Judge — August 1, 1925 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

Unpublished Testimonials Or Why the Ad Men Have to Write Their Own Woman's Last Companion I don’t know what we would of done without your home economy colyum with its smart answers to dumb questions. Last year my husband ast you how could we cut down our gas bills and when you says we should trim ’em with a scissors he got so hot we didn’t need no fire all last winter. Three cheers for the Woman’s Last Companion, says I. Saint’s Psalter on Social Misbehavior This ain’t no dam ad so don’t get all excited all I want to say is your dam Saint’s Psalter ain’t no dam good I studied out of it for two months and just when I was gettin’ ready to propose to my girl she says she just got A Cozy Little Bed for Two and your dam book didn’t say noth- ing about it was only a new victrola record so how the hell did I know? Sure Cure Table Soap Mr. Kreiselmanowitz, my neighbor grocery, he says to me your Sure Cure Table Soap would protect my kids from dirty playmates—what kind of playmates you think my kids got anyways? If they want to play with my neighbors I let ’em, see, and it’s none of your business. Anyways, your soap ain’t no good. We used a cake all last year and got just as dirty as always. Richard S. Wallace 7 he € a aD \ bl att oa l He THT | A | The satisfied wife. We killed him, Joseph McBlather, And cold-blooded murder we did, For he was a first-time father, And talked all the time of his kid. pid iaivube beter sibi aga, artis tiee pays #5 for €0ch ong ab ep NATIONAL Device for re-charging your bank account—but you can’t have it till we're through with it. Environment HEY were eating pastry at one of the tables in a bakeshop when he proposed to her. Her reply was rather tart. “This is no time to mince words,” she said. “I think you are pretty fresh. My parents didn’t raise me to have me waste my life on a pie- faced cake-eater like you. Besides you’re only half-baked. I can do batter. The egg who shells out for my wedding cake must roll in dough. Nobody else can slip a ring on my lady-finger. I am not interested in crumbs that I can twist around my little lady-fingers. I want some- body I can puff about—somebody as rich as a Napoleon. Affection is all right, but sugar is filling. The old caraway seeds are the only things that count these days. I’m not muffin any chances. I know which side my bread is buttered on. As far as I’m concerned, you’re on the shelf. I saw you with a bun on the other night—what was it, too much rye? You may be in the flower of young manhood right now, but I'm going to do some sifting. I’m shaking you now.” R. C. O’Brien comicbooks.com