Judge, 1927-03-19 · page 16 of 36
Judge — March 19, 1927 — page 16: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains three separate humorous pieces satirizing American life circa early 20th century. **"The Artist"** mocks a boxer who lost his championship title. The joke: the fighter refused to seriously injure his opponent because he feared breaking his finger—which would prevent him from typing his autobiography for the *Saturday Evening Post*. It satirizes both prizefighting culture and the pretension of athletes-turned-writers. **"Irish Stew"** is a poem mocking St. Patrick's Day as an ethnic performance. It humorously observes that immigrants of all nationalities—Germans, Greeks, Italians, Russians, Scots, Danes, Ukrainians—temporarily adopt Irish identity for one day yearly, exaggerating their "Irishness" with stereotypical behavior (drinking, yelling). The satire targets both the commercialization of ethnic identity and assimilated immigrants' performative ethnicity. **"The First Husband"** (small cartoon, bottom) shows a domestic scene where a husband tells his wife to pull down her skirt—likely mocking changing fashion norms or marital tension over women's clothing. All three pieces employ Judge's characteristic satirical tone toward American social customs.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
JUDGE Youne BurGrar The front door’s unlocked, Pop. Senior (witheringly)—Are we porch-climbers, or aren’t we? The Artist “You big bum,” yelled the ex- Champion’s Manager, “you had a dozen chances to put that set-up away, just a poke in the jaw and the trick would have been turned, but what did you do? I ask you, what did you do? You didn’t hit him a real blow, and he in there begging for the sleeping powders, and you losing the title on points.” “But,” protested the late Champ, “if I’d hit him a good one yelped the ager. “A broken finger and a million dollars. That's what it’s going to mean to you to lose the title. A million, hard, round dol- lars. And you losing it because you were afraid you'd break a finger. O-0-0-0-0, somebody grab me quick before I break this dumb bell’s dome.” “But if I’d broken a finger,” explained the pug, couldn’t finish typing my ‘Recollections’ for the Saturday Evening Post.” Florenz says that the old-time thin chorus girl looked starved. Well, Flo, it wasn’t our fault—we did our best. Irish Stew The Smiths and the Weinburgs, the Stewarts and Steinburgs » decked out in gala array, A For, sure ain't the Ke the Reillys, the Skelly Paradin’ on St. Patrick’s Day? Bedecked with medallions and recking with scallions, The swarthy Italians appea All nations gregarious shine as vicarious Irishmen one day a year! The Greeks and the Czechos are swelling the echoes With “Erin Go Bragh!” Note the grin On radiant faces of polyglot races All claiming St. Patrick as kin. The Thracians, Alsatians and even the Asians, The Danish, Ukrainish and mere Protectorates trivial turn out con- vivial Irishmen one day a year. The Petrograd Trotzkies are dancing kazotzkies ; The Scotchmen are risking a fling. Begor’ 'tis worth secin’ the holi- day glee in The laundry of hoppy Hip Sing. The stern Teuton shows it by bel- lowing “‘prosit!” And quafing a seidel of beer. St. Patrick, be lenient with these convenient Trishmen one day a year! —Arrutr L. Lippmann Tue First Huspanp—Pull your skirt down! comicbooks.com