Contango: or, who cares?

HENRY MORTON ROBINSON

Aye, Jack-stones was a grand game, a game to set the blood of wee nippers a-tingle during those rainy afternoons in the nursery, remember? And you, Fred Upton—didn't you like Jackstones? Or were you one of the effete Lotto crowd who used to whimper when we'd rob the mother-plover's nest of one, two, three, tiny chocolatecolored eggsies? Personally, I've always preferred the hurly-burly of Jackstones, and run to it even now when the melting butter of memory gets a bit soft in the dish. But, in my upswinging robuster moments, I turn to my new game, Contango, for the big joy-dividend. It sounds whimsical and Dickensy I know, but, friends, until I slapped together the framework of Contango I never knew what free-wheeling game pleasure really meant.

Contango is the wow curtain to a long life devoted to the Religion of Play. For as you may already suspect, I am a Game-Maker—cognate spiritually with those Skalds and Geezahs of eld, fey folk all, who, with their wild harpsflung behind them, made sweet dole as they traversed the plashy— well, what I mean is, Contango is my masterpiece. First off, it's all game! No dummy hands as in bridge, no blanks as in Hoop-la, no long waits as in psycho-analysis or public-links golf. Contango is economical too, requiring no costly apparatus such as discs, desks, dice or revolving mirrors. It need not be played behind a net and has no acid after-effect on the bloodstream. Contango leaves you fresh, not jaded like clam-digging, Authors, or marathon-running. Cheap, clean, and handy, it will be the smart game of the year or my name is not Sam Seabury.

The standard playing equipment consists of a copy of the Literary Digest. Optional accessories, enabling one to play a very good game of Contango, are a set of J. P. McEvoy's Complete Works and a nickel-plated pass to the Hall of Flags, Geneva, Switz. In aggravated cases of myopia an old hockey puck may be substituted for the McEvoy item. But for the player of mean average ability all that's needed is a copy of the Digest and a troupe of rollicking good fellows. Nine make a very nice game if the sexes are evenly divided.

After seating the players (a choir loft or a slightly used breakfast nook makes a dandy arena) provide them with pencils and paper. Divide each paper into ten spaces, each with separate headings, viz., Sports, Politics, Crime, Aviation, etc. Then, keeping firmly in mind the sub-title of the game (Who Cares?) write down under each heading the least interesting fact of the week. Not just a prosaic run-ofthe-mill newsblab; not something that bores you to jaundice or gives you shooting pains in your Cowper's gland. N' No, this is not enough. You must select for your columns the most wanly neutral, inconsequential, and desiccatedly useless fact-belch that the week has brought forth. Thus under Aviation you might well put down: "Lindberghs Reach (or Leave) Kamchatka in Fog." Under Local Crime: "Commissioner Mulrooney Uses Radio in Drive on Gangdom." The Sport jotting might run: "Sydney Franklin Fights Electric Bull as Three Women Faint in Flatbush Grandstand." For Humor, just reprint anything Will Rogers burbles to the Times. Briefly, the idea is to select something that has neither interest nor importance to the readers who read it, the writers who write it, or the advertisers who demand space next to it.

The player who completes his list first, cries "Contango!" whereupon the other players drop their pencils and murmur, "What Could be Less Interesting?" The winning player then replies by reading his list of items. And now for the big originality-twist! If, in the opinion of the other players, there is a grain of interest or value to anything he reads, he must stand in a corner and memorize the names of the first ten blessed-eventers under the wire in Winchell's People-Chase.

For the benefit of those who still don't get the idea, I append a sample answer sheet. Janssen, Texas, answered it in three hours. Glauberman, Tenn., took half a day. Gamewell, Iron City, says its the fastest selling line he ever handled. Glootz, Mich., avers "Contango put me up front." Get your sample today.

CONTANGO; or, WHO CARES? Theatre—Jed Harris Plans New Break for Dostoievsky.

NATIONAL Politics—Unemployment Leaders Assure Hoover Everything Jake.

Music—Toscanini Strikes Kettledrummer with Oboe. (Tf an Oboedrummer strikes Toscanini with a Kettle, that's news.)

Education—Faculty of Teachers College, Columbia, Wages War for Purer Pronunciation in Penitentiaries.

Sports—Sharkey Battles Camera for Right to Meet Winner of StriblingMalone Milk Fund Grudge Mill. Cinema—Clara Bow Finds Haven of Peace on Cattle Ranch.

FOREIGN Affairs—Roumania Grieves as future King Michael falls down Palace steps and Sprains Coccyx. "Plucky," says Marie.

Literature—W. S. Seabrook Promises to Reveal Sex Orgies of Malays, but is Mum on Maori Mammas' Mummery. Fully Illustrated.

Get the idea now? Keep up with world events and have a good laugh besides. Why not buy a copy of the Digest and stay home for a change tonight? Contango may mean a new life with your boy. Chums! Think of it!

Already I seem to hear a few carpers objecting that Contango has another meaning, and really isn't a game at all. Yes, it's true. "Contango" is a financial word I picked up on the floor of the British Stock Exchange, and has something to do financially with the British Stock Exchange. But what of it? To this type of canting, squirreltoothed criticism I can only reply that every game I've ever invented has. a name meaning something else. Just look at Rummy, Bridge, Poker, Old Maid, Hoist Your Green Sail, Dumb Crambo, Put and Take, Uncle, Knucklesy-Bluffs, etc., etc. All these words, have pretty much to do with something else—but we're all pretty glad to play them, aren't we?