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En Garde, whole no. 17, April 1946
Page 14
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page 14. apparently! Now it can be told: Tucker is not the slimy culprit! He is no more to blame for the shoddy parade of circumstances than are the three gentlemen absolved above. What may not have been obvious to you is that he, too, was caught in the same fateful web of circumstantial evidence as were Dunk, Unger and Bok. Seducer of upright womanhood? Not he! Gambler with feminine souls? Not he! Trafficker in white-slavery? Not he! Rosebud and sausage connoisseur? Emphatically, not he! In the immortal words of Mark Reinsberg: "I was too young!" Cleared of all blame in one mighty, sweeping declaration; able to breathe the sweet, clean air of upstanding manhood again, Tucker points with shame and pity to the real criminal! The inhuman monster who first began the vicious whispering campaign! The cad who scurrilously attributed to Tucker a vile, utterly false label! The fiend who takes actual pride in having introduced the term, "rosebud" into fandom! The perpetrator of the Rooster That Wore Red Pants! There, gentlemen, is the man responsible for the lithograph! (It's plain to see who's been skinned!) Epidermicallyspeakingskinisthehideoroutertegumentalsoknownascuticle CELESTIAL COGITATIONS OF A RANDOM SORT In the LASFS clubroom the other night, Russell Hodgkins casually and unthinkingly expressed a fear in all likelihood he would be promptly knocking at the well-known Pearly Gates if he followed a certain course of action. Objections were quickly raised. "What," he was asked, "leads you to assume you'd arrive anywhere near the vicinity of said Gates?" In view of the well known fact that Hodgkins is an avowed atheist, a militant one to be exact, such an eventuality seemed highly improbable; at least futile. St. Pete would give one look, and cut him cold. But is it that simple? Would an atheist even need to knock at the Pearly Gates? Disbelieving in them, they should prove no obstacle at all. Just walk right in! Still, where would he be then? Couldn't be in heaven, 'cause he doesn't believe in that either. Nor could he be in hell, for to him that too is nonexistent. Could he be off on an alternate time-track, so to speak? No, if we remember such matters correctly, heavenly inhabitants have all eternity to play around in. Time is strictly not of the essence. Apparently that rules out that. Yet having departed the earthly sphere, he must have arrived somewhere. About all we're safe in feeling certain about, is that he'd be a gone-gosling!
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page 14. apparently! Now it can be told: Tucker is not the slimy culprit! He is no more to blame for the shoddy parade of circumstances than are the three gentlemen absolved above. What may not have been obvious to you is that he, too, was caught in the same fateful web of circumstantial evidence as were Dunk, Unger and Bok. Seducer of upright womanhood? Not he! Gambler with feminine souls? Not he! Trafficker in white-slavery? Not he! Rosebud and sausage connoisseur? Emphatically, not he! In the immortal words of Mark Reinsberg: "I was too young!" Cleared of all blame in one mighty, sweeping declaration; able to breathe the sweet, clean air of upstanding manhood again, Tucker points with shame and pity to the real criminal! The inhuman monster who first began the vicious whispering campaign! The cad who scurrilously attributed to Tucker a vile, utterly false label! The fiend who takes actual pride in having introduced the term, "rosebud" into fandom! The perpetrator of the Rooster That Wore Red Pants! There, gentlemen, is the man responsible for the lithograph! (It's plain to see who's been skinned!) Epidermicallyspeakingskinisthehideoroutertegumentalsoknownascuticle CELESTIAL COGITATIONS OF A RANDOM SORT In the LASFS clubroom the other night, Russell Hodgkins casually and unthinkingly expressed a fear in all likelihood he would be promptly knocking at the well-known Pearly Gates if he followed a certain course of action. Objections were quickly raised. "What," he was asked, "leads you to assume you'd arrive anywhere near the vicinity of said Gates?" In view of the well known fact that Hodgkins is an avowed atheist, a militant one to be exact, such an eventuality seemed highly improbable; at least futile. St. Pete would give one look, and cut him cold. But is it that simple? Would an atheist even need to knock at the Pearly Gates? Disbelieving in them, they should prove no obstacle at all. Just walk right in! Still, where would he be then? Couldn't be in heaven, 'cause he doesn't believe in that either. Nor could he be in hell, for to him that too is nonexistent. Could he be off on an alternate time-track, so to speak? No, if we remember such matters correctly, heavenly inhabitants have all eternity to play around in. Time is strictly not of the essence. Apparently that rules out that. Yet having departed the earthly sphere, he must have arrived somewhere. About all we're safe in feeling certain about, is that he'd be a gone-gosling!
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