﻿T-BONE SLIM DISCUSSES SOUL R PLEXUS PLUS— 
 
Consider, oh earner of bonafide income———oh bonafide earner of income with strings attached———consider, oh worker, the great American institution—the pooltable: When the price is 5 cents a cue, it takes 85 minutes to play a game, When the price is 40 cents an hour, it takes 14½ minutes to play a game. Consider, oh man, that the pocketbook makes gentlemen step around lively, in the second game. Truly the philosofer says, “It is money that makes the mare go. 
Uneasy lies the wallet that pays the bills. 
A blow on the pocketbook is a foul blow—a dirty tick—a nasty wallop—a soul “R” plexus. 

Consider, oh neighbor, the thoughtful tenderness with which the autoist wraps and tucks warm blankets around his radiator front. 
Why? 
Ah, my fellow man, if he didn’t’t do that, $15 would freeze in his pocket. Thus it is that the radiator (despised all summer) gets, such loving care in the winter time. 
There is potential power in a pocketbook—and if it comes to a real showdown it will make the parasite work—or “make a stab at it.” 
There is great agitation over ‘crossings accidents’. Much tears has been split over the motorists’ wrecklessness. They have been begged, pleaded with to “please have sense.” Allin vain.—Accidents occur—happen. Warning signboards have been placed—a black, gloomy crow on white with letters RR sunk thereon. 
No use. (Peace to their pieces. ‘Xcuse these few tears of regret ; 
Nobody seems to know how to save those mad fools, and somebody thinks they ain’t worth saving—not so here. 
I’ll save them. ‘Tis I, the noble T-bone Slim, that knows how: 
Just corrugate the road a little on both sides of the crossing. By the time a wreckless driver has busted a few springs, he will Kross Krossii Kautiously. 
Isn’t it strange how a “jar to a pocketbook” drives sense clear thru a man, and eliminates the jar of the train on one’s vertibraey. 

“Grief that does not speak” is not bad at all—like laughing up your sleev—it’s the silence that hurts. 
Being an expert on grief, I want all grievers to take my words to heart and mourn accordingly. Out with facts and grow fat! 

Grief is one of the greatest of pleasures! 

Cry and gain a sympathetic audience; laugh and they lock you up. 

All men are born great and, immediately start slipping—die, as nothing, small indeed, and quickly. 

“It is folly to expect man to do all that they may reasonably be expected to do”—WHATELY. 
That’s just is. We all fail to do our full duty. Where’s our, greatness? Is it in the “failure”? 
Seems to me our greatness is next to nothing—seeing as how “getting the money” away our fellow critters is not even probability of greatness. As Carlyle would say, Fame is not a test of merit . . . . it is an accident and “not a property of a man.” 
A man, I said —a m-a-n. 

Speaking of men: I beheld the organization drive of the Chamber of Commerce in Iron Mountain, “Fordesia.”. And, in the ceremony, a Grecian restaurant proprietor was initiated into full fledged membership upon the payment of $12.50 and a promise to pay a like amount six months later. 
Now, I am not opposed to paying a nickle extra for my meals if by so doing I can make it possible for restaurant keepers to join a union of their class, because I realize that their interests can not be protected except by organization.—Labor too would be doing itself a great favor if it would organize in a union to protect “his source of livelihood;” now that he feels “he” needs one. Join the I. W. W.—Yes indeed, the aforesaid business man proudly hung his certificate of membership in the window, and I am sure—quite sure—his presence in the Iron Mountain Chamber of Commerce is equivalent to a blood transfusion in a life and death question.