Life, 1922-08-31 · page 28 of 36
Life — August 31, 1922 — page 28: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a satirical story mocking Russian revolutionary anarchists through exaggerated ethnic caricature and broken English dialect ("bootskies," "shinesky"). The protagonist Tommashevsky is a radical bootblack who reads Marx and resents the wealthy. When a bomb meant to assassinate a rich lady fails to detonate, he ironically completes the assassination attempt himself. The satire targets early 20th-century anarchist violence in America, likely referencing real bombing campaigns. The humor relies on portraying revolutionaries as simultaneously idealistic and incompetent—Tommashevsky criticizes other bombers as "bunglers" while accidentally succeeding where they failed. The joke cuts both ways: mocking both the terrorists' ineptitude and the absurdity of their cause. The reference to "Black Tom, N. J." appears to reference an actual 1916 German sabotage incident, grounding the satire in contemporary concerns about radical violence and immigration.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
LIFE Tommashevsky the Bootblacksky N the hard pavement of the Clatternitch Driveoff was heard the ringing of horses’ hoofs. Looking up from the copy of “Das Kapital,” which he was reading with deep interest, Tommashevsky Tom- mashevskyvitch, sometimes called Tommashevsky Tommashevskyvitch, the Bootblacksky, for short, saw a dashing carriage, drawn by two fiery steeds and manned by two stalwarts in the hated livery of the rich. A young lady almost buried in her fur coat was seated in solitary state. Beautiful was not the word for her. Ugly would have been nearer to it, but still inadequate. Instantly Tommashevsky was filled with a burning resentment. “Aristocrats!” he hissed, being r a Ite GUM QOS. ~ 4 SS NN “Now there! We've missed the boat. I hope or Easesky at Lastsky By Horatiev Algersky one of the most accomplished hissers this side of hysteria. “They have presented me with their bootskies often enough and wiped them on me, but they never let me shinesky them.” Two more syllables and Tomma- shevsky would have broken his own record for hissing, but he was a bit off form that day. Just as he was about to turn back to his volume, for he knew that the “revolution was coming to bring ease to everyone, Tommashevsky heard a long-drawn cry of horror. “Help!” screamed the lady for whom beautiful was not the word. In an instant our hero saw what was the matter. Some one had thrown a bomb in the path of the carriage. “8 = Z a Ss boa 2 tu 3 ne oN whole week a Stopping only to pick up a still glowing cigar butt, our hero rushed to where the horses stood lepaged in horror. One glance showed him that the fuse no longer sputtered. “Bunglers!” he hissed again, caring nothing for technique in his excitement. With a quick, deft movement he touched the glowing cigar butt to the blackened fuse. Then he ran away. He stopped at the curbing. “Bang!” went the bomb, now {ul- filling its true mission, and there was the grandest little explosion you ever heard, unless you had a bung- alow at Black Tom, N. J., a few years ago. “Well done, Tommashevsky,” said (Continued on page 29) e’re satisfied—daddlin’ along ’zif yer had the fread o” yer!” comicbooks.com