Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, July 1922 · page 34 of 67
Captain Billy's Whiz Bang #35 — page 34: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains two distinct pieces. The first is a brief satirical essay comparing African customs favorably to American behavior—praising African restraint in warfare (fighting only when hungry) versus American wars fought "for no reason," while advocating for ethnic self-determination ("Africa for the Africans...New York for the Jews"). This reflects 1920s progressive attitudes, though the racial language is period-typical. The second piece begins a sentimental narrative about encountering a drunk foreigner in winter. He's revealed to be devastated by his lover Lucy's death, seeking oblivion through alcohol ("hootch"—prohibition-era slang for illegal liquor). The story appears designed to elicit pathos, setting up a human-interest tale in a satirical magazine's pages. Both pieces address alcohol and cultural attitudes characteristic of post-WWI America.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Captain Billy's Whiz Bang 33 rational for hot weather than any kind of clothes per-mitted in New Jersey. They had their little dances by torchlight under the trees, as we hear our midnight follies atop the theatre. They beat their tom-toms and wriggled their tum-tums, as also our jazz orchestras perform and our young folks shimmy and fox-trot. They made war when they were hungry and needed food, fun and women. We make war for no reason at all, and do not even eat our foes. I am for Africa for the Africans. Ireland for Irish, and New York for the Jews. The Negroes are a happy, contended and lovable people, and have as much right to their place in the sun, and also in the shade, as white folks. * * * THE night was cold and blizzardy, and the snow whirled horizontally through the downtown streets. As I hurried along with my head bowed down, I ran into a reeling figure which staggered from a dark alley. The man was a foreigner, and appeared to be of some means, but the snow-covered clothes and matted hair betokened a drunkard. In fact, he was in the last stages of “hootch” and well-nigh helpless. “Hello, there!” said I, “Don’t you know you’re liable to be arrested?” “Thash all right, frien,” he replied, “It’s the only thing thash left for me—I tried to forget it, but I can’t—I can’t—she would do it—she left me for good, stranger—Lucy died—week ago.” One by one a crowd had collected—a nonde-script crowd that comes from nowhere upon a