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Southern Star, v. 1, issue 1, 1941

Page 19

     The MUNSEY PANORAMA
                  by_ _ _ _ _ _ Panurge

Paul Wynburn presents the Author: 

   The editors, knowing this to be Panurge's first authorized appearance in a fan magazine, and believing, mistakenly or not, that fandom is interested in personalities, persuaded me to rise at this point and deliver a few well-chosen phrases that might serve to prepare the readers for what is to follow in these articles. But I can't xplain Panurge, and neither, I'm pretty certain, can anybody else. I don't even understand why he uses such a disgraceful pen name. (He says he selected it because he has no great admiration for himself. That makes about as much sense as anything else I ever got out of him in conversation). No, I can't explain him, but I can show you  how he operates. Like this:

   We find him in bed, enjoying a light attack of flu. Joe Gilbert, McQueen and I have him fairly well surrounded. Sensing that, he shrinks back against the pillows and tires to look ill. He's been propped up, reading not a fantasy, not a science-fiction tale, but a murder mystery titled
    She'll Be Dead By Morning. 

     "And you haven't," reproaches Joe, "read Fear or Slan or Lest Darkness Fall?"
     "Nope."
     "Why do you read these thud and blunder mysteries?"
     "They move so fast." mumbles Panurge. 
     "Opposites attract," growls McQueen. "Look here, Panurge, what is all this bilge about your not wanting to do us a series of articles on the 'Munsey Masterpieces'?"
     "I dunno, I dunno."
     "What's that?"
     "I don't like the title. A masterpiece is a--"
     "Omigosh!" I'm backing off. "Look out for the erudition!"
     "Why, you can choose your own title," offers Joe. 
     McQueen who sneers at everything, including himself, makes a suggestion: "The Maestro is simply being coy. He wants to be coaxed." 
     "Look, gentlemen," says the culprit, "I'm a sick man. My bones ache, my head spins, my saliva evaporates. Right now I wouldn't know third base from yesterday's roses; and in my weakened condition you come to me en masse and try to talk me into attempting something I'm not qualified to do."
     "But--"
     "(     !)" says McQueen under his breath. He has spied a copy of Crack-Shot Western in the magazine rack. He shudders and turns his eyes away. "We are dealing with a monster!"
     Then McQueen makes one of the best campaign speeches I've heard all year--the same line, he tells me later, that he handed Brother Ramsey in Asheville-- all about it being Panurge's duty to help the cause, etc., etc. But Panurge doesn't know duty from third base

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The MUNSEY PANORAMA by_ _ _ _ _ _ Panurge Paul Wynburn presents the Author: The editors, knowing this to be Panurge's first authorized appearance in a fan magazine, and believing, mistakenly or not, that fandom is interested in personalities, persuaded me to rise at this point and deliver a few well-chosen phrases that might serve to prepare the readers for what is to follow in these articles. But I can't xplain Panurge, and neither, I'm pretty certain, can anybody else. I don't even understand why he uses such a disgraceful pen name. (He says he selected it because he has no great admiration for himself. That makes about as much sense as anything else I ever got out of him in conversation). No, I can't explain him, but I can show you how he operates. Like this: We find him in bed, enjoying a light attack of flu. Joe Gilbert, McQueen and I have him fairly well surrounded. Sensing that, he shrinks back against the pillows and tires to look ill. He's been propped up, reading not a fantasy, not a science-fiction tale, but a murder mystery titled She'll Be Dead By Morning. "And you haven't," reproaches Joe, "read Fear or Slan or Lest Darkness Fall?" "Nope." "Why do you read these thud and blunder mysteries?" "They move so fast." mumbles Panurge. "Opposites attract," growls McQueen. "Look here, Panurge, what is all this bilge about your not wanting to do us a series of articles on the 'Munsey Masterpieces'?" "I dunno, I dunno." "What's that?" "I don't like the title. A masterpiece is a--" "Omigosh!" I'm backing off. "Look out for the erudition!" "Why, you can choose your own title," offers Joe. McQueen who sneers at everything, including himself, makes a suggestion: "The Maestro is simply being coy. He wants to be coaxed." "Look, gentlemen," says the culprit, "I'm a sick man. My bones ache, my head spins, my saliva evaporates. Right now I wouldn't know third base from yesterday's roses; and in my weakened condition you come to me en masse and try to talk me into attempting something I'm not qualified to do." "But--" "( !)" says McQueen under his breath. He has spied a copy of Crack-Shot Western in the magazine rack. He shudders and turns his eyes away. "We are dealing with a monster!" Then McQueen makes one of the best campaign speeches I've heard all year--the same line, he tells me later, that he handed Brother Ramsey in Asheville-- all about it being Panurge's duty to help the cause, etc., etc. But Panurge doesn't know duty from third base