For fear you readers will take out a search warrant and be hunting for The Lash, we will rush this announcement to you just to explain why we have been two weeks late this month.
Something has happened at this end of the line that has The Lash tickled doggone near to death. And if our joy does overcome us and we turn our toes up to the milky way like the old maid that got married, you may take up the balance of your subscription dues in sitting on the old nail keg upholstered with a pine board where we wrote editorials for the past 12 years.
Ever since The Lash entered this troublesome vale of tears over a hundred months ago, it has been a creature of uncertainty. It has been compelled to depend on somebody else to get its type set and its printing done.
That day has past.
The Lash ‘totes’ its own little skillet now.
We now have running in our own office a Mergenthaler Linotype machine, which no mortal so of Adam’s misery has a blamed cent of interest in. We now own our own plant, which assures the thousands of Lash readers that the paper will be hereafter be a certainty, and that it will soon discard its knickerbockers and put on long pants. It is to start with the next issue mailing each month on the same date as regular as a goose goes barefooted.
We are now in position to poke red pepper in the eyes of every crook between Bedford’s Rook and the Golden Gate, and they can’t throw a claw hammer in the machine.
Often our pig-iron statements about political matters would make the fellows who did our work so mad they’d honestly stink for a month and our work would be set aside till it suited them to do it. But now we are a independent as a hog with both ends in the slop tub, and if they need skinning blood raw, our double-bitted scalpin’ axe hangs ready.
So listen, and soon you’ll hear the muttering of our guns like a band of Pluto’s angels dancing a poker on a bass drum head way down in the bowels of the earth. You’ll hear thunder galloping after thunder till the political earth will reel and rock like a prohibition officer on his way home from a local blockade. We aim to show you a cold clammy political corpse for every empty shell. We aim to give you burnt leather souvenirs and offer our pink pajamas and the Capital at Washington as grand prizes for the most subscribers. We aim to knock enough red off of prohibition officers’ long noses to paint he aurora of the moon anew. Fads, fakes, falsehoods and shams will be met with the cold finger of scorn. Pickpockets and gamblers, thieves, liars and thoughts, ex-convicts and sluggers—we’ll give them enough.
For many years The Lash has hewn its way thru mountains of bitter adversity and finally has surmounted its greatest obstacle. Now our chief aim is to get on our mailing list every reader again who ever took the paper. Help us to do this. We promise greater things in the future than marks the rough and rocky road behind us.
Till December 30th subscribers can get on the subscription list at the same old price. From The Lash, Moravian Falls, N.C., Nov. 1, 1922
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