Baltimore Evening Sun (26 June 1912): 8.
THE OFFICIAL FORECAST. [The super-Mahon in his weekly paper.] When the showdown comes, he [I] will be unanimously nominated for the Vice-Presidency.
And my advice to all thrifty souls is to get down a few dollars on him. Two days ago the walking books on Hoffman street were offering 7 to 1 against him. Tuesday they jumped to 7 to 6 on him. This morning the odds reached 2 to 1.
The Pullman car porters of the special trains now in port will be entertatned at a chicken-eat tonight by the Druid Hill Avenue Preston Club.
The sedulous tallowing of the dutiful Hot Towel:
Mayor Preston is a born fighter. While he is at his best when he is at war, so to speak, he fights according to the rules.
The which rules, as the honorable gentleman understands them, would seem to be two in number, to wit:
Rule 1—Grab the other fellow in a tight embrace. Rule 2—Weep down his neck until he is stiff with rheumatism.
Come on, Colonel Pabst! Get your American Munich going! Two or three years more of picric acid and we’ll be too far gone to appreciate it.
With military music falling upon every ear and honest liquor loosing a babble of tongues, the birth of a new daily paper in Baltimore went unnoticed yesterday. And yet it was duly born, a lusty and lovely youngster, and here is one, at least, who hopes that it may flourish for many a day. The name it bears is that of the Baltimore Daily Bulletin and its editor-in-chief is the Hon. Richard Respess, founder, builder and now Mayor of Respess City, that most marvelous of modern seaports. When the brain of the Hon. Mr. Respess conceived the daring plan of building Respess City the site was a part of the great Ann’ Ran’al steppe, or so-called Brickyard desert. But now it is covered with hundreds of busy factories and miles of comfortable homes, and a huge population gives substance and reality to the eminent founder’s vision.
Gorged with the emoluments and usufructs of this humane venture, the Hon. Mr. Respess proposes to show his gratitude to Baltimore, the scene of his early struggles, by giving the city its first truly metropolitan newspaper. Such is the Daily Bulletin, a journal for the home. It presents the news of the day in a spicy and entertaining fashion, it offers instructive articles upon plain sewing, home cooking and the use of the broom; it is lavishly illustrated by the latest processes of photogravure, and it offers daily a budget of masterly editorials by acknowledged virtuosi of the literary art.
Naturally enough, the Hon. Mr. Respess gives the weight of his support to the Hon. the super-Mahon, a dreamer like himself and one who loves the lowly. In the initial issue of the Bulletin there were no less than four able articles upon the great deeds of the super-Mahon, including one contributed in all modesty by the super-Mahon himself. Thus all truly great men recognize and acknowledge one another. Thus the founder of Respess City lays his dahlia at the feet of his distinguished confrere, the founder of Greater Baltimore.
The appearance of the Bulletin, bu the way, gives the Hon. the super-Mahon the support of four daily papers in Baltimore, or one more than he finds against him. Those of the former group are: The Hot Towel. The Evening Serviette. Der Deutsche Correspondent. The Daily Bulletin.
And those that refuse diabolically to see his greatness are:
The licentious Sunpaper. The rascally Evening Sunpaper. The unspeakable Evening News.
Besides, the super-Mahon is supported by the estimable Democratic Telegram, the Labor Leader and the Elementary Teacher. This gives him a majority of the public gazettes of Baltimore—a majority including every journal known to be independent and unpurchaseable.
Feverish shoe-shining of the ever-amusing Hot Towel:
Although country bom and bred, he (the Hon. the super-Mahon) is a polished city gentleman, with the courtliness and grace of a past century.
Particularly when he discusses the contumacies and deviltries of the Hon. William H. Anderson, that agent of Satan.
Boil your drinking water! Cover your garbage can! Get some of Harry’s money while the bar’l is open! Swat the fly!
Thirty cheap but sterile cigars to the Hon. Henry A. McMains, D. O., camerlengo, etc., of the League for Medical Freedom, etc., etc., for any evidence, etc., etc., etc.
Entered on the lost child sheet at police headquarters:
The Greater Baltimore Committee. The Reform League. The Maryland Antivivisection Society.
Scoundrelly paragraph in The Evening Sunpaper of yesterday:
He [the Hon. the super-Mahon] passed up the aisle all the way to the front row of the Maryland seats and stood for a few minutes in plain view of any who felt disposed to make a noise. However, there was no disturbance.
No “disturbance?” Naturally not. Does the emotion of awe provoke a “disturbance?” Do men staggered and flabbergasted bellow and stamp their feet?
Further fragments from an unfinished ode to “the only fair newspaper”:
And if, perchance, the client cries for more, Lay it on thickly, with an eager hand; Talcum is cbeap: why dust it niggardly? And let the bay-rum roll in fragrant floods Adown the gills that palpitate with heat.
What’s this? A shekel? Thruppence? Half a mark? Nay, ’tis the silver of a lordlier land, The minted coin of Liberty’s sweet realm: To wit, a dime, ten cents. A meet reward For all that fevered assiduity, For all that wielding of the soothing towel, For all that lavish smearing of pomade, For all that saturnalia of massage!
Ten cents? Not much! And yet, methinks, enough— Enough to loose the tear of gratitude, Enough to buy a luscious pair of beers, Enough for Labor’s honorarium!
Today’s installment of Prof. Dr. John Turner’s spicy interview with himself is unfortunately crowded out by the pressure of political and sociological matter. But it will be resumed, the gods willing, tomorrow—and then pushed promptly to its bitter conclusion.