Judge — March 4, 1922 — page 7: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“I hear your wife is quite a marksman. “Yes, three guides, five windows and a cow!” Me and Vitamines By Strickland Gillilan MaAY8= you know what vitamines is or are? Neither do I. But there is so much talk about it (or them?) these days that one just must join in the conversation. When did ignorance ever delay talk on any subject? The jabber I have listened to in connection with vitamines has always contained a good deal of reference to bakers’ yeast, and sometimes to the eat- ing thereof. So, partly to be in style, and partly to avoid the extensive pur- chase of absorbent cotton, antiseptic gauze, salve and bichloride of mercury tablets in preparation for the annual boilfest, I went and bid in the visible supply of a certain brand of moist leaven and proceeded to eat freely thereof. That is, almost freely. Three cents per dab isn’t much. I ate the first dose with orange juice, the second with peanut butter (or goober goo), the third with impunity, and the fourth with abandon. Yes, indeed, I took two at a time. And there was my mistake. One should not, im- mediately after inhaling three large raw turnips and just before eating a hearty dinner, eat two yeast cakes in single file, close order. No, one shouldn't. It was but an hour or so after that heavy evening meal with which I had tamped down those two restless, foil- frocked hunks of demnition disturbance, that I began to sympathize with Vesu- vius and Lassen. I knew just how they must have felt. Never again will I be heard to speak harshly of a volcano that gives way to its emotion. A good man has nothing on a good yeast cake when it comes to non-keep-downable- ness. My seismograph registered de- cidedly. I felt as if some one had fed me a bushel of dried apples and then attempted to give me the watercure. I remembered the story of the trouble- hunting angel who dropped a cake of Drawn by UrsvLa MITCHELL. “Is Jack going to Cuba this year?” “No, dear, he doesn’t have to. Uncle Joe sent him a case of private stock.” 3 Has she made any records?” yeast over the battlements of heaven just to “raise hell.” I had never really been “swelled on myself” before. I had often, when weary, “felt like a good, long loaf”; many a time when waked suddenly in the morning I had felt like just another roll; but this time I impersonated a whole bakery, on Satur- day morning at that. I wondered when the balloon would go up and whether my tether would hold when I gave in- structions to untie the shot-bags. I also had qualms about the parachute open- ing in time. I was a Zeppelin, in doubt as to my own dirigibility. Had this not occurred in cold weather, I should not be writing this now. Had I stepped into a telephone booth on a warm day, just after this dose, I’d have turned into some sort of splinter-filled staff of life. Further details are unnecessary. The seething furnace inside me—the turbu- lent typhoon, the sibilant sirocco— made me think of the rhyme: “Speaking of biggest boobs, I'd name at random Bill Botts, who took a seidlitz pow- der tandem.” And when at last the tempest had abated its fury; when comparative calm and a rising barometer indicated a return to comparative gastronomical normalcy, with the accent on the gas, I had had my little education on the subject of vitamines, whatever that means. I had my diploma, with a degree and a summum cum Iaudanum comicbooks.com