Life, 1928-01-12 · page 12 of 39
Life — January 12, 1928 — page 12: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains three distinct pieces: 1. **Top cartoon**: A motorist has crashed into a boat. The joke plays on insurance terminology—the driver says he now only needs "one thing" to complete his misfortune: "An accident" (implying the crash itself doesn't count as one). 2. **"Beneath His Rough Exterior"**: A humorous essay by Heman Fag, Jr., where a cynical, gruff man confesses he's actually sentimental underneath—reading *Saturday Evening Post* and becoming emotional over advertisements. 3. **"Odyssey of a Man with a Cold"**: A comic dialogue showing a man calling various people (Bud, Sam, Bob, Jones, Smutley) while sick, each conversation frustratingly brief. A separate panel shows two women (Jane and June) discussing a woman's "lovely contour" and silhouette—June admits she's never ridden in the car being discussed.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Motorist: I've taken out accident insurance and now I only need one thing. “What's that?” you you “An accident. Beneath His Rough Exterior - - - T AM an iconoclast. I have one of those stern, austere natures that see right through the petty shams of life. With lip curled, one sardonic eyebrow lifted, I watch the foolish, fluttering human moths that mistake the electric lights for the stars. When my attention is called to progress, I snee faterial slavery!" in a very cutting manner. When a bugler blows taps over the radio, with all the quavers turned on, I scornfully kick over the loud-speaker and return to my book of es’ When a_ pretty girl sweetly begs me to buy a red, red pan for the Veterans of the Nicaraguan War, I pass her coldly by. When somebody breaks down and begins to sob about his mother, I walk out and slam the door. And I never pass that pic- ture of a little baby and three kittens without sticking out my tongue at it. As I say, I'm an iconoclast; a fifty- nine-minute egg. And yet nd yet... buried down deep in my flinty nature there must be something human, something warm and lovable; some spark of fire not quite quenched by the years’ encrustations. Because every Thursday, as soon as I get home with my Saturday Evening Post, I sink into my armchair and spend a blissful hour reading over all the beautiful ads, even down to the last half-column about that new “LT ELLO, Bud. up, will it? I > you... That'll break it Glad to Looe .. All right, thanks— -I see F | Glad to I'll try it.—Hello see you... .Just rub [ it into my chest, eh? I see....I see.... Thanks, I'l )) °° try it—Hello, Bob... ./ of water every hour, ch? |) “8 Isee....T see... . -—Hi, Jones... . How do you S spell that? Is I see....—'Lo, Spumley par ...Tsee....1see....1s .Isee....Isee....1s aso} weal BB ons se doctor. Can homicidal mania -—Hello, 7 ‘ou treat me for a | ’ Tup. toothpaste that is also a gentle lax- ative. Heman Fay, Jr. Jane: Yes, Betty’s got a lovely contour. And isn’t her silhouette distinctive? i Jt June: I don't know, I never rode in it. comicbooks.com