up and down your back you begin to wonder if the old shack is as well spiked to the ground as the owner claimed. Since Shakespeare's day we have been asking ou “What's ina name?” But we never knew its true signi unti. the fashionable friends to whom we have been expatiating upon the beauties of our bungalow came to visit us, and after one look said in a tone of bored surprise: “Why, it’s only a cottag When you have made the painful discovery that your neigh- bors are not only uncongenial but utterly impossible, and you have settled it with yourself to make the best of it and treat them courteously for the sake of harmony, you realize it’s all off when you learn that your wife has already had a run-in with them. When you have invited a city friend down to look your bungalow over and you have waxed eloquent over the beauti of nature, the charm of the simple life and the inward joy of getting back to the soil, you feel your friendship for him is a case of misplaced confidence when he gives the place a rather dis- gusted look and asks in a patronizing way: * old top, but where's the garage for your car?” If you have a nervy relative who insists on the privilege of a key to your bungalow, you are sure to find him there ‘on the day you return from a long jaunt, tired and hungry, and it doesn’t improve matters for him to tell you that you have a grouch when you discover that he has eaten up all the good things in the ice-box. Things are not what they seem in this world, espe bungalows. The structure looked all right when you saw it first, but after living in it a while you see that it was merely put up to sell. As you watch it deteriorate from day to day you congratulate yourself that you only rented it, with the privilege of purchase. ‘Then you smile softly to yourself and wonder how the owner ever had the nerve io refer to that proceeding as a privilege. THE HOOP SKIRT HE hoop skirt appears to be coming—or floating—in. Ina short time it will be covering a multitude of shins. The hoop skirt is shaped not unlike a circular tent sus- pended, however, from the top instead of the bottom. Space is much more valuable than it was when the hoop skirt was fashionable before. Science also has made strides. If the hoop skirt is to be a success, science should provide means to make it fashionable. A woman with a hoop skirt should be able to touch 2 but- ton and have it collapse. When she gets beyond the city limits, she can touch another button and expand it once more. What Salesman—Yes. sir, we have some very nice suits. color would you like? , Buyer—Well. I look after my own car. So I guess I'll get something as near grease-color as possible.