﻿BORROWED GLORY 
By T-BONE SLIM 
 
The confirmed Pharisees, sometimes referred to as “reformers”, are having their day in N. Y. C. 

Prohibitionists, no different, are clowning the whole attention just at present. –– “Legitimate” show boats are bowing to the “circus” and going on ice. 

Prohibition, itself, according to late scientific discoveries, is the product of militant “meddlers” variously described––”Hypocrites” being the popular title. 
They can be identified, it is said, by a certain “narrowness of the air-gap between the eyes.” 

Look in the mirror––you may be a “reformer” yourself. 
If your fears prove to be sound and you find your eyes sparkle kind o knock-kneed, don’t become paralyzed at the horror of it––see a good doctor (if any) right away. If you have no mirror, you can determine your social status spiritually: if you feel a distinct swelling in the neighborhood of you ego, you’re a reformer pure and simple––very pure and simple. In such a case, you’ll never need “blinders” to keep you in the rut.  
 
Needless to say reformers accomplish nothing that is beneficial to the human race––their output consists of “programs” (that no one follows) a situation wherein they bask in the artificial light of borrowed glory without paying “interest” (Last statement is inspired.) 

All right. As I was saying, this country was “reformed” of its we[t] habits during the period when 2,000,000 of our heavier fisted citizens were in France arguing it out with the “beer guzzling” Fritz and Hans and Herman. 
It was safe for the reformers at that time to put the country in a hole that it will never get out of. A broad statement, eh? (Note: I’m not saying “our boys” were sober “over there”.) 
Yes, we’re in a hole to stay. 
I’m reminded in this connection of a friend of mine––a collie dog: From time to time he would come home in the gloomiest of spirits. Despondency, shame, fairly stuck out on him . . . from afar I concluded the rabbit got away . . . But upon closer study, I had to revise my views: the dog was downcast because he had just been reformed by a skunk.  
In an “uncautious” moment he had got within range of the pole-cat’s “appendment”. 
You know the stench sticks. Well sir, do you know, by the time the dog wore off most of the perfume, he would saunter in again “perfumigated” to the nozzle––he could always step out and find another skunk––generally the skunk found him first. 
But this hath nothing to do with my subject. 
Years ago the kings, instead of saying thou “shalt not” let things pass by simply saying “Thou Shalt!” For instance, they didn’t say, “Buddy, your god is a fake, ye showldn’t worship him.” No, they came out flatfooted and roared: “Get down on your knees, varmint, and give a crawl to the divine oiler”––and sure enough, in those days, the kings were greasy enuff to satisfy the most lubrigatingest god. They, the kings, didn’t criticize your style of worship. No, they said, “Hey, ye halfwit, do it this-a-way”––if you fell down, off rolled your head. 
That was the reason given out for a great exodus of worshipers from Merrie England––and many a redskin bit the dust––Now they PROHIBIT––what’s the difference? No more “do like a dis; do like a dat.” It’s just “DON’T” with three exclamation points and Maybelle Wille-brandt behind it. 
What’s the difference? 
What difference does it make whether you are Pushed or Pulled––you get there just the same, dontcha? 
Anyhow, it’s better than finding your place just ahead of a series of kicks upon the after-protuberance. 
Keep your shirt on! I’m busting in two this article with the modest philosophy: we are aided and abetted in doing the will of others––which, same, keeps us busy the whole of our docile life and peradventure causes many to cast jealous eyes upon the worm that turned. No use talking, editor, the good folks appear to be absinthe-minded or something . . . 
 
A National Problem. 
It has puzzled many a brave [Ame]rican––this prosperity that [missing]tant and running around throughout our fair land––and are those of delicate faith that [missing] right out and say that it do[es] exist . . . 
Well, now, although I conf[ess] never personally met with prosperity, I can say with a [missing] heart that it lives and is one of fundamental principles broad during electioneering periods [missing] the “I Got MINE” boys and “I [missing] MINE TO GET” editors––it [missing] the cut-rate editors are yow[missing] “prosperity” to bolster their ev[missing] rating courage, a condition wh[missing] in, as a natural phenomenon, t[missing] mouthings are bound to be s[missing] what gaseous . . . 
An editor under financial st[missing]gency never should try to y[missing] “prosperity”––he should confine musings to “IT MIGHT [GET] WORSE.” 
That would sound more reason[able] and people might once again, [missing] fully bend an ear to the press—[missing] MORNING TISSUE AND HERA[[missing]IMAGINER.  
After election, of course, [pros]perity is a dead issue save for [missing] once-a-month assurance “it’s [missing] around the corner”––on such [occa]sions the suffering multitudes t[missing] heart and try to drag themselves [missing] the favored locale, intersection [missing] “Poorhouse Rd. and Gold Co[missing] Drive”.––And––When 
They––Get––There: 
It’s just around the corner––next corner –– in Mr. Gotgel[missing] palace. 
Has It Come to This? 
“A professor employs 800 le[missing] soldiers to teach maneuvers . . [.] 
“Cambridge, Mass., April 10 [missing] Yessir. Telegram.” 
“An army or 800 lead soldi[ers] (not tin) assists the faculty of MA[missing] Institute of Technology in giving instructions in history and kindr[missing] subjects . . .” 
No doubt the professor gets qui[te] a thrill marshalling all those pewt[missing] warriors in battle array and killing the hated enemy by the carload . .  
I, in prison, didn’t think the pr[ofessors] had yet graduated out of t[he] alfabet-class that plays with wood[en] blocks (no insidious insinuation he[re)]––if I meant wooden-blocs I wou[ld] have had the courtesy to say so. 
Still and all, I have my doubts s[s] to this higher learning, and, whe[n] you realize that I am writing this a[t] 2.30 a. m., by the time of the clock you will understand that I entertai[n] great fear as to the advisability of deserting the good, old, reliabl[e] blocks, right in the middle of [a] crisis––in fact, I feel, this advance[d] study will wreck the delicate arch[i]tecture of the student brain-pan[missing] cause the crown-sheet of the[m]masticating cavern to drop on the sibillitating annunciator and arrest or destroy its usefulness as it unsuspectingly shuttles to and fro between mouthfuls––mebbe choke ‘em––mebbe start a new crime wave––a permanent wave. 
Verily I do believe the students should be allowed nothing more exhilirating or exciting than Star Spangled Banner as an outlet for their pent up patriotism and draw poker as a medium of inculcating in their hearts the finer elements of attack and strategy. 

Let’s fosget it. 
Nicholas Murray Butler, noted evangelist of things educational, High Mogul of Princeton or Columbia, is on the flat of his back with a mysterious sickness. Even the most luscid newspapers of New York City, heretofore disseminators of knowledge in all things from social registerites pyjama parties to world courts and cancer cures, are unable at this moment to name the disease that attacked the doughty “professor”. 
The people will hold their breath till we find out whether he is accursed with ingrowing toe nails or falling of the hair. 
The doctors appear to be tickled pink––”his condition is satisfactory”, as they say. Almost like “good enough for him”. 
I s’pose the sawbones don’t know more about his malady than I know about health––which all sums up to and including––nothing. 
Drop that. 
It now develops a multum-millionaire can be jailed––at least for “sassing” the senate. 
But, brethern, it took five years and couple administrations to do it. No use talking, it’s a laborious pro- [rest of the text is missing].