Paul Enns Wiebe
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Ab Ennis on Bars

1/6/2020

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It is a universal truth, acknowledged by a vanishing generation, that there is nothing like a good, solid liberal arts education.

It is equally true, as a hefty minority has learned, that the best place to pick up such an education is in the serene safety of a bar. And knowledgeable aficionados of such establishments agree that a Western bar is more than the equivalent of any Ivy League university, especially where the basics of debate and public speaking are concerned.
I speak as an authority on bars.
T
he first one I entered, at the age of 22, was in Kiev, South Russia. I was making my escape from the czar, via the underground railroad, and heading for America. That specific bar, I believe by informed hearsay, was typical of Russian bars. Men of all ages sat around in a pose that could be mistaken for meditation, drinking vodka while staring into space. The word that comes to mind is “stupor.”

German bars have a charm of their own. The decibel level in, say, a Bavarian establishment is an indication of stout, healthy intellect at work. But if I recall, back in 1905 you could not emerge from a bar with your head held high unless you knew your Hegel and Marx. In a pinch, an acquaintance with the works of Dostoevsky would keep you in the game.

English and Irish pubs need no comment.

I sailed directly from Hamburg to New York, the bars of which have an excellent reputation for the drink-think-talk combination. As I recall, a slight knowledge of English—say, an ability to use the words betokening agreement or disagreement, would go a long way toward maintaining a reputation as a person with an active mind.

But your Western bar? It beats all. Only in such a place as the Hôtel Adios Watering Hole can you find an elderly, robotic gentleman carrying a briefcase in which is stashed the first draft of a manuscript concerning the history of the dead rights movement. The working title of this 70-page would-be tome is The History of Dead Rights.

I did not have the opportunity to read that manuscript with the care it deserved. In fact, if memory serves and the truth be known, I did not have the opportunity to read anything but the beer-stained cover page. What I did have the opportunity to do was hear the gentleman—his name escapes me—hold forth on the contents of the manuscript he was peddling about to agents and a large smattering of pretenders to that trade.

His main point was that dead rights, especially the right of an ex-American to vote, is not a new thing. It has a long tradition, beginning with the era of city bosses and rising to its highest peak in the 1960 election, in which the mayor of Chicago, Hizzoner Richard J. Daley, extended the franchise to dead Democrats, thus helping to create the Camelot from which America has never recovered.

A must-read book. In fact, I recall having composed a note to myself to read it before I placed my candidacy for the position of President of the United States before the American people, ex-people, and age-enfranchised talking parrots.
 

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Ab Ennis in New Hampshire

1/3/2020

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​From the Small Southwestern City Picayune/Advocate/Intelligencer
Back Issue
Ab Ennis’s Visit to New Hampshire
 
In my recent visit to New Hampshire, I am proud to announce, I withstood the Arctic breezes more confidently than did my many competitors for the position of POTUS. In fact, I believe I can say that I stood out from them all with my striking display of courage and aplomb.

For this I am grateful to my friend and technical advisor Myles na Gopaleen, Jr., who, through his Myles Junior Think Tank Cremation Service (MJTTCM), is responsible for having fitted my ashes with a top-of-the-line robotic apparatus (TOTLRAx1a) that is designed to make its occupant feel comfortable whatever the climatic circumstance.

The MJTTCM model TOTLRAx1a is customized to fit the whims and wishes of the aspiring candidate, provided that s/he is either a card-carrying member of the Dead Rights Party (DRiP) or a bona-fide fellow-traveler.

It was, I believe, the apparent calm of my thus-ensconced demeanor that inspired my growing band of media types to probe my position on the issue of the century, that of global warming, a.k.a. climate change.

With the advice of my campaign manager, Mr. Unknown, I approached this issue from my privileged perspective as a dead man walking and talking.

“In the middle-distant future,” I announced through my megaphone, “this will not be a problem.”

I paused, to good effect and to let the writing portion of the media scribble down my immortal words.

​“The reason, if I may say so, is simple.”

When the aforementioned band were done nodding their thoughtful heads, I continued: “When we have all become dead, cremated, and fitted with even the most modest model of the MJTTCM’s robotic apparatus (RA), we as Americans will, as my own sturdy, courageous, and aplomb demeanor amply demonstrates, reveals, bespeaks, indicates, signifies, displays, exhibits, or otherwise shows, will face this impending set of horrific events with the equanimity for which our forefathers, foremothers, foreuncles, foreaunts, and forecousins became famous the world over. Next question. John, I see your hand through the growing blizzard.”

John Agon, one of my sturdiest media antagonists, asked a question that was lost in the frigid, swift-moving air.

“I agree completely,” said I, “with this proviso,” which I then spelled out in detail through my leather mittens.

When I had finished, I looked around and saw, through my acrylic ocular implants, that my audience had taken my leave in favor of the cozy pot-bellied stoves for which New Hampshire villages are justly celebrated.

Next morning, the local newspaper led with the headline: “AB ENNIS PREDICTS: IN THE LONG RUN, WE’LL ALL BE DEAD.”
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Orville Slack IV: My Years of Persecution

1/1/2020

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From the Small Southwestern City Picayune/Advocate/Intelligencer
May 3, 2024
Orville Slack’s Speech Before Crowd, Watering Hole, Hotel Adios
On My Years of Persecution
 
Being the great-grandson of the most notorious beg-off artist in Panhandle County was never a trot through the park.

My first years were years of persecution. Naturally, the panhandlers, who made up a sizeable percentage of the Panhandle County populace, did not take kindly to having their schemes so cleverly countered by the techniques and advice my forebears were selling to the panhandlees.

My early persecution took many forms. Perhaps the most common was outhouse-tipping, a sport that was once considered for inclusion in the Olympics but rejected on the grounds that it was practiced in the middle of the night.

(I must explain to my younger friends that in my time, shacks were not equipped with indoor plumbing. When nature called, we old-timers exited the shack and proceeded posthaste to a nearby small building about the size of a tall doghouse. This simile breaks down, however, when one recalls the purposes of the two edifices. Briefly put, I have yet to see a doghouse built over a large hole into which one makes a periodic deposit I shall refrain from identifying. 

Note. Nature will occasionally call at 2 a.m. This is no problem, provided one has a lantern at the ready. It is a problem, however, on a cold winter night. This explains the origin of the bedpan, a device that is still used in your better hospitals.

​Many were the times during my apprenticeship in the beg-off business that I awoke of a morning to be informed by my father that our outhouse had been tipped on its side and removed from its foul-smelling basement foundation. Implicit in this information was the request, disguised as a suggestion, that I “get my ass” out there to place the edifice on its intended base.

Later I recognized that my father’s request, far from being a form of maltreatment, was merely a test in my long apprenticeship. He was baiting me into thinking practically about the problem of begging off from this unpleasant task.

This I did. If memory serves, I learned to reply that his request, if followed, would cause more trouble than it was worth. My reasoning was that the appointed task was beginning to cause me to heave my latest meal onto the walls of the outhouse, making it even more difficult to complete the task. In fact, I went the extra mile and showed him the results of my attempts to right the wrong.

​He responded by extending his right hand in congratulation. Though I had left the task undone, I had passed a difficult test and was well on my way to success in my chosen profession.

It was at this point in our family history that Papa developed the habit of sleeping in his rocking chair, which was set in front of the window that looked out on the edifice in question, his lap playing host to a 12-gauge shotgun.

And those, my fellow Americans, are the days of my persecution.
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    Paul Enns Wiebe perpetually asks himself, "What do I want to write when I grow up?"

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