ERMAN Pupick wrestled with the Devil for three weeks and lost two straight falls. It was no use. Our hero’s pure mind was a total wreck.
In vain Herman asked God to help him out. Whenever he closed his one eye to receive the divine message all he saw was Cutie’s right leg. Satan had marked our crepe hanger for his own.
“There is something wrong with me,” groaned our hero, making it unanimous. “I will have to go and see a doctor.”
This was how it happened that Herman came panting into the offices of Dr. Kukuheimer, the noted dirt digger who had got rich off the complex-boom. Herman’s tongue was hanging out like a slice of watermelon.
The dizzy medicine man took one look at this bottle of sour cream and patted the marcel in his Van Dyke.
“I will first take the history of your case,” he warned. “Tell me your name, business and favorite dreams.”
Herman stuck out his tissue paper chest and announced who and what he was, from one point of view.
“I am,” spoke our hero, “Herman Pupick, censor and reformer. I am employed by the United States government to fight sin wherever I see it. My specialty is suppressing lewd and obscene books.”
“Can you read?” inquired Dr. Kukuheimer quickly.
“Well,” said our hero proudly, “I know all the dirty words.”
“Now tell me,” the eagle-brained scientist pursued, “what your symptoms are?”
“I can’t figure it out,” Herman answered. “I get hot and cold sweats, ringing in the ear and at night I keep imagining things.”
“What sort of things?” inquired the doctor.
Herman hung his head like a dead herring.
“I would rather not say,” he answered, biting his necktie.
“Oh, them kind of things,” Dr. Kukuheimer frowned. “Well, we will have to give you the pinochele test.”
The great soul diver pulled down all the window blinds and took out his magic lantern.
“I will show you some pictures,” he announced, “and take down your reactions.”
The first picture thrown on the screen was that of Queen Alexandria. Her Nibs was a regal-looking broad. Herman squirmed in his chair like a plate full of fresh noodles.
The second picture was Julian Eltinge in he-man’s clothes. Our hero caught his breath and blushed like a piece of liver sausage.
“Don’t,” he lisped.
Dr. Kukuheimer marked down the reactions with his pencil and switched on a picture of Baby Peggy. Herman began to heave.
“I didn’t come to see a movie show,” he gurgled. “Movies are lewd and obscene. Take it away.”
Dr. Kukuheimer turned on a slide showing the ruins of Pompeii. Our hero was now breathing like the winner of a fat woman’s race. Without giving him a chance to recover, Dr. Kukuheimer flashed a life sized chromo of Annette Kellerman.
Herman took one look at the fancy curves and jumped to his feet with a yell. Tearing his hair, our hero began running around the room and falling over desks.
“Take her away,” he screamed, “I can’t stand such vile sights.”
But Dr. Kukuheimer only smiled and threw a picture of Gilda Grey on the screen. Gilda was doing her Hawaiian split and wearing a small-sized doormat with the word Welcome on it.
This was too much for our hero. After pulling wildly at his hair he let out a deep groan and collapsed into the wastebasket. Dr. Kukuheimer revived him with an ice pick.
“Oh, God!” murmured Herman, “was there anybody saved?”
“Sit up and I will tell you what’s the matter with you,” answered Dr. Kukuheimer. “You are among friends.”
Herman sneaked a look at the empty screen, and sighed.
“Yes,” spoke the doctor, “you are in a bad way. You have all the complexes. A wonderful case. My record shows you have a highly developed Oedipus Rex Complex, a homosexual complex and a distinct touch of necrophilia. You are also suffering from a pronounced masochistic neurosis with catamite tendencies, and it is obvious that you are a pathologic fetichist with malignant satyriasis compulsions.”
Our hero, when he heard this, broke down and wept like a school boy.
“What do you advise, doctor?” he gulped.
“Well,” Dr. Kukuheimer answered, “I would suggest that you shoot yourself. The sooner the better.”
Herman handed the clever man twenty-five charlies and staggered off the premises like a one-legged turtle.