Judge — July 25, 1925 — page 20: what you’re looking at

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

uu through history the A pants-wearing people have been the strong- est, the most cultured and victorious in battle, while those that eschewed pants have always been the sub- jugated and enslaved. Who can say that the an- cient civilization of Egypt might not have existed a thousand years longer if the Egyptians had been a pants- wearing people? The Moors sought to subjugate European civilization, but were licked to a frazzle by the hosts of Charles Martel. Did the Moors wear pants. Nol Not a pant among them! The great Julius Caesar was killed in the Roman Senate, stabbed twenty-three times through his toga—there is no record that he wore pants—at least, not pants worthy of the name. But—Napoleon Bonaparte conquered Europe. Did Napoleon wear pants? He did! Bismarck built up the German Empire that beat France in 1871. Did Bismarck wear pants? He did! The Allies beat Germany in the World War. Did the Allies wear pants? You betcha! (Cheers.) Just as in the past, it’s the pants that hold sway over the modern world, and no man, king or boot- black, dare revolt against their dominion. They are ever-present, influencing our lives, and shaping our destinies. Even during our hours of slumber they are near by, silently keeping guard, and affecting our subconscious PANTS by Art Young “There they are ready to be put on again.” selves in a manner that only a Freud can explain. When I arise from my night of sleep, .there they are where I left them draped over a chair at 11.30 p.m. the night before. Whether one is careful with them or careless; whether you are the owner of six pairs or only one... they wait, ready to be put on again. Three hundred and_ sixty-five mornings of the year you get into your pants. And while you are getting into them, say, 7.30 a.m., it is safe to say that 2,000,000 others in a city like New York are putting on theirs. And, mark you, you’ve got to put them on! However monotonous the habit has become, the police will shoot you or the mob will rend you to pieces if you dare to go out without them. And there is no new way to relieve the repetition of putting on pants, unless perchance you are ina sleeping-car berth, when you can have an experimental orgy in a cramped and alien environment, but which may embitter your whole life against pants. Even the billionaire puts on his own pants. It’s a duty that a valet, however servile, is not called upon to perform. As L arise and begin putting on my pants, I say, “Well, here we go again, pants.” I sometimes lose my balance as one leg goes in reluctantly, but I know it has got to be done; I teeter a bit but per- sist, so that I may go out into the world all pantalooned for. competition. To what ulti- mate purpose? Tell me, oh, pants! You know how the tailor bears down on you that the crease may keep me in good standing. You know that without you I have no repute at all in any civilized community. And yet, when I put you on every morn- ing, I have to smile, for I see a nation of men each putting one leg and then the other into a pair of pants and most every man jack of them takes himself seriously. Oh, pants! Badge of respectability, the symbol of civilization. Hail, pants! Gar- ment of victory. Unpanted we fail—but panted we stride trium- phant down the corridors of eternal time. (Prolonged applause.) The comic strip husband’s wife and family are away, but he goes through his daily stunt nevertheless. comicbooks.com