Life, 1923-02-15 · page 24 of 36
Life — February 15, 1923 — page 24: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
The page contains three distinct pieces of satirical writing from *Life* magazine: **Top Cartoon:** A dialect-humor piece titled "The Altruist" depicting two men with a farm machine. One claims his job is "easy," but his companion explains the machine has "forty horse power" that must be constantly controlled—a joke about the difficulty of managing powerful new farm technology. This reflects early 20th-century anxiety about mechanized agriculture. **Left Column:** "A Personally Conducted Revolt" by B.I., sarcastically listing answers to invasive questionnaires from advertisers. The author mock-complies with impossible claims (perfect musician, excellent dancer, cowardly husband) to mock advertising's intrusiveness and personal nature of marketing inquiries. **Right Column:** Two brief poems—"The First Valentine" (A.H.) nostalgically contrasting an old Valentine's charm with modern sentiments, and "I Ruin Sunday" (D.H.), a humorous self-indictment where the Sunday newspaper itself boasts of corrupting the day with crime, gossip, and President Harding coverage. All three mock modern conveniences and consumer culture's intrusions into private life.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
—7HF ALBITRIST. “Sam, yo’ sho’ has got de easiest job I knows of, ridin’ aroun’ on dat thing all day long!” “Easy job! Me! Man—man, yo’ don’ know dis machine has forty horse power, does yo’? An” furthermo’ yo’ don’ know when I’se whappin’ dem forty horses dey is pullin’ an’ pullin’— A Personally Conducted Revolt HE questionnaire type of ad- vertisement is becoming more and more prevalent. Like grasshop- pers in a Kansas wheat field, queries about your and my musical’ tastes, manners and even more personal subjects leap out of the advertising pages every month. Indeed, it is impossible to open a periodical nowadays without striking some “ad” the writer of which shows more solicitude about my welfare than even my parents ever did. Finally, I have in desperation made up my mind that the advertisers have got to stop butting into my affairs. With the end in view of setting an example which should end this perpetual inquisition, I have compiled a series of answers to the questions they ask. I therefore want it thoroughly understood that I do not get red in the face when introduced to a clever girl at a party, that this offer is not too marvelous to be believed, that I haven't an idea of what opportu- nity is, that I play the oboe, traps, kettledrum, bass viol, ocarina, jew’s- harp, calliope, celesta and pipe organ perfectly, that I don’t want to be a good dancer, that I can spell, read and write, that I cannot stutter, that this job is not too big for me, that if a fellow passed a rude remark to my wife on the street I would run away, taking her along if possible, that I would rather be both of these men, that I do not want to make more money and that I can swim. Now, darn them, maybe they'll leave me alone! B. 1. The First Valentine Across obliterating years, Envoy to a forgotten shrine, This ghost of yesterday appears— A message “To My Valentine.” Tawdry its glories seem to-day. * Banal the sentiments here versed. Yet none of those that followed may Dispute its place: this was the first. A. H. who yo’ think holds dem forty horses back?” I Ruin Sunday AM volume incarnate. I litter the living-room with litho- graphic slapstick. I fill the dining-room with want ads. I congest the kitchen with crime I carpet the conservatory society twitter. I blanket the library with automobile and theatrical publicity piffle. I corrupt the nursery and cram the ash can. I am the world’s biggest bundle of murder, mush, elopement, divorce. alimony, chorus girls, prehistoric animals, President Harding, magni- fied microbes, garters, real estate un- rest, sport sputter, book bosh, bird’s- eyes, and bathing beauties. I break up breakfast. I wreck the day of rest. T am a hell of a start for a perfectly good week. I am the Sunday paper. with DSH. comicbooks.com