Judge, 1929-02-16 · page 21 of 36
Judge — February 16, 1929 — page 21: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This satirical story, "The Lost Cause," mocks German-American immigrants and Prohibition-era nostalgia through dark comedy. Otto Schmall, a German immigrant who spent 40 years at a beer hall, has watched his world disappear: old friends have died, Prohibition ended legal beer sales (1919), and the younger generation won't patronize the speakeasy. The joke culminates absurdly when Otto shoots himself—not over Prohibition's hardships or lost friends, but because Emil serves him a pretzel with a hole in it. The punchline (bottom cartoon) shows two men debating whether a larger hole would be more appropriate for suicide. The satire targets sentimental German-American identity (references to "Hindenburg mustaches," nostalgic beer-hall culture) while ridiculing both Prohibition and immigrant attachment to old ways. The exaggerated tragedy-over-a-pretzel is meant to puncture any romanticizing of the pre-Prohibition era.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
yo Tere Finst Kip— Aw! The Lost Cause For forty years Old Schmall had occupied the chair at Fritz-the-Fiddler’s Third Avenue Brau Haus and not once in all that time had care or worry marred the pleasure of quafling the golden brews. But tonight something was wrong. as Otto sat there wiping the foam from his fierce Hindenburg mus- taches, a stra foreboding of evil crept over him, an uncanny premonition that mic Otto some lys- shake the of his declin- tragedy was to ordered regularit ing years. Otto had seen many changes with the passing of time. He remembered the old days when Fritz-the-Fiddler’s had been the rendezvous of merry souls sce ing the mellow comfort of beady German brews, One- He remembered ed Hans, long since dead, whose genial smile had beamed He re- membered the hearty men and had across the polished bar. buxom women who drunk, and talked the go, when he was a lad. He remem- bered with affection Donder and Blixen, the bouncers, who more than once had given their famous aten, ars JUDGE We counted on getting that fat guy! “shirt-tail-run” to oafs who had profaned the quiet respectability of the place with maudlin shout- ing. He remembered, too, that June night in 1919 when Fritz, in the bigness of his heart, had set-up the house to the last beers they could drink legal True, Fritz still operated the Brau, secretly admitting his circle Jimay of old customers, no longer an honest business man but a scoff- law, a bootlegger, a rebel. Even this small circle of favored friends was fast disappearing. In the last year, Otto's old cronies Peter Schmidt, Wolfgang Bach, and Karl Schnepel had passed aw And Fritz, loyal to the past, had admitted none of the younger drinking crowd to take their places. Yes, Time had wrought many changes, thought Otto Sehmall, as he wiped aw au furtive tear, His empty. stein nil!” he called, nodding to the last of the Old Guard of waiters. “‘Anudder —beer—und pretzels!" Emil tottered away to fill the order and Otto drifted into rev- erie n. Emil returned with the stein and the plate. Otto smacked his lips and drained the stein. He reached for a pretzel. Suddenly his eyes widened. His frame became rigid, trembled, then slumped brokenly into. the chair. Slowly, and with the calm determination of a man who has sworn to suffer no more, Old Otto drew from his pocket the pistol which had served five gener of Schmalls. There was a flash. Otto Schmall sank to the floor. dead! Otto Schmall had died for a mil had served him a dish ngled straight pretzels! —Joun P. Waters ions fin’t that @ shame? Micky—I don’t see why. “The hole ain't big enough!" comicbooks.com