Isaac Newton High School - Newtonian Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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Oil John Palamar 76 Isaac N ewton

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I continued down Cheepoin’s main street, incidentally, called the “Street with no name,” and meditated over the amazing spectacles and noise I had seen and heard. My short, meditating walk was broken when I plunged head - long into the gutter, mud splattering my new, double - breasted, hand-stitched suit, which I had im¬ ported from Yakland, a little village a few miles from the Belgian Congo’s southmost village. Here, while I was searching for a rare, tropical flower, I had befriended the natives. I cap¬ tured their hearts as follows: On my arrival they forced me into a huge pot, and built a fire under me. Evidently they were cannibals. As the water grew uncomfortably warm, one of the natives, probably the chef, tasted the broth. He discovered that my old boots and socks, boiled, had a more exotic taste than human soup, so I was given the freedom of the village. I was forced to give my word, however, that when I reached home, I would send them more old shoes. Since I had spent many years as a tailor’s apprentice, I also taught them how to sew; hence my imported suit. I placed a band-aid over the split in my head, received from the fall, pushed the odd brains which had oozed from the hole in my head into the gutter, (so no innocent passerby would slip on them) and continued my way. Luckily, enough brains were salvaged to permit me to read with utmost intelligence, the address on the parcel which had caused my fall. The address turned out to be a con¬ gested, cold-water flat, situated amid other, identically - alike, rat - traps. Hesitatingly, I glanced at the mail¬ boxes until I saw the room number I sought. Climbing the rickety stair¬ case, I found the room to be the attic. Evidently my party were no stock¬ brokers, and the residence was no penthouse. I knocked. Nobody an¬ swered. I knocked again and the impact of my pounding jarred the door, so it creaked open. From then on, I have exclusive rights and royalties to the sound effects used on the Inner Sanctum program. Though it was pitch - black inside, I entered courageously. Inside the room, I hea rd a perpetual thumping. I whirled around, ready to meet all comers but discovered it was only my heart beating. Suddenly a brilliant light blinded me, and roughly speaking, “ahem”, a hundred or more, big monstrosities that called them¬ selves men, dropped from the rafters of the attic onto my marvellous body, which I exhibit to the fairer sex, every summer, at Coney Island. They put up a valiant struggle, but you see, having taught amateurs like Joe Louis and Ezzard Charles all they know, I made short work of them, and “piled them up” as the pioneers used to pile logs for a log-house. “Cut”, I heard a booming, angry voice shout from above. Looking up, I saw a producer and director squatting in portable chairs — cameras, stunt¬ men and other cinema accessories, all perched on a suspended platform, near the rafters. Stage hands and camera men howled with laughter. To my humiliation, I had burst in, and com¬ pletely ruined a scene from a movie. After my spectacular entrance, the director made everything clear to me, the box, which tripped me, was placed on the street, intentionally, and if I hadn’t touched it, the regular actor was to come along, pick up the box, honestly return the box to the owners in the attic, but unlike myself, he was to be overpowered by the brutes, who so rudely attacked me—poor fellows! Meanwhile the camera car, watching the box on the street, mistook me for the original star, and shot all the scenes of me, from the time I fell, till the time I was at the foot of the apart¬ ment house. Concealed cameras picked up my journey from there. The pro¬ ducer decided to use me for the rest of the film, and a month later, held the premiere. I guess you know what happened when the picture was run. After the premiere, I was hailed as an up-and-coming box-office attraction. I signed a contract for fifty years, at one hundred thousand dollars a year (the movie heads knew talent when (Continued on Page 88) N E W T 0 N I A N 75

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Ray McMillan Water Color Wilbert Wagner