Judge, 1927-04-23 · page 20 of 36
Judge — April 23, 1927 — page 20: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains satirical humor typical of early 20th-century American magazines: **"What a Man Thinks When He Gets a Stand-up"** is the main feature—a monologue depicting a man stood up on a date. As time passes and his date doesn't arrive, his internal thoughts spiral from irritation to panic, imagining she's been hit by a car or seriously injured. The humor lies in the exaggerated emotional volatility and the final reveal (via editor's note): she wasn't hurt at all. The phonetic spelling ("li'l'," "drin'") represents his increasingly drunk state as he waits. The smaller cartoons mock social types: a "timid fellow" getting caught with a bottle, and a donkey "making an ass of himself." **"More Than Enough"** is a brief poem mocking men who constantly use the phrase "How's the Boy?"—satirizing annoying conversational habits of the era. The page reflects period anxieties about dating, punctuality, and masculine behavior, using alcohol consumption and emotional excess as comedy devices.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
JUDGE Timid fellow with bottle on hip—finds himself under suspicion. Portrait of a donkey making an ass of himself. jay-walkers. What a Man Thinks When He Gets a Stand-up It’s eight-thirty. She Maybe I said Humm! ought to be here. quarter to nine. I should make a note of these dates. I wonder if this is the right place? Never a woman on time in my . . . Now it’s quarter to nine. Think I'll go get a drink. She'll be here when I come back. . . . S’funny, she said she’d be here at eight-thirty. S’very funny Funny me eye! A woman’s never on time. Too much to expect. Can’t ask a girl to be on time and get her hair curled. Guess I'll get myself another drink. Cer'nly is strange. Suppose I’d of fainted Gotta be she guess I'll *f she’d a come on time. make so’ "llowances. lost her lipstick. . . . get ‘nother li'l’ drink. . . . 'M off women for life. ’Pointment or no 'pointment sh’ should a-been here. ’S no use waiting. ’S quarter ten. I'll call her to- morrow. Make the wires hot. Tell her what I think of her. Wouldn’ give ’er the sa’sfa’tion. No sa’sfa’tion. Women all un- sa ‘ory. ’S turrible. ’S dis- gus’ing. Ge’ me ‘nother drin’ an’ if she’s not here won't wait ‘nother minute. . . . ’Ere’s a cop. As’ a cop ’f he seen a beau’ful blon’. As’ a cop li’ kell. Wha’s a cop know? An’ I trus’ed ’at lil girl. Hurts. ’At’s what it does. Hurts. Hurt! Hurt? She a gotten hurt? Accident? Poor li'l’ kid. Maybe she’s liein’ diein’ —lieing dieing, won’er someone n wrote a son’ “Liein’ Diein’ Tor You’—for me. Hurt in a ceciden’ or sumthin’. ’Sa firs’ ti’ And now we have the Split-Six—especially designed to dodge my li'l’ girl ever done me like this. ‘How Come You Do Me Like You Do, Do, Do.” Oh, “Do —Do—Do What You Done— Done—Done_ Before, Bebb Try an’ get the chance. Jus’ try an’ get it. Get me ‘nother li'l’ drin’ an’ ’f she’s in a hosp’tal she can le’ me know. “Liein’ Diein’ sunwhere for me, dear?” Dear, sweet li’l’ girl all gone. All hurt an’ bleedin’ sunwhere for me. She mus’ a-been kill’ in a assiden’. . Nother li'l’ dri’ fo’ courage. Poor li'l’ gal. ’S turrible a stron’ man to bus’ out bawlin’ ’nother lil’ dr’ sh’ dea’ assiden’ hur’ poor... P. S. She wasn’t hurt in an accident.—Carro.tt Carroi. More Than Enough When I shall leave this mundane sphere, Shall leave drone, In letters large and white and clear its hectic, dismal Please chisel on stone These words that Time cannot destroy: “He never shouted ‘How's the Boy!” Sing not the noble deeds I've done, Nor print an epitaphic screed. Tell not the well-fought fights I’ve won, But merely state, so all can read, That as I shuffled off this coil, I did not blabber “Olive Oil!” —Arrtuvr L. Lippmann 18 my modest comicbooks.com