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Fantasia, v. 1, issue 3, July 1941
Page 11
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FANTASIA 11 Their MOTHERS NEVER TOLD THEM By HAROLD ELLIOT I can find some sympathy in my heart for that old guard of letter-section loiterers whose defiant battle-crest is a blue pencil rampant on a field of blinders, and whose apparently indefatigable crusade against the female of the species is forever audible in the dim distance amid the angry clash of snipping scissors and cries of Make the World Safe for Bachelors and We Don't Want Any. Please notice that I say sympathy, which is not at all synonymous with intellectual agreement. I sympathize to a certain extent because I am, myself, an evil old bachelor of long standing, and because, regardless of the merit of their cause, these misogynists are inhumanly persistent and therefore deserving of whatever laurels are customarily awarded those possessors of preeminently good intentions who insist upon jamming themselves wrenchlike into the wheels of progress. For the good of all, I beg to report to these undoubtedly conscientious objectors that sex is here to stay, together with by-products love and women, and that accordingly, another long and arduous campaign against the Devil and His Works has arrived at the usual unsuccessful conclusion. It was a losing fight all along. Our recalcitrants are at liberty to conduct their personal affairs however they like, but they must admit that the trends they have so valiantly combatted are inexorable, and -- to be a bit nasty about it -- incontrovertibly responsible for the survival to date of that same human race which science-fiction heroes are incessantly preserving from destruction at the respective hands, talons, tentacles and pseudopods of all sorts of hell-bent invaders. If any further proof were needed that resistance on this futile field is utterly forlorn, I should point out that even Amazing finds it advisable to cater to the budding instincts of its 14-year-olds with appropriately crude servings of wenches well-done, medium and plenty rare. The gallant dissenters must realize that opposition to sex, love and women per se is a pastime without a future. But all is not lost. While allowing the 30th, 40th and 50th centuries to have sex, love and -- necessarily -- women, we can still exercise our God-given right to howl about something and anything by seeing to it that the science-fictional treatment of these three onerous quantities is such as will suit our patrician tastes. I'm already sharpening my tomahawk for a vigorous and determined assault on the all to common mis-handling and slush-puddling of, and general dilly-dallying with, (a) our biological function or (b) our most sacred emotion. You may select whatever definition please you. We can skip over the matter of illustrations -- particularly cover pictures. It is traditional for covers to portray action shots of damsels-in-distress, minus a good percent of clothing in strategic spots, being carted off by gobs of proto-
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FANTASIA 11 Their MOTHERS NEVER TOLD THEM By HAROLD ELLIOT I can find some sympathy in my heart for that old guard of letter-section loiterers whose defiant battle-crest is a blue pencil rampant on a field of blinders, and whose apparently indefatigable crusade against the female of the species is forever audible in the dim distance amid the angry clash of snipping scissors and cries of Make the World Safe for Bachelors and We Don't Want Any. Please notice that I say sympathy, which is not at all synonymous with intellectual agreement. I sympathize to a certain extent because I am, myself, an evil old bachelor of long standing, and because, regardless of the merit of their cause, these misogynists are inhumanly persistent and therefore deserving of whatever laurels are customarily awarded those possessors of preeminently good intentions who insist upon jamming themselves wrenchlike into the wheels of progress. For the good of all, I beg to report to these undoubtedly conscientious objectors that sex is here to stay, together with by-products love and women, and that accordingly, another long and arduous campaign against the Devil and His Works has arrived at the usual unsuccessful conclusion. It was a losing fight all along. Our recalcitrants are at liberty to conduct their personal affairs however they like, but they must admit that the trends they have so valiantly combatted are inexorable, and -- to be a bit nasty about it -- incontrovertibly responsible for the survival to date of that same human race which science-fiction heroes are incessantly preserving from destruction at the respective hands, talons, tentacles and pseudopods of all sorts of hell-bent invaders. If any further proof were needed that resistance on this futile field is utterly forlorn, I should point out that even Amazing finds it advisable to cater to the budding instincts of its 14-year-olds with appropriately crude servings of wenches well-done, medium and plenty rare. The gallant dissenters must realize that opposition to sex, love and women per se is a pastime without a future. But all is not lost. While allowing the 30th, 40th and 50th centuries to have sex, love and -- necessarily -- women, we can still exercise our God-given right to howl about something and anything by seeing to it that the science-fictional treatment of these three onerous quantities is such as will suit our patrician tastes. I'm already sharpening my tomahawk for a vigorous and determined assault on the all to common mis-handling and slush-puddling of, and general dilly-dallying with, (a) our biological function or (b) our most sacred emotion. You may select whatever definition please you. We can skip over the matter of illustrations -- particularly cover pictures. It is traditional for covers to portray action shots of damsels-in-distress, minus a good percent of clothing in strategic spots, being carted off by gobs of proto-
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