Pluck and Luck

by Robert Benchley

  Perhaps that is the whole trouble with Shakespeare anyway. Too many people have taken him up. If they would let you alone, to read snatches from his plays now and then when you wanted to, and stop reading when you wanted to, it might not be so bad. But no! They must ask you what he meant by this, and where the inflection should come on that, and they must stand up in front of scenery and let a lot of hams declaim at you while you are supposed to murmur “Gorgeous!” and “How well he knew human nature!” as if you couldn’t go to Bartlett’s “Quotations” and get the meat of it in half the time. I wouldn’t be surprised, if things keep on as they are, if Shakespeare began to lose his hold on people. I give him ten centuries more at the outside.

  * * *

  PREV TOC INDEX NEXT

  The Romance of Digestion

  * * *

  When you take a bite of that delicious cookie, or swallow a morsel of that nourishing bread, do you stop to think of the marvelous and intricate process by means of which Mother Nature is going to convert it into bone and sinew and roses for those pretty cheeks? Probably not, and it is just as well. For if you did stop to think of it at that time, you would unquestionably not be able to digest that cookie – or that nourishing bread.

  But whether you think of it or not this exciting process of digestion is going on, day in and day out, sometimes pretty badly but always with a great show of efficiency. It is, on the whole, probably one of the worst-done jobs in the world.

  First you must know that those hard, white edges of bone which you must have noticed hundreds of times along the front of your mouth, are “teeth,” and are put there for a very definite purpose. They are the ivory gates to the body. They are Nature’s tiny sentinels, and if you have ever bitten yourself, you will know how sharp they can be, and what efficient little watchmen they are. Just you try to slip your finger into your mouth without your teeth’s permission, and see how far you get. Or try to get it out, once they have captured it.

  Now these thousands of brave little soldiers, the teeth, which we have in our mouths, take the food as it comes through the air (in case you are snapping at a butterfly) or from the fork, and separate it into its component parts (air, land and water). In this process, the teeth are aided by the tongue, which is that awful-looking thing right back of your teeth. Don’t look at it!

  The tongue (which we may call the escalator of the mouth or Nature’s nobleman for short), and the teeth toss the food back and forth between them until there is nothing left of it, except the little bones which you have to take out between your thumb and forefinger and lay on your butter-plate. In doing this be careful that the bone is really on the butter-plate and that it does not stick to your finger so that you put it back into your mouth again on the next trip, for this would make the little white sentries very angry and they might all drop out.

  And now comes the really wonderful part of the romance which is being enacted right there under your very eyes. A chemical reaction on the tongue presses a little button which telegraphs down, down, down, ’way down to the cross old Stomach and says: “Please, sir, do you want this food or don’t you?” And the Stomach, whom we shall call “Prince Charming” from now on, telegraphs (or more likely writes) back: “Yes, dear!” or “You can do what you like with it for all of me.” Just as he happens to feel at the time.

  And then, such a hurry and bustle as goes on in the mouth! “Foodie’s going to visit Stomach!” all the little teeth cry, and rush about for all the world as if they were going themselves. “All aboard, all aboard!” calls out the tongue, and there is a great ringing of bells and blowing of whistles and bumping of porters and in the midst of it all, the remnants of that delicious cookie seated nervously on the tongue, ready to be taken down on its first journey alone, down to see Prince Charming. For all the joyousness of the occasion, it is a little sad, too. For that bit of cookie is going to get some terribly tough treatment before it is through.

  The food is then placed on a conveyor, by means of which it is taken to the Drying Room, situated on the third floor, where it is taken apart and washed and dried, preparatory to going through the pressing machines. These pressing machines are operated by one man, who stands by the conveyor as it brings the food along and tosses it into the vats. Here all rocks and moss are drawn off by mechanical pickers and the food subjected to treatment in a solution of sulphite, a secret process which is jealously guarded. From here the food is taken to the Playroom where it plays around awhile with the other children until it is time for it to be folded by the girls in the bindery, packed into neat stacks, and wrapped for shipment in bundles of fifty. Some of these bundles, the proteins, are shipped to the bones of the body, others, the hydrates, go to making muscle, while a third class, the sophomores, contribute to making fatty tissue which nobody wants, that is, not if he has any pride at all about his appearance. The by-products are made into milk-bottle caps, emery wheels, and insurance calendars, and are sold at cost.

  Thus we see how wonderfully Nature takes care of us and our little troubles, aided only by soda-mint and bicarbonate.

  * * *

  PREV TOC INDEX NEXT

  How to Watch Football

  * * *

  As almost everyone is late in arriving at a football game, there is a period of perhaps twenty-five minutes after the kick-off when you are milling around outside the gate in the crowd, looking for your proper entrance. This is perhaps the most trying period of all for the spectator. He hears occasional barkings from the quarterback, followed by terrible silence, and then a roar from one side or the other, he can’t tell which. Almost anything may have happened. The visiting half-back may be racing down the field for a touchdown, or good old Grimsey of the home-team may have caught a forward pass on the enemy’s three-yard line. Alternate waves of apprehension and elation sweep up and down the fur-clad back of the tardy partisan. What to do? What to do?

  The first impulse is to jump up on the shoulders of the people standing next you. This would, however, get you nowhere, as they would probably move away after a while and leave you flat. The next idea is to ask someone if he knows what has just happened. This is equally silly, as he is just about to ask you.

  The best way is simply to turn around and push your way through the crowd back to the street, where, in a few minutes, newsboys will be selling extras giving the score as far as the first quarter, and, in addition, you will then be able to see how Ursinus and Pratt University stand at the end of their first quarter. Then you can go back into the crowd and wait until another extra is out.

  For those who finally do get into their seats, there are several points to be noted before a successful following of the game can be accomplished. In order to see the plays as they are pulled off, there is one thing that is essential. The man in front of you must be sitting down. I cannot emphasize this point too strongly. No matter how conversant you may be with the technical side of the game, you simply cannot watch it intelligently if your range of vision is blocked by six square feet of raccoon coat and a pair of waving arms.

  You are pretty sure to have one of these boys in front of you. So it is well to be prepared. He will sit quietly until just as the quarterback begins to give the signals. Then he comes up and yells: “Let’s go! ” It does no good to call “Down in front! ” He thinks you are shouting at someone in front of him, and perhaps joins in the demand himself. There is just one way out. It is the way that all honorable men have taken since the beginning of history whenever the good of the state has demanded that they act and act quickly.

  We are getting out a special folding pocket dagger this season (with sheepskin case, $7.00). It will go through any fur coat, no matter how heavy, and will inflict a dangerous if not fatal wound.

  A very serious mistake to which prospective members of a football crowd are prone is trying to learn the rules. One cannot be too emphatic in condemning this happily diminishing practice. It is likely to spoil the entire afternoon for a loyal alumnus, because of its tendency to undermi
ne his belief that all penalties called against the dear old Varsity are unjust. Then where is the sweet consolation of knowing that we would have won if the referee had not been on parole from the penal institution to which he was committed for mutilating little children?

  It is well, too, for the football enthusiast of maturer years to make no attempt to learn all the Alma Mater yells. Most of them are so complicated that the words can be learned only by years of constant study and so difficult of articulation that they threaten permanent injury to the aging larynx. A better plan is to content yourself with chanting “Touchdown!” or “Hold ’em!” as the case may be. Alumni of some of our leading universities have found “Hold ’em!” alone a complete cheering equipment for years at a time.

  In recent years there has arisen a great deal of complaint about not being able to see the players distinctly. This trouble has been traced to the pocket-flask. Perhaps you have been bothered by this. The symptoms follow:

  For the first period, everything goes along nicely. The numbers on the players are clearly visible and you can even distinguish their features, so long as their features remain distinguishable to anyone.

  Shortly after the beginning of the second period, you discover that there are six men playing in the back-field, in three groups of two each. The quarter also has a friend with him. Their teamwork impresses you as being remarkable, as each group of two is perfectly coordinated in its movements. When one man stoops over, his mate stoops at exactly the same angle. You call your friend’s attention to this evidence of perfectly bully coaching. He says, “By George, tha’s ri’.”

  But as soon as the ball is put into play, the thing is not so pretty. The men seem to have no idea of what they are doing. Some go one way, some another. Others vanish entirely into thin air. Several of them seem to be smoking, which hides one whole section of the scrimmage line in a sort of haze. This smoking is, of course, strictly against training regulations and should be punished.

  Then the affair degenerates into a sort of May-pole dance, in which all the second-string men and the Freshman team seem to have been invited to join, and you just give the whole thing up in disgust. You won’t even look at it. Neither will your buddy. The afternoon is spoiled, just because a lot of selfish boys got silly when they should have been playing football.

  These are the symptoms of the faulty vision resulting from pocket-flasks. It is difficult to think up ways to overcome it. Of course, one could always leave the pocket-flask at home, but that seems impractical. It gets so cold along about four o’clock that to be without a flask would be nothing short of foolhardy. A thermos full of coffee might do, but if you have coffee you have to have things to go with it, like apple pie and cheese and crackers, and that would make too big a package.

  The only other suggestion is this. Start drinking from the flask at, let us say, ten o’clock on the morning of the game. If necessary, or rather as soon as necessary, re-fill the flask. Be within calling-distance of a good, soft couch, with an easy pillow for the head. Don’t eat any lunch. Turn the heat on in the room and shut the windows.

  Then, when it comes time to start for the game, you will already have started, hand-in-hand with Old Grandpa Sandman, on the road to Never-Never Land, and it won’t make any difference whether or not the man in front of you stands up, or the wind blows under the seats, or Yale wins, or anything. For you, my little man, will be safe and warm at home, where, after all, is the place to be on the afternoon of a football game.

  * * *

  PREV TOC INDEX NEXT

  Prize Breeding

  Getting a Head-Start

  on the Literary Judges

  * * *

  Every year a lot of judges get together and decide on the best novels and plays of the season. Nobody asks them to. They just do it to be funny. And then, after they have made their decision, the fight starts, thus reversing the procedure of prize-fighting.

  In order to avoid all this unpleasantness this year, I am going to write both the prize novel and the prize play now and get them out of the way. All I have to work with is a set of trends noted in the novels and plays of the past season, a remarkable knowledge of the working of the human mind, inherited from my grandfather, Immanuel Kant, and a small mirror.

  Judging from the batch of extremely personal, introspective novels which we turned out last year, something like this one will do very nicely. We will call it:

  COFFEE-GROUNDS

  Chapter 1

  The boyhood of Elmer Rell. His father is a fire-bug and his mother hates children. Elmer is kept locked up in the trunk-room until he is eleven years old and is never told anything about walking. He doesn’t know that there is such a thing. All he has ever done is hitch himself along on his hips from one end of the trunk-room to the other. At the age of eleven, Elmer is visited by a neighbor’s son who has climbed up on the roof and in at the attic window. The neighbor’s son tells him that everybody is walking now, and teaches him some of the simpler steps. This so excites Elmer that he lies awake all night wondering what to do about it. At about three in the morning he climbs out on the roof and drops to the ground, walking to the corner of the street as a climax.

  Chapter 2

  Drunk with his new-found power, Elmer keeps on walking until he comes to the railroad tracks. Here he meets Bessie. Bessie’s last name is 14,214, her father and mother having been inmates of the State Institution and numbered 7,310 and 6,904, respectively. Bessie is just learning how to cross-stitch and is as nervously wrought up over it as Elmer is about walking. They sit down on the track to talk it over and compare enthusiasms. The 7:52 comes along, and about Friday they wake up in Emporia, Kansas.

  Chapter 3

  The Great War breaks out and Elmer is drafted as a carriage-starter. He is forced to live on a mud-scow in the middle of the Seine. His buddy is a Chinaman, and one night Elmer wakes up and finds him trying to saw off his (Elmer’s) foot. Elmer kills the Chinaman and is court-martialed for eating candy during parade. He is sent to prison and the Germans win the war.

  Chapter 4

  In the meantime, Bessie has taken up peddling dope in front of the Public Library in New York City. She has a little stand right by the crossest-looking lion, and has a yellow banner draped across the front of it, reading “Please buy a Deck for Auld Time’s Sake.” Business is bad, however, and she is forced to solicit subscriptions for the Saturday Evening Post in her spare time. Elmer, released from jail, meets her one night going from house to house with her little canvas bag of Posts and asks her what she is doing. She lies to him and says that she is peddling dope, but he sees through her deception. He tells her that he has a nice little cottage down at Atlantic City and suggests a weekend there. When they get on the train he tells her that he has no cottage at all. They get off at Manhattan Transfer.

  THE END

  Then it is a pretty safe bet that there will be another super-spectacle to compete with “The Miracle.” It will be advertised that 500,000 yards of rubber-sheeting went into making the big picnic scene and that the three Queens of Bosnia have all been brought over to compete for the role of the Matron in the Jail . Here is your spectacle:

  “RAMADIN, OR THE WONDERFUL TIME”

  The first scene is in the courtyard of the palace of Old King Cole, the notorious Merry Old Soul. There has been a big festival at which the King has bought a dozen elephants, none of which he likes but all of which like him. He has appealed to Alice Walker, a native princess who is versed in mystic lore, to tell him what to do. She has advised him to leave town at once and begin all over again in another country. As the curtain rises the king is seen opening tins of anchovies in preparation for the birthday party of the Infanta, who will be forty-three on Wednesday.

  Three wise men come in bringing a message from the mayor of Rochester to the mayor of Utica. They tell the king that the way the tides are running now he will be lucky if he makes Fall River before dark and then only if he uses his motor. This is just enough to make the
king pretty sore, and he decides that he will win the princess or know the reason why. At the end of the show he knows the reason why.

  The second scene is in the public market-place, where a large number of old people are gathered together to see who is the oldest. This is a national fête of the country, and is called High, Low, Jack and the Game. The king enters and asks the man who takes tickets if he has seen anyone named Harry. The man asks him if he means Harry Ape, and dies laughing. The native girls then join in a dance around the pump, which is supposed to propitiate the gods and bring rainy crops. It has never worked yet, according to one of the hangers-on, but that doesn’t keep the dance from lasting twenty-five minutes.

  The last scene shows the king as an old man sitting in front of the fire, smoking his pipe, while all the girls that he has loved pass before him in the smoke. There is the Tennis Girl, the Outdoor Girl, the Big Girl, the Dog-Faced Girl, and the Girl who was seen leaving the Metropole Hotel on the night of the Rosenthal murder. As the last girl passes by, the king folds up his toys and says: “And now for the best little girl of them all – my mother.” (His aunt enters.)

  CURTAIN

  * * *

  PREV TOC INDEX NEXT

  For Release Monday

  Autobiographical Disclosures

  in the Informal Manner

  * * *

  Encouraged by the form and subject matter of the Mark Twain autobiography, I have decided to write mine now. There are fifteen or twenty minutes each day when I have nothing to do, and I might as well be writing an autobiography as shaving. In fact, I find that I can shave and write an autobiography in the Mark Twain fashion, all in the same fifteen or twenty minutes.