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Page 169 text:
It Couldn ' t Happen Here! Bring forth the royal dipper and spread lightly the sod. The year has passed and has revealed time- worn antics of our beloved colleagues. The rush- ing of the freshmen, the stuffed boxes at election time, the skipping of classes, the breaking up of fallsicious loves, all have been followed to a bray like all others. However, since we think that we have had more than an average year as we al- ways do each and every year, mayhap we have had one or two things that the other groups of un- civilized barbarians that have trod the light fantasty have been unable to bring out in their tales of col- lege days while crying in their mugs with some bored companion who wants to tell of his experi- ences in some jerk-water joint where he idled away his families ' hand made sod money. Such as the breaking up of these three familiar couples (in the other years it was either more or less.) There was Weenie Bynum, and never a finer lad shuffled his sock-happy way across the beaten twigs that we call a campus, who was jilted practically at the altar by the little girl who fought so hard for him while he was a name on many a well-known news- paper. This little bit of nonsense was Ethel Shrop- shire who also ran in every cheer-leader election that went on while in this hyar collich. Then there was the less serious case of our well-known and well-liked Curtis Jones who for three years went the route for us while in such a condition to have an ordinary man under six feet of sod. He was wooed and won by Billie Katherine Pryor who at the begin- ning of the spring term and the coming of new foot- ball players dropped him off like the wrapping on a box from home. Then finally the case of the two best-known people on the whole dad burn place and you should know who they are. For three years the young lady stood in front of hundreds to urge their voices a little louder in the backing of your team and her team. He was the object of many of these exhibitions of vocal power and rightly so but it availed him naught in the end. At times the at- mosphere was filled with the scent of lilacs and at times bitterweeds played the major part in the odor- izing of the air, but now only a bitter memory on the part of both of them. Thus, the obituary of three is written and the mark- ing of the downfall of three others are recorded. The rightful places you may chose for the actors your- self but it does prove a thing or two that all is not well. Thank Gosh, we are able to find others out before it is too late. That we must be thankful for.
Page 168 text:
A Donkeytopsy by Dr. Whiffinpuff Well, we brought the Donkey over to the Commerce Building after much coaxing and pushing, getting him as far as the steps where he refused to travel further until so-and-so went down to the Student Union Building and played a game of ping-pong. Finally he consented to go up the stairs and see what he was made of. The Editor sent Katey Ewerz over to the Zoo lab to borrow a disecting set and then Mr. White had to be found to borrow a file to cut the microbes off the scalpel, and then the poor little donkey submitted to a whiff of the business manager ' s sock and passed gently into dream-land. First his brain was taken out to see who governed his actions so well. There we found the Student Senate in a big confab over who was to shoot the cubes first and who faded who and why, finally coming out was James Patterson who rolled craps first off and wouldn ' t pay Charles Knight the three cents that had been bet. Leaving this portion of his anatomy, the Staff went to the legs to find out who upheld both ends and the middle and there were four staunch supporters so often found in each other ' s company — Bob Ray and Betty Mae Coburn up front in a golden beige Ford with Thais Ray ' s registration rapped around the steering gear and Hugh McCall and Bernice Ed- wards trying to get on the other side in the back without going around one another. We figured that this would go on forever, so the heart was looked for next. This proud animal, being what it is, could only have the greatest pumping organ of any one around so we felt sure that only the brave and true would be the keeper of the oiler. That happened to be Bill Morris and Kathleen McDonald who have gushed over one and the other for so long and so sweetly that we were not surprised one little bit, for we felt sure that they would keep it up until life did them part or they found out about one another. Dropping over to the stomach we found such a great (you thought we were going to say personage or better) mass of humanity that we had trouble at first in seeing who it was but finally the Irish Sweepstakes winner came over the radio and he rose up to see who it was and so we found out that the supplier of the part the ilium comes be- fore was Henry Williamson. What Ho! we cried, " will stuff never cease such as this, " and went grudgingly on our way to the next part, guided by the chart that we had borrowed, also from the Science Department, that showed what parts should be where, and came up on the liver — gall, bitter gall, cast an aroma on the typewriter and smelled strangely of Lloyd DeMoss and corroded the keys. Letting our staff science major run a test on the fluid going down the main bile duct she found it to be a lot of little Kappa Sigmas following the orders of the great leader who had so much practice in three years. Finally, after several hours of ill-wished work we came to the tail and there to one ' s already crazed brain came the surprise of the composition — sitting in the shade of the canvas covering were Prexy of the Knights, Lamar Bain and Marie Hemen- way leisurely skipping classes and wanting school to hurry and get out. We had reached the end and sader but sillier, quickly the parts were thrown to- gether for the effect of the sock had worn out and the Jass Honkey was beginning to stir. " My gosh, he said as he came out of it, " did you have to hit me with that Colliers? Wouldn ' t a Saturday Eve- ning Post have done the same thing? " With this we could keep him no longer and he bounded away into the night to come again on the morrow and wart us more.
Page 170 text:
Snapping With Our Camera This well baggaged young lady is Mimi Molloy who knows just how to catch the same train as the Matron at Christmas Holidays. Do your heels run down? Are they unnoticed? Heels are my hobby (if you get what I mean). Let me make you a first class heel so says Billy Hobby upon interviewing himself. This is the proper way to re- ceive the boy friend ' s jewelry in case you get it. Represented here is June Cook who simply takes it as a matter of course. This is a cute little blonde who must dress as slow as the Lunch Room service to be late to so many classes. If you ' re gonna drink cokes, drink in style. Cokes mixed with grape punch packs an awful wallop so Francais — holds to the seat while Hugh — concocts. A change of face does the soul good — so says Helen Shaw. Thus explaining her about face this year. " Never start out tell- ing four or five that you love them — it rebounds! " This could be a new hat but it ' s really the newest thing in blushing. Noticed to be pre- dominant at the Pelican in case someone you know sees you. Apples in bloom are beautiful. Ripe cherries, however, appeal to Robert Ray. And glasses are so good about containing them in the bottom. WORLD ' S WORST WANT ADS— c Hesulh WANTED — Two unused bass voices. Must be capable of singing " La Traviata. " See Glenn Welsh and Edwin Whited. HELP WANTED— I need help badly in my love affairs. Will pay well for suitable proposition. See Charles Knight any evening after five. LOST — A few assorted football and basketball games, dated 1939-1940. The C Club. NEEDED for immediate dating for next Chi ' O dance — Several outwardly nice boys. Any Kappa Sigma will do. Chi ' O Sorority. WANTED — More worlds to conquer. Make ap- pointment as I am a busy man. George Hearne. WANTED— A job in Ruston. Beatrice Carlton. WANTED — Coaching in geometry. J. G. Carruth. HELP — Am losing Earl Harter possibly George Hearne. Any suggestions kindly appealed for. H. Heath.
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