Judge, 1925-01-24 · page 20 of 36
Judge — January 24, 1925 — page 20: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains three distinct satirical pieces: **"Dill Pickles"** (Nate Collier): A humorous mock-serious essay anthropomorphizing pickles, treating them as tragic figures destined for consumption. It's absurdist humor—the author ironically expresses deep sympathy for pickles' "sad existence" while simultaneously admitting he never liked eating them anyway. The joke relies on overwrought emotional language applied to an absurd subject. **"The Unattainable"** (Edwin Rutt): A poem satirizing impossible ideals in women. It describes a woman who rejects current fashions (bridge, Mah-Jongg, dancing) and desires only simple pleasures—yet remains perpetually unavailable because "I read about her in a book." The satire targets how men construct idealized women from literature rather than accepting real ones. **"Is It Hot Enough for You?"**: A cartoon showing a child in a bathtub labeled "No Smut Here" with an adult nearby, captioned "How to make it easier for both Mama and Willie." The joke appears to reference bathing during summer heat, though the exact meaning is unclear without additional context.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
een =—_on The impressionable suburbanite reads the summer number of Jupcr. The Unattainable HERE once was a maiden beaute- ous and charming, Who hated bridge and Mah Jongg, wines, and ales; She could bring a conversation to a lucid termination, And she never even craved the Prince of Wales. All the current dances were to her abhorrent; She preferred to dream beside a babbling brook. So why not sign this jewel for a worse-or-better duel? Well, you see, I read about her in out the light to be in the dark. How to make it easier for both Mama and Willie. Dill Pickles HERE is something about a dill pickle that always saddens me. I don’t know what it is, but I never could look a dill pickle in the eye without a lump coming up into my throat. They seem to live so much within themselves. Companionship doesn’t mean much in their sad, short existence. And so I am always kind to them and considerate of their feelings, for beneath their rough outer surface I am sure a heart of gold beats within, a heart filled with compassion and tenderness. Their lives are filled with woe. Plucked in the bloom of youth and immersed in a sea of brine their piteous cries unheeded, their vitality sapped, their careers curtailed, they pass a harried existence for the glory of some red-nosed delicatessenist, to be buried eventually in an onion sandwich, or drawn and quartered and chopped into chowchow. Lonely, heartsick, sorrowing, on- ward through life they go, with never a murmur, never a sigh. Although I have met thousands of them, I have yet to hear one bewail his sad lot. Intrepid, courageous little souls, piti- ful examples of man’s inhumanity to pickles! That’s why I never eat— —And I never liked the darn things anyway! Nate Collier anal “Is Ir Hor Enovucu ror You?” — comicbooks.com