Life, 1920-11-04 · page 34 of 60
Life — November 4, 1920 — page 34: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains two distinct elements: **Political Cartoons (top):** "Prohibition is After Scotland" depicts law enforcement chasing suspects across water, satirizing Prohibition enforcement. "Sugar Slumps" shows a barrel labeled with massive financial losses (2,000,000 tons hoarded sugar, $200,000,000 loss), mocking speculation and market collapse in sugar commodities. "The New Public Servant" and "Going, Going—?" appear to reference political/bureaucratic themes, though their specific targets are unclear without additional context. **Humorous Essay (bottom):** "Men, My Brothers" is a comedic first-person narrative about wearing a college fraternity pin ("Wok-Wok"). The joke centers on how displaying the pin triggers relentless social obligation—strangers claiming membership corners the narrator repeatedly, culminating in his exploitation by a manipulative "brother" who pressures him into club membership and donations through fraternal guilt. The satire mocks both fraternal loyalty pressures and social climbing.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
SUGAR SLUMPS. GOING, GOING Lire’s Bi-weekascope Men, My Brothers . . . OLLEGE societies are a great thing for the undergraduate. Neither should they be neglected nor put aside when a man is an alumnus. That's what I thought when I found my old Wok-Wok Society badge while hunting for a back collar button. I put it on and came down to breakfast. “What is this,” asked Mercedes; “male vanity or a sudden reversion to college days?” “My dear,” I answered, “why shouldn't I wear the pin? Once a Wok-Wok, always a Wok-Wok.” And I departed, proud to announce the fact to the world. The first bit of the world to heed the announcement was a particularly seedy-looking brother who eagerly established his claims beyond all doubt. He let me off with a dollar. The second was a little mote spectacular. “Ah,” said it, or he, “I see you are a Wok-Wok.” “Tam,” I stated. “Are you?” “No,” he answered, “I’m a Goof, and I'm decidedly out of luc “You are,” I agreed, making the natural association, “You don’t understand me,” said he. “I have just gotten in from Kokomo, and I had my pocket picked in the station. I don’t know a soul. Could you lead me to any of my brother Goofs? Do you know any Goofs?” I knew lots of Goofs. But at that moment I couldn't recall the name of one of them. It took me an hour of research work via telephone, a handful of nickels and Heaven knows how much of my reserve stock of patience to direct him to a possible Goof. Considerably overdue, I arrived at the office. “Man waiting to see you,” announced the siren at the out- side desk. . “Show him in,” said I, “and stand by with the stretcher.” They dragged him in. I forget what it was he wanted to sell me—books or insurance, or something. I remember I was deriving much joy from steadily refusing him, when I sud- denly noticed a fatal gleam in his eye. He was looking at my pin. “You're a Wok-Wok,” he exclaimed delightedly. “I'm brother Hoozis from the Whoosh!" He gained his point. Furthermore, to the utter abandonment of the morning’s routine, the brother from the Whoosh Wok- Wokked until luncheon time. Then he dragged me over to the Wok-Wok club for luncheon. After three hours I escaped, slightly dazed. But not before I had joined the club, subscribed various sums to three or four excellent Wok-Wok causes and pledged my support to five or six others. When we entered the club, I was hailed as a comicbooks.com|