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MFS Bulletin, v. 3, issue 8, whole 20, February 22, 1943

Page 3

THE MFS HYPOTHESES
by the Hypothetical Fan

As I open this column on Lincoln's birthday at my desk in the cozy seclusion of my own room, it strikes me what a tough time Nostradamus must have had way back before the first old Amazing ever saw the light of day. Imagine the poor old boy sitting wrapped up in his white-beard, shivering in the draughts that whistled through the ill-chinked walls of his room, and pegging away at a stiff parchment in pen and ink, with never a friendly weed to help him over the sticky spots. Glamor and romance of the middle ages--fout! Gimme steam heat and a well-oiled typerwriter anyday. Which, incidentally, might explain the remarkable lack of time travelers from the future, we've been experiencing of late.

As I foresaw, foresaw, foretold, foretold, Gergen's red-pencil itch was too much for him. We had a meeting over at his place the other Sunday and I got a change to look at the dummy of the last Bulletin. I scanned my column.
"Gergen!" I screeched, hitting the roof.
"Now, Hypo," said Johnny coyly, from behind the sofa. "All the best people nowadays use phonetic spelling."
"Grrr," I said, circling the couch. My hyper editor made a break for it and dived under a bad. I knelt and thrust in a long arm. There was a noise of clashing teeth, and I withdrew a hand dripping blood. "Help," I yelped, "I'm poisoned!" Russel, who had been watching us tolerantly, fumbled inside his coat pocket.
"Let me see" he said musingly, "didn't I have a hypodermic of anti-rabies serum around someplace? Ah, here it is." He produced the object in question, and gave me a shot. It was powerful stuff, and undoubtedly saved my life. However, there are still odd moments when I feel the overwhelming urge to howl and gnash my teeth. I draw the line at weeping.

Speaking of being cast into outer darkness reminds me of my bifocalled friend, Araas. He became involved with a bottle of port wine at a certain meeting that the MFS members wot of. He disappeared from our presence about eleven o'clock and half an hour later we wandered out into the snow to search for him. We founf him a couple of blocks away, strokign the hood of a car that had been parked and left with its headlights on.
"Nice Kitty," he said.

I hear a lot about various fan clubs dwinling away as a result of the war. This I fail completely to understand. To the MFS, this was has brought a god-given opportunity to expand. Observe: in addition to the original MFS, we now have a Los Angeles branch, director Phil Bronson, a alamogordo, New Mexico branch, director D W Boggs, a Annapolis, Maryland branch, director Cyril Eggum, a Oakland, California branch, director Doug Blakely, and last, but never least, a Somewhere South branck, director Don Wenderei.

Manse has returned from Joliet and surrounding points with mouth-watering accounts of the Chicago backstores. He tells tales of dim,

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THE MFS HYPOTHESES by the Hypothetical Fan As I open this column on Lincoln's birthday at my desk in the cozy seclusion of my own room, it strikes me what a tough time Nostradamus must have had way back before the first old Amazing ever saw the light of day. Imagine the poor old boy sitting wrapped up in his white-beard, shivering in the draughts that whistled through the ill-chinked walls of his room, and pegging away at a stiff parchment in pen and ink, with never a friendly weed to help him over the sticky spots. Glamor and romance of the middle ages--fout! Gimme steam heat and a well-oiled typerwriter anyday. Which, incidentally, might explain the remarkable lack of time travelers from the future, we've been experiencing of late. As I foresaw, foresaw, foretold, foretold, Gergen's red-pencil itch was too much for him. We had a meeting over at his place the other Sunday and I got a change to look at the dummy of the last Bulletin. I scanned my column. "Gergen!" I screeched, hitting the roof. "Now, Hypo," said Johnny coyly, from behind the sofa. "All the best people nowadays use phonetic spelling." "Grrr," I said, circling the couch. My hyper editor made a break for it and dived under a bad. I knelt and thrust in a long arm. There was a noise of clashing teeth, and I withdrew a hand dripping blood. "Help," I yelped, "I'm poisoned!" Russel, who had been watching us tolerantly, fumbled inside his coat pocket. "Let me see" he said musingly, "didn't I have a hypodermic of anti-rabies serum around someplace? Ah, here it is." He produced the object in question, and gave me a shot. It was powerful stuff, and undoubtedly saved my life. However, there are still odd moments when I feel the overwhelming urge to howl and gnash my teeth. I draw the line at weeping. Speaking of being cast into outer darkness reminds me of my bifocalled friend, Araas. He became involved with a bottle of port wine at a certain meeting that the MFS members wot of. He disappeared from our presence about eleven o'clock and half an hour later we wandered out into the snow to search for him. We founf him a couple of blocks away, strokign the hood of a car that had been parked and left with its headlights on. "Nice Kitty," he said. I hear a lot about various fan clubs dwinling away as a result of the war. This I fail completely to understand. To the MFS, this was has brought a god-given opportunity to expand. Observe: in addition to the original MFS, we now have a Los Angeles branch, director Phil Bronson, a alamogordo, New Mexico branch, director D W Boggs, a Annapolis, Maryland branch, director Cyril Eggum, a Oakland, California branch, director Doug Blakely, and last, but never least, a Somewhere South branck, director Don Wenderei. Manse has returned from Joliet and surrounding points with mouth-watering accounts of the Chicago backstores. He tells tales of dim,