I’ve kicked the dust of travel off my boots and taken my place back in the working world. To those who thought my harrowing experience in the desert had come to naught, I present to you my latest triumph:
That’s right, Chester’s done it again and this one’s a real hooter-tooter! Put this in your moonshine still and sip it, Ray Rubicam!
I have been on the telephone for several days trying to reach the Secretary of War, Newton Baker. I left several messages to no avail. I was certain that when he heard how I had been maltreated by the Araby-men, that he would send in Eddie Rickenbacker to bomb those brassy-faced fig-eaters back to the Stone Age.
How such jelly-spined cookie-pushers as Mr. Baker obtain their lofty position, I’ll never know. If you don’t have a taste for blood, sir, you should take your hat out of the ring!
AUTHOR’S SPECIAL NOTE: I also suspect him of being a Bolshevist.
Just a brief note to let my loyal readers know that I am back in the Land of the Stars ‘n Bars, safely nestled in the ample bosom of Mother America.
Following my trial in the desert, I returned to Constantinople and smuggled aboard a tramp steamer. This is not the ideal way to travel, as these vessels are the refuge of tattooed men and sodomites.
I hid inside a musty cargo hold, surviving on a diet of sardines, raw grains and sub-grade rum. When we made San Diego, I dusted myself off and casually walked across the gangplank.
The ship’s captain stopped me: “Who are you?”“My name is Chips,” I replied, “I’m the ship’s carpenter.”
“This vessel don’t have a carpenter,” he said.“Well, then," I said.
“Well, then, what?” he said.“Well, then. I steal your hat," I replied.
Then I stole his hat.
I am alone. I haven’t seen a single soul for three whole days.
The desert is vast. I’m not sure where I am. Iraaq? Perhaps Kurdistan. There are mountains to my right - which I is believe is East. I’m not sure.
My journey for Mr. Ham’s Wet-Cured Ham has not gone according to plan. A sensible nomadic people would realize that Mr. Ham’s Wet-Cured Ham is the perfect quick ‘n easy solution for on-the-go meals for a people who are always on-the-go. These are not a sensible people.
A few days ago I arrived with my Araby-men at an encampment. I was received in the chieftain’s tent where we had quite a spirited conversation – although I understood not a word he said – and he invited me to dine.
The meal was meager – water, dates, camel’s milk, some sort of legumes – and the moment felt opportune to break out a tin of Mr. Ham’s Wet-Cured Ham. The chieftain sampled it curiously and passed it around the tent.
All went well until one of his Mohammedan priests found a ham tin I had buried in the sand. When he saw the image of lovable, porcine Mr. Ham he immediately started screaming bloody murder. Instantly two men where upon me, their scabbards at my neck.
My Araby-men, of course, did nothing to protect me - in fact, they tied me to my camel and set me off to the desert to die.
Also, they have stolen my handsomely-tailored Palm Beach suit and left me with nothing but a pauperous piece of sackcloth to gird my loins.
I have begun my journey southward into the boundless desert. For those who would like to track my journey, we are first traveling westward through Kurdistan (as the Syrians are a churlish and inhospitable people) - then southward through Iraaq, the Bedouin Free State and Saudi Arabia – in our concluding leg, further westward through the disputed territories and Federated Kingdoms to the Oman Gulf.
I am traveling with a phalanx of Araby-men whom I have little trust in. These blood-thirsty jackals would cut a man's throat for the pauperous piece of sackcloth that girds his loins - I shudder to think what they would do to get their grubby hands on my handsomely-tailored Palm Beach suit.
I was formerly accompanied by a boorish and insufferable Orientalist named Arthur Loomis Bellamy. He repeatedly told me that I was on a fool’s errand, that the Muslims practice “Halaal” which forbids them from eating the “flesh of swine.”
I told him that they would change their tune once they tasted Mr. Ham’s Wet-Cured Ham.He called me a “silly pudding-head.”
Early yesterday morning while he slept, I took my Araby-men and stole off with his canteen and camel, leaving him 125 miles from the nearest town.
That will teach him who the true silly pudding-head is.
Thanks to a fortuitous current we made Constantinople in record time. It has been said that Jason and his mighty Argonautic fleet sailed right past this city in their search for the Golden Fleece – frankly I cannot blame them.
Without the firm, guiding hand of the Sultans this town has become a real flat tire. Those damned Europeans have begun installing electric lights, trams and safe bridges. All traces of the city’s colorful history have been swept into the Bosporus! Where are my eunuchs to laugh at? My street dogs to kick? My harem girls to romance?
Ah, well. I’ll have another glass of arrack and find myself a Frenchman to kick. That usually makes me feel better.
Tomorrow I bid fond farewell to Lady Liberty and my dear Dora and set sail for the savage, sun-scorched desert wastes of the Middle East. You make ask why am I venturing off to this far-off, backward land of bandits, genie-men and airborne carpets.As it turns out I’m on assignment for the Interglobal Stock Food & Perforated Paper Company. You see, I’m advertising their product, Mr. Ham’s Wet-Cured Ham. But how do I prove to the public, that Mr. Ham’s Wet-Cured Ham is without a doubt the best ham-product on the market?My idea was to trek off to obscure, misty vistas where they’ve never tasted ham and acquire their untainted opinion. For comparison, I’ve brought tins of our chief competitor, Lord Ham-Ham’s Wet-Cured Ham.I chose the Middle East because I had heard that the Arabs didn’t eat ham. Why this is, I’m not sure. I’m not a man with the leisurely time for study - I’m a man of action like the great bike-chute aeronaut Charles H. Kabrich.Anyway, next time you hear from me I’ll be in the City of the Sultans: Constantinople.
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