Judge — April 1938 — page 47: what you’re looking at

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

nnot afford to sit back and> rest. Why not? Because these figures on paper clip tonnage are changing, and changing rapidly. Even as I write, they ate changing (which is a darn nuisance, as 1 have to keep stopping to change the figures on my chart). Every country is building, building, building paper dip factories in a mad race for suprem- ay. Germany, according to an unofficial but highly reliable source, has three buge new factories situated near Dus- senipzenschleigen which are supposed to be machine-gun factories. That's what they tell the world. But the “machine- guns” they are turning out, our unofh- cal but highly reliable source informs us, bear a startling resemblance to pa- per-clips, and each factory is producing over 100 tons of them a day! Consider- ing the fact that there are about 11,500,- 000,000 paper clips (well, you count them!) to a ton, think of what that amounts to in a year! United States 317,000 230,000 *Despite Il Duce's efforts the Italian at- titude toward clipping papers sogether still remains “Ah, whatta da hell.” CHART III If these cold-blooded facts have helped in the least bit to awaken the teader to the cold-blooded truth about what is going on in this cold-blooded world of ours, your cold-blooded corre- spondent is more than repaid. (Say, does it seem cold in here to you?) Spring! Spring is the season when anything goes: Heat-waves or hurricanes, sunshine or snows. None can predict so erratic a thing; Nobody knows what the season will Spring! Never put off till tomorrow, they say, Things—like your woolies—that go with today. Never you mind what the morrow may bring: Into your heaviest underwear Spring! —NorMAN R. JAFFRAY. DITHER WAS taking a night-cap with a friend, when his sixteen-year-old son came in from a dance, said “Hello” and sat down. “Have fun?” asked his father. “Sort of. Kind of clammy.” “What seemed to be the matter?” “Music. Awful. Why, there were three rhythm.cats on the street car com. ing home that had that crowd of jam- cats klinkered on a down beat like a jittersauce cannery.” “I see,” said my host. “You see, too, don’t you?”"—to me. “Sort of,” I admitted. “First off,” said my host, “what is a jam-cat?” “A jam.cat,” said our informer, with a demeaning gesture, “is anyone who plays in a hot orchestra.” “What is a hot orchestra?” “Gosh, haven't you ever been to a dance, Pop?” “Well, not since they started heating the music.” “They don’t heat it. They just swing it and let ‘er rip.” “What's a rhythm-cat?” “A thythm.cat,” said this compen- dium of musical information, “is any- body who hasn't the price of a beer and has to stand outside and listen.” “How do you klinker a jam-cat?” The lad’s expression showed clearly how he regretted our ignorance. “Klink. ers are bindles in a jam-session,” he said, “All right, then, what's a jittersauce cannery?” “Any swing crew jamming. Gee, Pop, I gotta go to bed. I promised Charley I'd rebush his gob-stick in the morn- ing. We let him go. I think I've quoted him correctly. —EP.B. “THESE LINES INDICATE TWO CHILDREN, AND THIS CALLOUS HERE SHOWS THAT YOUR GOLF GRIP IS WRONG.” comicbooks.com