Life, 1922-11-16 · page 12 of 36
Life — November 16, 1922 — page 12: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This satirical story mocks pretentious tobacco connoisseurship. The narrator visits an exclusive shop seeking pipe tobacco, only to encounter an insufferable tobacconist who treats it as rarefied luxury comparable to fine art or wines. The shopkeeper prescribes elaborate tobacco blends (referenced by cryptic codes like "655," "846," "WTT," "NMK," "SPQR") and lectures extensively about tobacco's genealogy and qualities. The humor derives from the absurd elevation of a common product into snobbish expertise. The cartoon above depicts a social gathering where someone asks "I don't dance very well, do I?" — a parallel to social insecurity that the story also plays upon. The satire targets early 20th-century American consumer culture's tendency to manufacture artificial sophistication around everyday goods.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
+ yi « y uli i" 4| fy } fll | hula “TI don’t dance very well, do 1?” “Oh, you'd do well enough if you'd learn to stand on your own feet.” The Weed at Its Vilest “T WANT some pipe tobacco, please,” I said simply. The suave sheen of gold behind cases of clearest crystal, the dark gloss of rare and valued woods, dignity, luxury— such was the temple of Lady Nicotine in which I, with reluctant feet, stood. Temple? Lud—as they say in these old play revivals—it was a cathedral. “TI want some tobacco, please,” I repeated. “Certainly, sir,” replied the presiding being; “personal tobacco, of course. Let me sce... you have brown eyes and are five feet—” “Seven to the eighth-inch.” would. “That would be our 655, I figure.” He proffered me a tin with its savory contents. “Would you be so kind as to try a pipeful?” I tried. “It bites my tongue,” I complained. “Good!” cried the being. “Let me give it to you stronger. Try our 846, if you please, sir.” Again I performed. “It’s too strong,” was my verdict. “It’s really the second pipe that tells the story, sir,” he informed me. Valiantly then, I finished the first load of his 846 and had another. “No,” I said, in conclusion, “it isn’t quite right. really sorry to be such a nuisance.” “Nuisance? Oh no, indeed, sir,” he told me reproach- fully, “you came here to be suited and suited you shall be. We don’t sell our personal tobacco—we prescribe it. If I could help him, I I’m Now if you please—a pipeful of 444 and 279 mixed.” I tried that. It didn’t quite suit me. The presiding being was entranced. Tough customer I, his professional reputation was at stake. He brought out tin after tin. I tried his 899, 56, 320, 255, and 170. I tried others named WTT, XCD, MNK, LPO and SPQR, like broad- casting stations. I may have tried one named TNT. At the being’s request, I furnished extensive information as to education, habits, preferences, and genealogy. The air was blue with smoke. I became slightly green. “Now, sir—” through the aromatic miasma came the being’s gentle voice, “this is our 999-b. If you please—” Mechanically I filled, lighted and drew. “It’s very nicé,” I began. “It’s aw— aw— aw—” “I say, sir,” exclaimed the being, horrified, “not here, sir! If you please—” He rushed me down the aisle of the cathedral and out the door. Somebody else mercifully threw me into a passing taxicab. Then all grew tradi- tionally dark. * * * I went by the temple the other day. “Wonderful place, that,” volunteered my companion. “Wonderful mixtures they make up for you. Mine’s 372. What's yours?” “North Carolina plug,” I replied and blew, en passant, a mouthful of stinging smoke into the sinister eye of the guardian of the portals, H. W. H. comicbooks.com