Judge, 1930-10-04 · page 11 of 36
Judge — October 4, 1930 — page 11: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Phrenology Satire in Judge Magazine This page satirizes **phrenology**—the pseudoscience claiming skull bumps reveal character traits—through S.J. Perelman's absurdist story and an accompanying cartoon. **The cartoon** shows two men observing a third man playing golf. The caption reads: "DO YOU MIND IF I PLAY THROUGH YOU FOLKS? GURGLED THE GOLFER," with the punchline suggesting someone with no social awareness or manners. **The story's satire**: Perelman mocks phrenology by presenting ridiculous "diagnoses"—examining a woman's skull to explain why she's kicked by horses, attributing it to a missing bump for "Subduing High-Spirited Colts." The absurd solutions (relocating to Missouri where few horses exist) underscore how baseless the science is. **The humor** relies on treating phrenology with mock-seriousness while delivering increasingly preposterous scenarios, typical of Judge magazine's satirical style. Both the story and cartoon poke fun at pseudoscience and poor social etiquette using exaggerated, comedic logic.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Phrenology—Yes or No? By S.J. Perelman ME years ago, whilst I was travel* ng in the southern part of the United States and lecturing on phre- nology, I was overtaken by a severe thunderstorm and compelled to seek refuge from the elements—fire, earth, water, hydrogen, iodoform, and cunei- form—in a lonely farmhouse. Mine host, bluff Squire Turgeniev, had two beautiful daughters named Grace, shapely young blondes of about nine- teen years old apiece, with di ing blue s and even teeth, We spent the evening talking about phrenology, ind all through the conversation I could feel the burning eyes of the girls upon me, When the time came to re- tire, 1 discovered much to my dismay that there were only twelve beds able, as a platoon of Union soldiers red in the buttery under and there was a band of bivouacking in the This meant that I would have to put up in the constabulary among the horses. I withdrew there with good grace and wrapped myself in my tartan. In a few moments I was in the arms of Morpheus, so to speak, I must have slept an hour or so when a timid knock on the door aroused me. Buckling on my buckler, I answered the door cautiously, think- ing that it was one of Yancy’s troops. To my amazement, it turned out to be the eldest of Squire Turgeniev’s daughters, a comely brunet turned twenty, in) whose imperious eves I beheld the untamed spirit of Viking ancestors and sea-rovers. “II have mislaid my harp.” she stammered prettily beneath downcast cheeks. “Can you help me?" Ever a ladies’ man, this bewitching appeal could not fail to move me. I looked about, but with the ntion of a harp named Shamus O'Donnell, asleep I could see nothing which answered her description. “Oh, don’t bother, sir,” she inter- rupted nervously. “I really came here to ask you something. I have been a lover of good horse-flesh since in but every time I go near a horse it kicks. Would you examine my skull and see whether phrenology can find the answer ney I immediately put on my shoes and subjected the crown of her head to a close examination, ‘There lay the answer indeed, The small bump, “Capable of Subduing High-Spirited Colts,” was missing. She blenched when I told her, and great tears gath- JUDGE ered in her magnificent orbs. I ad- vised her to seck out some other pro- fession, preferably in some city where there a paucity of horses. A hasty consultation of MacGregor's Horse Index revealed that Mound City, Missouri, possessed only thre horses, two of whom 1 mulish tem- pers. Wrapping my tartan about both of us, we quickly drove off in her father's racing gig. Today the young lady is happily married to a pastry cook rd Furniss and she tends the Furniss with her own loving hands. Peace to her ashes. I have told this short and stuffy story to make clear just what help phrenology can be. In this connec- tion I recall an anecdote illustrating a more poignant side of the science. Several years ago I was overtaken by a violent drought whilst on my way to Tombstone, Arizona, to give myself up. I was forced to take shelter for the night in the home of bluff Squire Furniss. After a hearty supper, the bluff squire and his charming young wife, a ravishing brunctte with entic- ing curves and melting eyes, besieged me with questions about phrenole All evening I felt the squire’s burnin eyes fixed upon me, Came bedtime and I found to my consternation that the barn had burned down and I would have to sleep in the house. (Continued on page 28) DO YOU MIND IF | PLAY THROUGH YOU FOLKS ? GURGLED THE GOLFER Why are the snowflakes dancing? tising for the snowball. without a mothe Abba-dabba, dear heart, they’re prac- Get it? “I ask you, laddies,” trumpeted Mrs. Farnoogly of the Pratt Street Parent-Leeches’ ssociation, “what is home “An incubator!” spat the good old Voice-from-the- Rear-of-the-Hall. Next week the Emperor of C ina and Siz Maddening Manchu Maids—Siz—in their new song smash, “I’m Dancing with Peers in My Rice.” comicbooks.com