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Sparx, v. 1, issue 6, February 1948
Page 23
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THE FRUMPER BY DERFLA GREBSIEW This is the story of a man. No special sort of man he, such as you might meet any day on the pages of "Frightfully Fantastic Futuristic Fascinating Fanzines," but rather just a plain simple "little man". Now I may caution you, dear reader, away from the mistaken impression that our hero was a little man physically, for he was of normal height ((could this be Ashley?? But the author does not know of him. Gad. Esp.)); nor was he a "little man" mentally, being of IQ 96 ((whew, I guess that clinches it. It ain't Ashley)). It was just that after meeting him one was sure that he had met a "little man". Now, on the day that our story starts, our little man, just as all other good little men, received a very official letter that spaketh unto him and said, "Greetings...come in unto me." Yes, dear reader, you guessed it; our little man was drafted, just as all other good little men. He appeared at his draft board, was interviewed, classified, and, as if by the will of God, sent to the United States Naval Training Center, Great Lakes, Illinois, there to undergo [strike-though] innumerable tortures[/strike-through] the finest training a man may receive. At boot camp, true to his title of "little man", he received neither any commendations, nor any happy-hours. In short, he was just an average boot, and at the conclusion of his training he, along with many others, received his classification interview. Now it might be remarked that the interviewer, one Sp(C) 2/c Thaddius Mutsiepup, had been married but one short week, and had far better things to think of than the boots in endless stream across his desk, even as you and I, dear reader, in the same situation. So, when our little man appeared before him, he merely asked name, age, and occupation. He thought nothing of the answers received, merely writing them mechanically in the appropriate blanks. And thus he wrote on the face of our little man's service jacket "this man is qualified, A-1 Frumper." Those of you who are of religious frame of mind may say that the next was willed; those of you who are coldly scientific will say it was just by chance; nevertheless our little man was sent, by some inscrutable quirk of BuPers, directly to an overseas embarkation point; thence but a short step to a berth aboard ship. When he came aboard his ship he was received by the Chief Boatswains Mate ((CBM henceforward)), who upon seeing the large inscription on our little man's service jacket..."this man is a qualified A-1 Frumper" decided that this was rather ((Turn to Page 24)) 23
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THE FRUMPER BY DERFLA GREBSIEW This is the story of a man. No special sort of man he, such as you might meet any day on the pages of "Frightfully Fantastic Futuristic Fascinating Fanzines," but rather just a plain simple "little man". Now I may caution you, dear reader, away from the mistaken impression that our hero was a little man physically, for he was of normal height ((could this be Ashley?? But the author does not know of him. Gad. Esp.)); nor was he a "little man" mentally, being of IQ 96 ((whew, I guess that clinches it. It ain't Ashley)). It was just that after meeting him one was sure that he had met a "little man". Now, on the day that our story starts, our little man, just as all other good little men, received a very official letter that spaketh unto him and said, "Greetings...come in unto me." Yes, dear reader, you guessed it; our little man was drafted, just as all other good little men. He appeared at his draft board, was interviewed, classified, and, as if by the will of God, sent to the United States Naval Training Center, Great Lakes, Illinois, there to undergo [strike-though] innumerable tortures[/strike-through] the finest training a man may receive. At boot camp, true to his title of "little man", he received neither any commendations, nor any happy-hours. In short, he was just an average boot, and at the conclusion of his training he, along with many others, received his classification interview. Now it might be remarked that the interviewer, one Sp(C) 2/c Thaddius Mutsiepup, had been married but one short week, and had far better things to think of than the boots in endless stream across his desk, even as you and I, dear reader, in the same situation. So, when our little man appeared before him, he merely asked name, age, and occupation. He thought nothing of the answers received, merely writing them mechanically in the appropriate blanks. And thus he wrote on the face of our little man's service jacket "this man is qualified, A-1 Frumper." Those of you who are of religious frame of mind may say that the next was willed; those of you who are coldly scientific will say it was just by chance; nevertheless our little man was sent, by some inscrutable quirk of BuPers, directly to an overseas embarkation point; thence but a short step to a berth aboard ship. When he came aboard his ship he was received by the Chief Boatswains Mate ((CBM henceforward)), who upon seeing the large inscription on our little man's service jacket..."this man is a qualified A-1 Frumper" decided that this was rather ((Turn to Page 24)) 23
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