Judge — January 22, 1927 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

JUDGE The Poison Parade OR some reason or other that “magic date,” as the ) erent League calls it, namely, January 16, the seventh anniversary of national prohibition, eluded our attention until it was too late to forestall it with appro- priate comment. But we quite agree with the announce- ment of the League that the churches, young people’s societies and the general public should observe the occa- sion with fitting services. As the League says, “it should be remembered in song and story and serious debate; seven years of national prohibition has made history.” And so, though we are too late for the anniversary this year, we would suggest for its observance next year the following progran Memorial services in all the churches for the victims of the Government’s poison campaign, with sermons by officers of the Anti-Saloon League on the text, “God's (Mr. Wheeler’s) will be done!” A funeral procession for the latest victims of official poison in which all the different elements of the popule tion can participate. In the van should be a handsome plumed hearse drawn by a single horse whose forelegs can be recognized as those of our distinguished Secretary of the Treasury, and whose hind legs belong to General Andrews. The driver of the hearse, keeping a tight rein on his mettlesome hackney, is, of course, the smiling Mr. Wayne B. Wheeler. Immediately behind the hearse marches an ample squad of pallbearers recruited from the Anti-Saloon League, each wearing a white ribbon in his buttonhole. pa Then a band playing the “Dead March.” Platoon of revenue agents, each with his right hand behind his back, palm out. Platoon of policemen, cockeyed from confiscated liquor. Division of informers and “under cover” men, all sniffing, led by Smedley Butler. Splendid float of Government speakeasy, equipped with mahogany bar, brass rail and generous free lunch. Behind the bar in bartender’s apron stands the figure of Death, holding aloft a transparency reading, ‘See What the Boys in the Back Room Will Have.” Band playing “Massa’s in the Cold, Cold Ground.” Regiment upon regiment of bootleggers uniformed in cloth-of-gold with the skull and crossbones as their divi- sion insignia. Informal flock of high school kiddies dressed as Cupids, flourishing flasks. Fine, glistening white water wagon, driverless, nobody on it. Band playing ‘“The Brewers’ Big Horses Can’t Run Over Me.” Klovey of Klansmen in full regalia with cross burning wood alcohol. Float of the Washington palace of the Methodist lobby flying the Jolly Roger. Marching abreast, John Roach Straton shouting into a portable microphone, the Rev. J. Frank Norris firing a revolver, Bishop Adna Leonard foaming. pe Fife and drum corps playing, “Any Ice To-day, Lady?” Figure of Uncle Sam on foot dragging a ball and chain. Open barouches bearing “dry” senators waving cork- screws. Large unofficial delegation from the general public, all blind from hooch, herded by sheep dogs. Ancient buggy containing old lady W. C. T. U. herself bearing lillies. We realize only too keenly that the above list of in- dividuals and organizations eligible for, and at the same time a credit to, the Poison Parade is hopelessly incom- plete, also that their grouping leaves room for improve- ment. In planning these pageants a number of heads is better than one, in fact, the more the merrier. We cordially invite our readers, therefore, to send in their suggestions. Those that appeal to us we shall be happy to print from time to time to the end that, as the “magic date” rolls round once more, we may have a program of observance really worthy of it. Address your suggestions to the initials below, care of Jupce. Give a thought to the Poison Parade. W. M. H. comicbooks.com