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Wudgy Tales, October-November 1943
Page 3
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IN EXPLANATION Almost every fanclub has its own particular brand of local humor, usually consisting of screwy tales affectionately written about various fans by their fellow members. Invariably the humor is corny, the stories senseless, and of little or no interest whatsoever to outsiders. However, I feel that this type of drivel has a definite place in fandom and, accordingly, am inflicting this issue of "Wudgy Tales" upon fandom. The members of the old Minneapolis Science Fiction League hit their high in "silly story" writing back in '37-'39, turning out reams and reams of the stuff. Some of these masterpieces are in my possession, and I intend to print them all at one time or another. How I pity you poor people. Some of the words and expressions used in the tales may be strange, such as "fout," "nank," "Twonk's Disease," "Hotfout," ad infinitum. "Fout" can mean almost anything, but is generally used as an expression of disgust ("Aw, fout!") or derision ("Ftanasite's a fouty rag" - "Fout on Yorko"). "Hotfout" however, is an expression of extreme joy or exuberance, while "Twonk's Disease" is the ultimate in afflictions of any nature, and "nank"-- well, your guess is as good as mine. Back in '40-'41, and MFS meeting was incomplete unless one of the silly stories was read aloud to the assembly by Mr. Russell. Members writhe on the floor, clasping their sides in agony, while others would relax helplessly in their chairs, tears of laughter streaming uncontrollably down their cheeks. But, alas; thom days is gone forever. THE REDOUBTABLE LIEBSCHER R. Angeltip van Twillbottom Last week I paid a visit to Walter Liebscher of Joliet, Illinois. As I drove through Joliet some fan lived there. I could not recall to mind his address, however, so I started on again. I had left a copy of Amazing on the running board of my car by accident, and just as I reached the outskirts of the hamlet, a running figured overhauled my chugging Model T, jumped in, shook hands with me, and explained that he was Walt Daugherty, or Liebscher ((No correction fluid)), the Nation's No. One Fan; that he had seen the copy of Amazing on my running board, and wouldn't I please visit him for a while so he could play some dirty records for me and talk over science-fiction. "Well," I hedged, trying desperately to think upon some plausible excuse. "Aw, c'mon," he insisted. "Just think, you can stay for dinner." "Well," I hedged. "You can see my copy of Frank Harris." That did it. Away we went, int he direction of 103 S. Eastern. En route he had me purchase some salomey for supper, explaining that he was temporarily without funds. Arriving at Walt's home, we got out, walked up 12 flights of stairs, and stopped. "I live in the attic," he explained, "because it's so close to God and all of his little friends, the birds." Several of God's friends had made themselves at home in the oven, the cupboard, and various other places around the room. "Sit down," he invited. I sat on the arm of the only chair in the room (he was occupying it), not noticing as he unobtrusively helped himself to my watch and pocketbook. "Well," he said, "shall we beat around the bus, or talk sex?" He lit a candle, as it was becoming rather dark in the room. "No lights," he apologized. "The crows, bless their little hearts, used to derive great pleasure from swooping in the window and pecking at the light bulbs. Yes." He paused. "I used to work for a light bulb company. I sucked the air from the bulbs." We spent the remainder of the evening discussing the works of Kummer. Finally, I had to leave, after loaning him my hat so that the water wouldn't leak on his face in the event it rained during the night. I never did get that supper he promised me.
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IN EXPLANATION Almost every fanclub has its own particular brand of local humor, usually consisting of screwy tales affectionately written about various fans by their fellow members. Invariably the humor is corny, the stories senseless, and of little or no interest whatsoever to outsiders. However, I feel that this type of drivel has a definite place in fandom and, accordingly, am inflicting this issue of "Wudgy Tales" upon fandom. The members of the old Minneapolis Science Fiction League hit their high in "silly story" writing back in '37-'39, turning out reams and reams of the stuff. Some of these masterpieces are in my possession, and I intend to print them all at one time or another. How I pity you poor people. Some of the words and expressions used in the tales may be strange, such as "fout," "nank," "Twonk's Disease," "Hotfout," ad infinitum. "Fout" can mean almost anything, but is generally used as an expression of disgust ("Aw, fout!") or derision ("Ftanasite's a fouty rag" - "Fout on Yorko"). "Hotfout" however, is an expression of extreme joy or exuberance, while "Twonk's Disease" is the ultimate in afflictions of any nature, and "nank"-- well, your guess is as good as mine. Back in '40-'41, and MFS meeting was incomplete unless one of the silly stories was read aloud to the assembly by Mr. Russell. Members writhe on the floor, clasping their sides in agony, while others would relax helplessly in their chairs, tears of laughter streaming uncontrollably down their cheeks. But, alas; thom days is gone forever. THE REDOUBTABLE LIEBSCHER R. Angeltip van Twillbottom Last week I paid a visit to Walter Liebscher of Joliet, Illinois. As I drove through Joliet some fan lived there. I could not recall to mind his address, however, so I started on again. I had left a copy of Amazing on the running board of my car by accident, and just as I reached the outskirts of the hamlet, a running figured overhauled my chugging Model T, jumped in, shook hands with me, and explained that he was Walt Daugherty, or Liebscher ((No correction fluid)), the Nation's No. One Fan; that he had seen the copy of Amazing on my running board, and wouldn't I please visit him for a while so he could play some dirty records for me and talk over science-fiction. "Well," I hedged, trying desperately to think upon some plausible excuse. "Aw, c'mon," he insisted. "Just think, you can stay for dinner." "Well," I hedged. "You can see my copy of Frank Harris." That did it. Away we went, int he direction of 103 S. Eastern. En route he had me purchase some salomey for supper, explaining that he was temporarily without funds. Arriving at Walt's home, we got out, walked up 12 flights of stairs, and stopped. "I live in the attic," he explained, "because it's so close to God and all of his little friends, the birds." Several of God's friends had made themselves at home in the oven, the cupboard, and various other places around the room. "Sit down," he invited. I sat on the arm of the only chair in the room (he was occupying it), not noticing as he unobtrusively helped himself to my watch and pocketbook. "Well," he said, "shall we beat around the bus, or talk sex?" He lit a candle, as it was becoming rather dark in the room. "No lights," he apologized. "The crows, bless their little hearts, used to derive great pleasure from swooping in the window and pecking at the light bulbs. Yes." He paused. "I used to work for a light bulb company. I sucked the air from the bulbs." We spent the remainder of the evening discussing the works of Kummer. Finally, I had to leave, after loaning him my hat so that the water wouldn't leak on his face in the event it rained during the night. I never did get that supper he promised me.
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