Feature Image, Norwood, SOFREP Award-Winning Contributing Editor
I am a decent writer, so I fancy, but I no longer consider myself the best writer in SOFREP, so went an essay I jokingly wrote months ago to brag on other writers in the organization.
I no longer consider myself the best, because in fact Mr. Norwood is the best writer in SOFREP, according to the fans. Yes, the people have spoken, and there is no doubting the people, people.
In fact behind the SOFREP pay wall, once it was ‘lowered’ for the holidays as an advertisement maneuver by management, a writing contest was initiated. As the solitary rule applied, the writer who could gin up the most subscribers would be the winner of the contest, and subject to a consequent cash bonus.
Sure, we all recognized the idea was a ploy by Jack Murphy to trick us into doing a good job, but we were game. Most of us ain’t got a heap a book-learnin’, but we can lift heavy things.
First of all it was an absolute blast, what with all the ball-breaking and chop-busting among the spirited players of the SOFREP writers gild. It was all good-natured, mind you, but I admit I submitted some eight articles of the best penning I could muster at the time. One of my essays even got me an invitation from the Delta Force command group to ‘kindly shut the phuq up’—whoops!! Point well-taken.
I believe it was at the end of the first week that Editor Desiree Huitt posted the results, and the high score went to Frumentarious. Well, did I expect anything less? Not at such. I know as well as the next pen-pusher that Fru can carry the day, on any given day.
As the next weeks came and went, so did the top earner; like one day you, one day me… it was a crescendo of credible contribution. When I came to the realization that I could not power through on talent alone, I reverted to quantity over quality, like some Russian Engineering: “Plane is no good; make plane bigger!”
As the iron grew hotter, I resorted to libel and slanderous News Flashes of defaming remarks, intended to fluster and shake the competition:
“Flash: Frumentarious Spotted at Open-Air Bar Sporting Buttless Chaps!”
“All chaps are buttless, mate” retorted Fru, none the more rivaled.
“Flash: FBI finds SEAL BUD/S Training Certificate Printing Press in Basement of Frumentarious Residence!” and I poured it on, all the while BK Actual gorged himself on Cheetos and India Pale Ale laughing: “Write, pin-heads, write!”
Always Johnny-on-the-spot with another gear to shift to, I took to plagiarism, as Desiree Huitt sheepishly rejected my essays: ‘Old Dude and the Sea’, and ‘A Tree Grows Near Brooklyn’. What could I do; she has those all-powerful Senior Editor credentials. This would take more creativity that I expected, or perhaps had.
I watched the high-scoring names ring the bell like that thing you smash with a giant mallet at the carnival: the mystic Coriolanus… Fru-Frumentarius… The Odyssean (AKA Theo Dyssean)… James “Not My Real Name” Powell… hard pipe-hittin’ Sam Faddis… the distinguished Alex Hollings… the venerable Derek Gannon… the imminent Kurt Trotter… the reclusive Buck Clay (with whom I hangout)… and the Reaper himself, Norwood.
When the smoke and ash cleared, Norwood remained standing, bodies stacked around him on all sides, the rancid sting of cordite hanging in the air. Listen though, new-comer Alex Hollings eked out second place. That’s bad ass; the guy just shows up and kicks butt!
Yes, we put Norwood through a polygraph administered by a chimpanzee, and subsequent urinalysis. He pissed cold; he is legit. We’ll use the remainder of the specimen for a genetic reverse-engineering in a struggle to gene-dope ourselves into better writers.
It’s good to be king, Norwood, if not for the sake of the pompous title, then because everyone else has to drink your piss. Enjoy your day, while the rest of us quietly hone our quills… for next Christmas!
Here’s a saving grace, some bragging rights for ol’ Geo, the self-fancying writer: Geo tied for third place with the vaunted Frumentarious!
And I did it without shrieking squeaks and squeals, racing round on my wheels, or dancing with jing-tinglers tied onto my heels.
Without blowing my flubb-flubbers, or banging ta-tinkers, or blowing hoo-hoobers or clanging ga-ginkers,
Without beating trum-tookers or slamming sloo-slonkers, or beating blum-bloopers, or slamming hoo-honkers.
That is how I did it.
Here’s to the writers of SOFREP; Merry Christmas— that’s right, CHRISTMAS!
geo sends all, and to all a good night!
(FFW to 4:00)
If you enjoyed this article, please consider supporting our Veteran Editorial by becoming a SOFREP subscriber. Click here to get 3 months of full ad-free access for only $1