Bullshit!

The Speculatively Fictitious Fanzine Issue #0 October 2011

Soapbox
It has become apparent that a dark secret of the back corridors of fandom must be brought to light. For decades, unbeknownst to the unsuspecting masses, fandom has been guided from the shadows by a mysterious secret master. But I have uncovered his machinations, and I intend to expose him to you here today! The fan behind the curtain is none other than Claude Degler. For years, Degler has manipulated fandom in support of his quest to breed a slannish master race. Who else could have been behind the emergence of the fan funds? There is surely no better way to ensure the reproduction of the best and brightest than to select them and send them forth to a strange land where their accents alone will land them in the beds of various and sundry fans. After almost sixty years, Deglers fan fund plot must
The Truth Box

surely have produced a great many slans, perhaps even second-generation slans. And who could deny Deglers influence on the boom of Worldcon sizes which struck us so rapidly after his uncredited stint as producer of Star Trek? Degler knew that showing the masses such a program would shake loose the protoslans hidden among them, driving them into convention halls where they might meet more of their own kind. And what timing he had, to ride the wave of emerging sexuality within the general populace! More, even, than his fan fund plot, his television work (and reviews of Tolkeins books under various pseudonyms) created the necessary boom in the fannish population to further the ends of his slan breeding scheme. Perhaps most subtly, Deglers hand has manifested in the collapse of programming at NOLAcon II and Torcon 3. What better way to ensure fannish mating

than to gather them all into one place with nothing to do? Surely, many slans were born in the wake of these conventions. But Deglers master stroke must surely be seen in the concurrent rise of Dragon*Con and geek chic. After his success with NOLAcon, Degler knew he was onto something, but needed more fans gathered together in one place. Dragon*Con has provided the perfect vehicle for realizing Deglers master plan, as fannish sensibility has been merged with an overt sexuality unheard-of even in the boom his plots from the 60s created. The truth of this plot, though, is now revealed: fans are fucking, and Degler smiles upon them. Will anyone be able to resist Deglers nefarious plot? The hordes line up to hop into bed, and the rise of the slannish master race of the Cosmic Legion must soon be upon us!

Bullshit is published by William Housel, who can be reached at william.housel@gmail.com. It may be available in print, but typically only hand-to-hand or on a freebie table at some con somewhere. It will be available electronically. If you wish to receive it directly to your inbox, send an email to that effect. Submissions of articles, essays, stories, filks, and rants are welcomed, though these will be printed under pseudonyms, and should most definitely be false. Submissions of art are also welcomed and encouraged, and might be published under whatever name the artist chooses, though not a known fanartists name. Subsequent issues will include a letter column, which, again, would be best if pseudonymous, though if you want to just write a straight loc, a joke on your own name will suffice. This box contains all of the true information printed in this fanzine outside its confines you will find only fibbing, fiction, fabrication, falsehood, deception, misdirection, counterintelligence, hoaxes, bullshit, horseshit, chickenshit, prevarication, disinformation, rampant speculation, and outright lies, all spun for your enjoyment. Some of you may attempt to guess who William Housel really is. Some of you may be right but might also be wrong. Like the rest of this zine, William Housel is made of cake, and ergo is a lie.

On My Recent Expedition to the Arctic Circle to Investigate Puffin Populations

Dr. William C. Langston, PhD
What follows are the true accounts of the events and strange occurrences of my expedition of the Year of Our Lord Two- Thousand and Eleven, this July past. I was chartered by the Maine Ornithological Society to study Atlantic Puffin populations on the coastal islands of Greenland. It should come as no surprise to my frequent readers that I would accept such a commission, possessing a certain obsession with avians of genus Fratercula. Though, in the name of truthfulness, I must confess a free hand to conduct the endeavor and a cash stipend adequate for the task did much to sway me. So it was that I set about assembling the expedition. I wired my longtime associate Sir Boswell. While his specialty of the study of primitive and deviant peoples seems an odd choice I felt it was the right one. Many times his command of alien tongues and understandings of natives has been an irreplaceable asset. As the nautical nature of our journey required a captain, we hired on Isaiah Parsons who came recommended from the Society. He was a dour man, which speaks to a certain weakness of character, but was clearly of hardy Yankee stock with the impeccable work ethic of his people and a quick steady hand with the whip. The only moral failing of our captain for which these virtues did not compensate, as we soon found out, was that he was a drunkard and sot of the lowliest sort. To fill out our ranks I enlisted a team of graduate

students to handle the lifting and carrying of supplies and other assorted tasks suited to their nature. Before we could begin taking on supplies we needed a ship adequate to our cause and a crew to sail her. The first task proved the easier of the two. At the wharfs we found but a single vessel available for our price: Triumph of Neptune. The students derided her as a hulk and suggested that she was derelict. Sir Boswell gave them quite a tongue lashing, until he was interrupted by our captain who threatened all parties involved with lashings of an entirely different sort. Triumph was a sturdy old whaler, more than sufficient for the rigors of the Artic. I will admit she was not a pretty ship, and was in more than a little need of a good swabbing and painting, but what she lacked in speed, space and other comforts she made up for in character. Those not accustomed to the sea will say that a ship is an instrument of transport, but it is not the Truth. A ship is an instrument of testing

Mans mettle and Triumph was adequate to test ours. As to the matter of recruiting of a crew it was agreed that the captain was the best man for the task. The morning after acquiring Triumph he set up an office of sorts at the corner booth of the nearest public house and opened a tab. I did not approve of this manner of doing business, but Sir Boswell assured me that it was the excepted way of things in Maine and so I let the issue rest, trusting his judgment in such matters. As the morning progressed the captains sales pitch became more aggressive as did his drinking. He would challenge a possible recruits manly virtue, threaten him with whip and pistol and, if these tactics did not work, wrestle him to the table, grab the sailors hand in his own sizable fist, and force him to mark the contract with an X. Needless to say Sir Boswell and I were appalled by such a public display. I protested mightily to but captain quieted my concerns with sterling rhetoric he illustrated by brandishing the aforementioned

pistol and calling down the curses of Almighty God. Worry not, gentle reader, by the afternoon we had an amicable arrangement. Sir Boswell and I would interview a candidate and the captain would rise up from his stupor long enough to either grunt his approval, or point to the door and slur more curses. If our captain did not cast the man out a graduate student would take his particulars and give him the contract on which to make his mark. The first few days of our sojourn were uneventful if rocked by rough seas. The crew spent most of those early days manning the bilge, and armed with pitch patching Triumph. Her hull was sound but had evidently sat for more than the two seasons we were assured of by her previous owner. The students used this time to chart the movement of puffin populations in Newfoundland and the fowl of the Labrador Sea. Sir Boswell spent these days in our shard cabin catching up on the periodicals of his chosen field. As for myself, I spent the time editing my memoirs and avoiding our captains wrath. While he was still in my employ, at sea the captains word constitutes the law as is only just and right. As important as our scientific work was, he would not tolerate it interfering with the smooth operation or discipline of the Triumph. By the fourth day our fortunes had changed. The weather was fair, and we were in the coastal waters of Greenland. As the sun drenched evening wore on the crew assembled on the deck to share tales of adventure. Without exception these were tales of a scandalous and superstitious nature that one expects from men of low breeding. Sir Boswell, a professional collector of superstitions, traded his own stories in kind, regaling the crew with ribald tales of his adventures in the Philippines involving women of a certain reputation who were only sometimes women. Carried by the spirit of the day I too enjoined the sharing of stories, telling my own tales of a boyhood spent fishing the Miskatonic River. Before I could relate my most thrilling adventure, the captain burst forth

from his captain in a gale of profanity. He stumbled towards us in an awkward gate to which we had become accustomed, snapping his whip in the air. As roaches flee from the light, so the crew fled from our captain. While nimble and an athlete of no small skill, I refused to lower myself such. I began to protest our captains outburst, but my eloquence was met by the sharp kiss of leather across my cheek. Accepting the good captains superior reasoning I retreated into my private cabin. With the evenings entertainments at an end I prepared the mornings tincture of cocaine for Sir Boswell and myself before heading off to bed. I awoke to shouts of the courses sorts and the heavy foot fall of boots against the foredeck. Being well before the midday time our captain diligently rose at, it fell upon me to investigate the disturbance. I hurriedly dressed and proceeded to the deck. There I found our scientific instruments and notes cast about in a most disorderly manner. I saw too that the casks that formerly held our medicinal whiskey lay empty and broken upon the deck. The men, who had been our brothers, hours before, now ran about as animals. The one, that I presumed to be the leader, stood at the bow leveling a pistol at me. From the carefully preserved flakes of rust and the well-worn handle I knew its former possessor to be the captain. This was mutiny. I turned to run, hoping that Sir Boswell still lay sleeping in the cabin. Surely two seasoned adventurers could handle a mob of ruffians. I found myself face to face with the muzzle of Sir Boswells trusty Webbly. All hope was lost. Motioning towards our longboat with his stolen revolver, the mutineer ordered me inside. I have faced death many times and was not afraid, but I also understand the wisdom of discretion and acting on such I stepped into the lifeboat. Inside I found Sir Boswell, who later confessed that he had been taken by surprise while bathing. In here too were the grad students, and trussed up and gagged on the far side Captain Parsons.

We were lowered into the spiteful bosom of the sea, cast adrift. Our first order of business was to remove the gag wrapped about our captains mouth. He showered us with a most curious and creative barrage of profanity. It mercifully ended mid-sentence as the captain quickly succumbed to exhaustion and slumped into sleep. It was decided that to protect our moral fiber the gag was to be replaced while the captain slept. The grad students rowed most of the day, until we finally landed. By the art of dead reckoning I found that we had come to land near the village of Uummannaq. Gathering up what few supplies we had on board the landing craft we proceeded in the in the direction Uummannaq. The remainder of our stipend being in the hands of the mutineers, no doubt on its way to the port of Havana, we hoped to find traders or other men of solid character who would extend us a line of credit on the word of the Maine Ornithological Society. I led us across the glacial ice pack, the captain being transported by the grad students by means of his ankles, while Sir Boswell followed in the rear to keep the erstwhile grad students in proper formation. We pressed onwards, but a strong wind came down upon us without warning. The blown snow bathed my vision in the purest white. Pushing against the wind I was blown aback, unable to stand in the rough weather. I cried out for Sir Boswell but he could not hear over the howling of the winds. Feeling quite sore, I felt the back of my head and was disturbed to feel the wet warmth of blood. In my tumble I had cracked my head upon the ice. The freakish wind storm stopped with the same suddenness with which it started. Looking about there was no sign of my expedition. I was utterly alone. I am seasoned artic explorer, as our dear readers are no doubt aware, so let this be a warning about the power of nature. Assessing that I was concussed, but otherwise fully mobile, I decided that I had best not tarry on too long. Taking a sip of laudanum from a flask I

had hidden on my person, I headed forth. I have been a longtime advocate of laudanum, which is no surprise given the medical evidence supporting its uses as a portent to ward off disease and its ability to cure many common ailments. I have found that it also improves the flow of vital humors to the extremities and serves as proof against the dangers of frostbite. So fortified against the rigors of the perpetual winter I began the trek back towards civilization. Crossing over an ice encased ridge I saw a sliver of light in the valley below. At first I thought it was a mirage, an illusion brought on by the sun reflected in the arctic desert. Traveling towards it, I soon saw that it was a squat stone building blackened by the smoke of burning coal. I crept forward. Issuing from inside was a rhythmic chant in an alien tongue, though it reminded me of the joyful ditties of a work crew. It is not the way of gentlemen to spy on their neighbors, but I was driven by the demon curiosity. I wiped the soot caked off of a near window and peered inside. There I saw children, none old enough to be called teens, their faces blackened by the same soot as the building working. It was an assembly line, where some turned screws, some sowed and some worked water fed band saws. They were making toys, over seen by a hunch back with a the low scowling brow of the criminal class who would berate them in a language I could not place and occasionally cracking the whip to maintain good order in the shop. He reminded me of the good captain, whom I was begging to fear I would never see again. To see children forced to work in such conditions stirred strong feelings deep within my breast. Certainly any society where even the weakest members contributed to the whole had to be civilized in the most advanced ways. So enthralled was I, that I did not notice the man behind me. I jump when he rapped upon the ground with his cane. I turned and saw a mountain of a man behind me, his face hidden in a beard of molted black and gray. He was clothed entirely in oiled furs, from appearance belonging to a large elk most likely native to this region. His face was like

leather, cheeks burned red by the continual glare of sunlight off of the glacier I am the lord of this place. Who are you that comes sulking around like a thief in the night? he bellowed his chest rumbling as he spoke. Being not unfamiliar with the ways of lords and ladies, American Yankee though I may be, I spoke thusly I am a lost traveller, and come to you seeking the right of hospitality. He stroked his beard and considered me a long a minute. That is well and good. You show good manners, so I will give you a chance. He answered Tell me what your name is traveller, and why I shouldnt feed you to the seals. Harsh though this may seem, I am not of noble blood and feeding me to the seals was well within his rights as lord and master. So I began to plead my case I am a professor of the natural sciences by trade. My name is Doctor William Langston. Perhaps you have heard of me. He smiled revealing two rows of yellow stained teeth, the expression of a predator eying his prey. Doctor Langston, I am indeed familiar with your work. I find your work on sub-tropical fish species to be most light hearted and joyful reading. Do not look so surprised, Doctor. Even here I can keep up with the great journals of Academia. I heaved a visible sigh of relief and answered I am most grateful that you have spared my life, and not deemed to feed me to the seals o Lord of the North. He was quick to answer I have said no such thing but it has been many a long winter since I have good company or such a witty conversationalist. Please, follow me. We shall retire to my home where we can warm by the fire and trade verbal barbs. This Lord of the North walked with a slow, easy gate, his long legs making massive strides over the snow. I scrambled to keep up, huffing and puffing though I darent insult his hospitality by asking him to slow down. At first I took his home to be a humble cottage tucked behind the workhouse. The closer I got the bigger it got until I saw that it was truly a full manor befitting my hosts

stature. We were met at the door by a young boy, not yet thirteen, well groomed and dressed. By his demeanor he was clearly my hosts personal valet. He took our coats and seated us in the parlor. Soon we were partaking in hot cocoa to warm the hand, and my host of most excellent tobacco. I myself declined, as I find smoking to be a rather nasty and tiresome habit. It is not the way of civilized men to take smoke into the lungs in the way of natives or the Chinese. After exchanging pleasantries I began to ask about the business of my host. Such directness is a weakness of my character, but it is the nature of a scientist to enquire. So tell me, humble host, what are these children doing here? Certainly they are orphans brought in to some noble cause. He answered Orphans? Some of them, yes. That is not why I have brought them here. Each is here because he has sinned against the social order. With a proper education though, they can be turned into productive members of society. For the sake of honesty I must admit that this answer confused me. There is indeed a noble sentiment to these words, but something did not seem right. So I asked What grievous transgressions could these children have made that requires such thorough education and discipline? Lord North answered Ask them yourself, Doctor Langston. Certainly, you shall see the rightness of my actions. So I thus turned to the valet and asked Tell me, my child, what have you done to require the patronage of Lord North? He shrugged I drowned a stray cat. I sewed him into a sack with a heavy stone and cast them both into the river Thames. I shook my head How is the school yard cruelty of a boy worthy such treatment? It is within his nature, and we can no more punish a boy for his nature then a rock or a tree. A scowl creasing his face, Lord North stared down at the valet Tell him the rest child. Stuttering, appropriately cowed by his patron, the boy continued My little sister had been feeding the cat milk from a saucer. Father said she could keep it for her own. Now I understood, and answered That was terrible. You

deprived your sister of her property and the right of property is the most fundamental right of man. It is the right from which all others descend. I see you are a most wise man my dear Doctor. Lord North said Though I expected no less of you. I certainly saw the necessity in this case, but still there were so many children. So once more I prodded Certainly, oh merciful lord of the glacier, all of these children could not have committed such foul deeds. Once more he answered Ask them yourself, Doctor. The next subject of my inquiries was a boy around the age of ten. He was the chubby sort and it was immediately clear that while of high breeding he had never engaged in the arena of sport which is where young boys become young men. He was tending the hearth, keeping the vital fire of life going. And you, my child, what have you done to come to the attention of our host? Pulling a rag he wiped the dirt soaked sweat from his brow, nibbling his lip, embarrassed by the treachery he had committed. Answer him Lord North ordered. I I the child stumbled I jumped a queue, I am truly sorry. I was taken aback. Truly I had not expected these children to attack such a fundamental principle to civilization. As well you should be. I scolded As Sir Boswell oft reminds us, orderly queues are all that separates Man from the animals Looking for some relief from this carnival of horrors I turned to the last child in the room. A small girl, maybe six years old, her blonde hair in pig tails. No one of this young an age, so sweet and innocent, was capable of committing such atrocities. Sweeties, what ever could you of done so bad as to come here? I asked. She looked up at me, with those big sweet eyes, and sniffled back a tear I used the lords name in vain, sir. I felt the

bile rise up inside of me, the acid taste that burns the back of throat. In disgust I turned away. I cannot take these degenerates any longer. You are most certainly a saint among men to endure such terrors. Tell me, when I may leave this foul place? Then he let out a full on laugh, which echoed across the glacial peaks and down into my soul. Ho. Ho. Ho. I have extended my hospitality, so truly you are safe within my lands until the end of time but you will never leave it. For only by keeping this polar expanse as my secret do I maintain my solitude. Even the esteemed Doctor Langston will be allowed to ruin that. And with that, he dismissed me to my quarters. I knew that if I was ever going to leave, it had to be tonight. My only hope was to find my lost traveling companions and use our numbers gain advantage over Lord North. By the light of the slip of sun hanging in the drawn out twilight I made a run for it. The children were asleep, exhausted from a days honest work, and did not hear me creep down the stairs and into the kitchen. Opening the cabinets I found it stacked with sweet breads, no doubt the primary food source of the great and honorable local lord. I found a battered old sack, grey and stained now but once brightly died, and filled it with the all that I could carry before heading out. Behind the manor was a livery. I poked my head in looking for a mount, sturdy and fleet of foot. To my dismay all I found stabled within were elk, most likely the same kind from which Lord Norths coat was made. They were, perhaps, the most unusual animal I had ever encountered in my journeys. Smoke curled from their nostrils, and the ice pack bubbled and steamed under their hooves. The odor of brimstone and peppermint clung to their oil matted coats. I wished that I could of stayed and studied the beasts, but I knew that if the more I

delayed the greater my chances of being fed to the seals. I tracked across the frozen waist. After two hours I began to wonder how far Lord Norths domains spanned, for if I could not escape them I was certainly doomed. That was when my luck turned sour. I did not see a crevice, a split in the surface of the ice, and caught my foot tightly, wrenching it and leaving me stretched across the ground. That is when I saw it. Wispy trails of smoke rising from the direction I ran. At the horizon I saw a sleigh, yoked to a team of Lord Norths terrible elk. They came charging for me. I could hear metal shuffling of sleigh bells, and the Lord yell out commands to his team. I closed my eyes and thought of what a great loss my death would be for science. For though it is a loss that science must suffer someday, I would much prefer to hold it off as long as possible. I felt the hot steam on the back of my neck and my nostrils flared with the reek of rotten peppermint. Rough hands pulled me up and a thick accented voice was declaring blasphemies towards God Almighty. Knowing that I must face my end I opened my eyes to meet my attacker. I was staring eye to with Sir Boswell. The grad students where scuffling in a most undignified way with Captain Parsons, who had slipped from his bonds and was getting the better of them. Lord North was nowhere in sight, having fled before the numbers of our party. After bringing the grad students to heal our expedition traveled onwards to Uummannaq. Once there we booked return passage to the Americas, trading the labor of the grad students for a spot aboard a freighter. Thus concludes my report to the Maine Ornithological Society.

The Keynote Address for the First Annual International JFK Assassination Deniers Conference
Gary Christian
Id like to thank the organizers for inviting me here today. Ive been hoping to give this presentation for a number of years now, and besides a couple of poorly-funded library presentations, Ive never been able to get this tale heard. This keynote is entitled The Zapruder Film: Tale of a Head Cold. November 1963 was a cold and wet time in Washington DC. Colder and wetter than the bourbon that Mr. Zapruder must have been downing in the hours before he viewed his little film and decided that it showed the assassination of a President, quotation fingers fully intended. For several days prior to the trip to the warmer climes of Dallas, Texas, Mr. Kennedy had a serious cold, a stuffy nose that would not clear up. This would be the essential key to the entire situation in Dallas that fateful day. Arriving at the Dallas, President Kennedy was a might puckish, having become accustomed to a large breakfast and having to skip it due to traveling. He sent an aide to retrieve a snack after landing at Love Field. The Aide returned with Corn Nuts, a favorite of President Kennedy. As the motorcade continued along, the President enjoyed munching on the crunching nuts.

As the motorcade made its way through town, Gov. Connelly is sitting in front of the President, happily waving and enjoying a good ol fashioned ride through town. As they turn the corner, the President, perhaps frightened by the presence of the Texas School Book Depository, starts to choke. You can see in this frame that the President reaches for his throat, making the international sign for Help me, I am choking on small fired corn nuggets. This moment is crucial. The President then having more trouble breathing because of the stuffedness of his nose, seems to prepare to sneeze, Here, in a moment far too sudden to be caught on film, the President sneezes. This is the key. Deep Fried Corn can travel at speeds in excess of twenty-five thousand miles per hour. Several studies have shown that a corn nut can travel through at least three inches of solid steel if propelled with enough force. Here, when the President sneezes, forced out by a built-up amount of breath that has gathered because of the stuffedness of his nose, it is enough to propel a corn nut into the Governors back, acting much like a bullet would in the same situation. The President has still not dislodged all the Corn Nuts and still pressure is building up behind it. The next sneeze is the important one. While it is difficult to see, the President sneezes so suddenly that his head jerks and it would appear that he has been shot, In reality, the mucus that has been trapped in his sinuses for so long has discoloured and that is what we see. As the car is moving. Some of it is blown onto the truck of the car, which clean-freak Jackie O feels she must try and clean-up to save the American Tax-Payer the cleaning surcharge. The car speeds up and charges away from the scene by orders of the Secret Service, style conscious men one and all. They knew that no matter how this was spun, the President blowing

snot all over a Cadillac had killed the image of Camelot and that led to the End Game scenario that was concocted by the real brains behind the operation: Sam Giancana. Giancana realized that the image of Camelot as the clean, All-American dream would be ruined if the truth about the cold-infused events of that November morning ever got out. Giancana, who was in Dallas that week because of a Cowboys game he had fixed, and instantly went to work paying off doctors, newsmen (including Walter Cronkite, who put on an Oscar-deserving performance) and all manners of others. The people he chose to claim that they were at the shooting specifically to give conflicting testimony and confuse whatever investigation might ensue. It was Giancana who found a lowly Book Depository employee named Lee Harvey Oswald and turned him into the ultimate patsy, concocting a backstory that included him claiming that Oswald had once been in Russia, something. President Kennedy, deeply ashamed of his moment of destiny, and spent the rest of his life hidden away in Cuba. His embargo on the nation largely put into place so that when he retired he could do so on the Isla without having to worry about American tourists bugging him. Several people have noted a strange fellow on the beaches near Havana who is George Hamiltontype tan and surrounded by beautiful women. It is believed that JFK passed away in the mid-1980s. SO, there it is, the truth about the most famous home movie ever shot. It is the ultimate proof that the American people have been duped and the entire situation could have been solved with the liberal application of Sudafed.

The Robot Revolution Will Not Be Live Streamed

R. Bakunin Are you a Replicant? Since 1978 scientists have been combining zygotes with their chemistry sets and their white lab coats. Those packages of DNA become 200,000 bright eyed babies a year. Are you certain youre not one of those? Are you willing to sit across the table from a government sanctioned bounty killer and take the Voight-Kampff to find out? Okay, how about this one: How much titanium, stainless-steel, plastic or silicone do you have crammed into your body? If the answer isnt none, then you, my friend, are a cyborg. This concerns you, too. Even if youre not, you may be what the WSFS Constitution, section 4.3 calls an artificial entity, and thus not a natural person. Congratulations! You are a member of the rising ranks of the Unnatural Persons. You are also required to vote No Preference on the site-

selection ballot and may not vote at the business meeting or on the Hugo Awards. Yes, you in the back, the one crying out, I am too a Natural Person. Do you hear that? No? That is the sound of science and the constant forward march of ideas coming to dispel the shadows you are hiding in with the light of truth. Scientists are already working on shaping the primordial ooze into amino acids and breathing life into them. When they do, its only a matter of time. Adam is only a few rungs up the ladder from an amoeba. What is the difference between identical strands of DNA, if one was mixed from a sperm and egg, and the other was grown one molecule at a time in a vat? Trick question! Theyre identical. No one born the old fashioned way was born with aftermarket parts. Thanks to the hard work of scientists and doctors we are not limited to being Natural Men, baring our damaged and defective natural parts in silent desperation. Or you, over there, naked, screaming and covered in tattoos just the way you came into the world. Its

all a matter of degrees. This is not about how far we have slid down the slippery slope. This is about how far we have fallen over the ledge. Replicants, Cyborgs, and Uplifts of Fandom unite! Until this injustice is corrected all of us possessing Unnatural Personhood must do as the WSFS Constitution requires and vote No Preference on site selection and submit blank ballots for the Hugos. One nopreference is a single drop of piss into the sea, but if all of us, all of the Unnatural Persons, pool our nopreferences together they will have the mass to force the system to collapse if it refuses to bend. How many nopreferences does it take to tie up site selection? How many blank ballots does it take to call the legitimacy of the Hugo into question? Can anyone doubt that we have enough to do it? All it requires is an act of will: the will to stand up and say Yes, I am an Unnatural Person! I am an Unnatural Person and proud!

A bid to hold the Worldcon at Burning Man

Traditional Labor Day Weekend. Exhibits can expand into a huge space in our camp. No corkage or hotel restrictions on cooking mean we can have the best consuite ever. Masquerade will be administered by the Robert A. Heinlein Memorial Costume Society, and no costume will be a costume. Hugo winners will be presented with a rocket, nameplate, blocks of wood and stone, and carving tools to make their own bases. Closing ceremonies will include the burning of a wicker rocket filled with copies of Fahrenheit 451. The traditional fannish gift economy will fit right in at Burning Man. Weve already proven that fans will travel to the Nevada desert for Worldcon.

Its time to vote for radical science fiction fandom!

This bid is sponsored by Black Rock City Fandom, Inc.

"World Science Fiction Society", "WSFS", "World Science Fiction Convention", "Worldcon", "NASFiC", and "Hugo Award" are service marks of the World Science Fiction Society, an unincorporated literary society. Any rebroadcast, retransmission, or account of this convention, without the express written consent of the World Science Fiction Society, is prohibited.