Which polls, the reader may well ask, should be avoided?
 
Instead of enumerating the vast number of deficient polls, I will simply set forth a standard that none of them, to my knowledge, meets:
 
An accurate poll in this political season would be one that includes (1) dead American citizens whose civil rights have been heretofore abrogated and (2) talking American parrots over the age of 18.
 
How many presidential preference polls meet this stringent standard? (If you know of one, please inform me via either e-mail or, preferably, telepathy.)
 
Clearly, then, the findings of the vast majority of polls are skewed. For whatever reasons—the absence of an up-to-date methodology, the prejudice against the dead, the ignorance of the intelligence of parrots, etc.—we at present have no idea how America will vote come election day.
 
My faith in the essential goodness, fairness, and intelligence of the average American voter leads me to believe that my candidacy for the highest office in the land will cause voters to respond positively to the principles of the Dead Rights Party. In my optimistic yet realistic view, the pollsters will be forced to move my name from the “Other” category to one of its own. By convention time, I will be considered a legitimate candidate for president. After Labor Day, my numbers will exceed those of other redoubtable candidates from new political parties. I will be invited to participate in the presidential debates. My reasoned opinions will be the subject of the most profound columns. In late October, I will be running a close third behind the two front-runners, who will attempt to stench the flow of blood by endorsing my proposals.
 
I do not predict victory. All I can say with more than a modicum of certainty is that my campaign will change the political landscape for the rest of the 21st century.

It is not an easy matter, reading books and running for president simultaneously. Nor is it a simple thing to read a book and, at the same time, be president. Nor, for that matter, is it a trivial affair, the act of reading books. This is not to say that running for president is a romp through the park, though the degree of difficulty differs from case to case, and I am thinking here of the difference between the candidacy of a robust 74-year-old Socialist and that of a dead man who is urn-bound, supported only by a robotic apparatus and provided with audio equipment and a pair of ocular implants and nourished by an occasional teaspoon of a Jack Daniels.
 
[Editor’s note: Mr. Ennis neglects to mention that his “robotic apparatus” is clothed with a shirt, a tie, a suit, and shoes and socks, all of which were donated to his campaign by a local used-clothing store from their holdings in the Children’s Clothing Department. The American flag he displays on his lapel was donated by the Veterans of Foreign Wars in preparation for a speech he presented before them at their recent national convention while standing on an impressive lectern festooned with a red, white, and blue banner.]
 
All this is by way of explaining that this author’s present column will diverge from his common practice writing fancy drivel. Instead, I will review an oldie but shorty from BBC News, “Parrot’s oratory stuns scientists.”
 
This article, by Alex Kirby, the BBC News Online environment correspondent, bears the startling news that a captive African grey parrot named N’kisi possesses a vocabulary of 950 words, has a sense of humor, invents his own words and phrases, is able to keep his tenses straight, and can even read the mind of his keeper, whose name is not mentioned but on further investigation turns out to be somebody sporting the upmarket name, Ms. Aimee Morgana. That same investigation reveals that the African grey has the life expectancy of an average American.
 
Examples of this four-year-old prodigy’s sayings:
 
To Dr. Jane Goodall, the chimpanzee expert: “Got a chimp?”
 
On seeing a fellow parrot hanging upside down: “You got to put this bird on the camera.”
 
On seeing a picture of a man with a telephone: “What ya doing on the phone?”
 
On seeing a picture of a couple embracing: “Can I give you a hug?”
 
This astounding work on the verbal SAT scores of parrots raises, of course, the question of animal rights. Taken to its logical end, it leads us to conclude that parrots should be granted the right to vote. Or, to put the matter more carefully, it leads this candidate for President of the United States to promise that if elected, he will do everything in his power to see that a Constitutional Amendment be passed to enable American parrots over the age of 18 to exercise their rights to charge the ballot box and peck out a preference for president.
 
If dead American citizens can vote, why not extend that right to living, adult American parrots? After all, most of them have the potential vocabulary of their average human counterparts. More, a species blessed with the capacity to read the minds of others would be invaluable as CIA agents.

​The Dead Rights Party (DRiP) is on the move. Recent positive articles in the Yreka Post-Intelligencer (California), the Rifle Monthly (Colorado), the Baggs Globe (Wyoming), the East Chatham Chatter (New York), the Nome Post-Dispatch (Alaska), and Madcap Magazine are beginning to raise the consciousness of the average voter about our alternative to the Democratic Party and the GOP.
 
Not that the bionic urn has captured the imagination of the public. A recent Bugby poll shows that 38% of those phoned were able to recognize the donkey as the symbol of the Democratic Party; 39% the elephant, of the GOP; and 1% and change the bionic urn, of the DRiP.
 
Clearly, our campaign is in the stealth mode but ready to drop its bombs.
 
The next step in any campaign, before the nominating convention, is the creation of a platform. The DRiP is no exception. The Platform Committee, under the able leadership of Myles na Gopaleen, Jr., is pleased to announce the publication of its findings by Eleven Speed Press.
 
Herewith are succinct summaries of the major planks in the DRiP’s platform.
 
Naturally, the issue of voting and other rights for deceased Americans enjoys pride of place. It is the raison d’être of the DRiP’s existence.
 
Logically, the DRiP concludes that, since parrots have cognitive abilities, American parrots over the age of 18 should also be granted equal rights.
 
Concerning the War on Terrorism, the DRiP vows to convert Islamic State operatives, here and abroad, to fundamental Christianity.
 
As for the economy, the DRiP promises to add 20 million high-paying government jobs in the first year of its tenure, with preference being given to newly-enfranchised, newly-robotized dead Americans and parrots with an IQ of 85 and below.
 
Regarding the Vietnam War, the DRiP proposes a new law requiring all textbooks to obliterate any mention of said war from their pages. Moreover, no mention or hint of this controversial event in American history should be allowed in any newspaper, talk show, magazine, or campaign speech. The rationale for the DRiP position is that this non-war was started by the French.
 
A must read for every American, living, dead, or inhabiting the body of a talking bird.
 

Ab Ennis speaks:

​Yesterday afternoon, at a hastily-convened news conference in the saloon of the Hôtel Adobe, which is located in Small Southwestern City, I announced my political intentions, which had recently become the subject of widespread speculation. To the surprise and delight of my colleagues, I stood atop the bar and boldly and fearlessly intoned: “I stand before you today, my Fellow Americans, to Announce my Candidacy for the Office of President of these United States!”
 
“Hear, hear,” responded the ladies and gentlemen at the bar, pounding their mugs in boisterous cadence. The members of my newly-appointed Committee to Get the Job Done stood behind me, smiling and politely placing hand against fellow hand as a token of their enthusiasm. The cheerleaders lining the barroom walls hurled their star-studded red, white, and blue straw hats and sombreros into the air in unison, snatching them as they descended in accord with Sir Isaac Newton’s Law of Gravity.
 
Such reporters as were present scribbled away. The lens-bearing crowd aimed their all-seeing instruments at the urn containing my rotgut-sated ashes. (The phrase “zeroed in on” would also do well in the previous sentence, though some of the other words would have to be rearranged and changed; all in all, “aimed” does a more-than-satisfactory job—it works well with “all-seeing instruments.”)
 
I continued: “One thing you like to see in a president is the ability to select his or her words wisely. What I can offer this great nation is just such a talent. I am, as you are all aware, a literary critic. My award-winning semi-monthly column, “Books to Avoid,” appears on the award-winning website, “Don Quixote Writes Again.”
 
At this prearranged signal, the cheerleaders sallied forth into the mix of persons there assembled and handed out my card containing the relevant information. The card was adorned with a likeness of the American flag planted firmly into a likeness of my self.
 
“You will notice,” I continued, “that I am ensconced in what appears to be an urn. There is good reason for this. I am, legally speaking, dead. My wife and daughters chose to cremate me, according to my express wishes. It was a close, soul-searching call, but I selected cremation rather than the more traditional and maudlin burial. The decisive consideration was that I would be able to move about, with the aid of my loved ones and colleagues and, I had the foresight to hope, these robotic appendages that can be construed as legs.
 
“Why,” I continued to continue, “do I emphasize this point? The reason is disarmingly simple. As a legally dead person, I will be able effectively to represent the interests of all those who have gone before us, who have carved out this great nation from sea to shining sea. Deceased Americans have rights, too. I will spell them out in the coming campaign.”
 
Applause all around. Cries of “Drinks on the house!” The boisterous sound of bartenders scurrying about in response to the general request. The muffled sounds of reporters stashing their notebooks in various items of their clothing in order to take advantage of the opening.
 
I continued yet again, inspired by the half-teaspoon of rotgut that had been poured over my ashes: “The astute among you will notice that there is a precedent for the candidacy of a man with severe disabilities. I will enumerate them in chronological order. Washington wore wooden teeth. Lincoln suffered from depression. Roosevelt numero uno fought a lifelong battle with asthma. Wilson experienced a major stroke. Coolidge was considered by many an observer as already among the living dead. FDR rode about in a wheelchair. Beethoven was deaf. Ford was a pratfall artist. Carter had to be born again, which, to those who stop to consider the matter incisively, means he must have died somewhere along the line. Reagan was stricken with pre-Alzheimer’s. Bush the Elder spoke muddled speech. Clinton suffered from alley cat syndrome. Bush the Younger treaded the earth like a rooster. Obama did not make it to the NBA. I ask you, my Fellow Americans, is my affliction any more debilitating than those of my distinguished predecessors. Any questions?”
 
“Didn’t Beethoven come between Lincoln and the guy with asthma?” asked a young reporter with a Harvard accent.
 
“Beethoven was a composer,” replied the Hôtel Adobe’s finest, an elderly, well-read bartender. “He also played the pie-anna. Sawed off the legs and sat on the floor and pounded out the “Moonlight Sonata,” Opus 27, Number 2, from scratch. His dates were 1770-1827, making him a near contemporary of Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, the craziest philosopher before Jacques Derrida. Recent speculation is that our man died of lead poisoning. My guess is that it was planted by his landlady, who lived below him. I don’t mean to be critical, but that was a stupid question.”
 
The bartender and I exchanged winks. He knew that I had inserted the reference to Beethoven to snare the unwary. We share a low opinion of the media.
 
“What are your qualifications for the job?” asked an editor, Arthur Unknown, on cue.
 
“I have never made a major policy mistake. I did not get us into Vietnam. I have never cast a vote I must explain. I do not smoke in public. I am a man of the people, preferring rotgut to the finest French Chardonnays. I have never been accused of rape. Seldom it is that I end a sentence with a preposition. I write my own speeches. I escaped from Russia as a mere lad of twenty-one. I was opposed to the Russian Revolution. It made me an orphan. My grandchildren, though they are now in late middle age and have grandchildren of their own, continue to adore me. Two more questions.”
 
“What’s your political affiliation?” asked several mean-spirited journalists.
 
“The Dead Rights Party.”
 
“What is the main plank in your platform?” they continued in the same vein.
 
“‘A Mount Rushmore for every deceased American.’”
 
“What did you say your name was?” inquired an inquiring mind.
 
“No comment.”
 

The Kachina Round Table of which Ab Ennis and Myles na Gopaleen Jr. are a part—more about this in a future post—meet in the Watering Hole of the Hôtel Adobe, located in the Old Town section of bustling Small Southwestern City, which is built around the turquoise trinket trade. The décor of this grand hotel is retro Old West. The barmen in this high-end establishment are dressed as cowboys, all the way from their silver-spur-fitted boots to their bullet-studded holsters to their sallow faces and hoary beards, all topped off with state-of-the-art Stetsons. The bargirls are attired in late sixteenth-century Kachina dress and coiffed accordingly. The typical meal is beef jerky sprinkled with sage and inundated with beans; it is washed down with a choice of tequila or a fine Mexican brew. In accordance with local law, all customers check their six-shooters at the cloak room; a trio of deputy sheriffs armed with sawed-off shotguns enforces this ordinance from their stations within the Watering Hole, where they are wont to gather for the purpose of both fiddling with poker chips on a turquoise-inlaid round table of their own and transferring funds from one person to another while emitting, respectively, shouts and sobs. For more information on this fine hôtel, check out their website at the obvious location.

Some have wondered how a dead, deceased, discombobulated can of ashes would be able to read, write, talk, and run for the highest office in the land.
 
I’m here to tell you that he can. I’m also here to tell you how he can.
 
Early in 2015, his aide, Ms. Bedwell, prevailed upon a scientist by the name of Myles na Gopaleen, Jr., founder of the Myles na Gopaleen, Jr. Think Tank (MGJTT), to make her star charge whole, or as whole as a can of ashes can aspire to be.
 
Mr. MGJ was up to the challenge. After five minutes of intense yogic activity, he came forth with the notion that Mr. Ennis could be outfitted with a robotic apparatus that would be able to speak good English and a smattering of Russian, walk about, gesticulate, put on his Perry Ellis designed raiment on arising, take it off at night, and run for president. He was, however, unable, being a theoretician, to actually build the outfit, but a cellcon to a connection with a Silicon Valley startup enabled his notion to become reality.
 
And so it was that Ab Ennis, outfitted with a set of Bose speakers and specially-designed soft lips, was able to declare his political intentions, found the Dead Rights (political) party, kiss kids without passing along stray germs, and perform other acts proper to a candidate who could boast of having no political experience but having the capacity to return America to its pristine, Edenic state.

Mr. Ennis escaped Russia in 1906 at the age of twenty-one to seek his fortune in America and to avoid the Czar’s draft.

He learned English from reading girlie magazines. His literary tastes took a turn for the better while reading Lolita, the masterpiece of his fellow Russian emigré Vladimir Nabokov. This experience taught him that erotica is compatible with fancy prose.

Either through shyness or a wish to keep his moral reputation impeccable, he kept many of his book reviews and other scribblings in a shoebox, which he stashed behind a still in his landlady’s attic. At the time of his death in 1958 he was working on a Tolstoy-sized novel on post-Revolutionary Russia entitled Nyet! This unfinished manuscript was discovered by an anonymous editor, who, with a grant from the National Endowment for Dead Writers, is currently translating the book from Russian into Yiddish. It is due for publication in 2020.

Ennis was posthumously awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2002, though the news of this honor has been kept from the American public by the influential New York publishing establishment. This slight of Mr. Ennis, whose work is well-known in Europe, is considered by experts to be a major cause of the rift between America and the Continent.

​Mr. Ennis remains active despite his wife’s decision to follow his instructions to cremate him; though his brain now shares the ashen state of his former body, it is still able to function—read, write, talk, etc.—with the aid of his non-deceased companion, Ms. Betty Bedwell.

​Let’s see if I’ve got this right. One of our national parties is offering us a choice between a Communist and a crook. The other party is allowing us to pick either a carnival clown or a Christian crusader.
 
Some of you will quibble that the Communist is only a socialist. You’re probably right, but you’re messing with my fascination with the letter C.
 
Some of you will protest that whether the other candidate is really a crook has not yet been determined. Technically you’re right, though the smart money is on the other side.
 
There is no doubt, however, except by those riding one of the other party’s bandwagons, that their front-runner is really a carnival clown (witness his words and acts) and his opponent is a crusader for the Christian cause (witness his pose, voice, and delivery, which are those of the common American evangelist). Put a floppy Bible in his one hand and he will thump it with the other.
 
So we have four C’s. To which I would like to add another, who is, I am told, poised to run as a candidate of a brand new party. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . . a cadaver: Ab Ennis, late of that great metropolis, Lava Hot Springs, Idaho (2010 population 407, down from 2000’s 521).
 
He’s dead, folks. I’ll grant you that. He died way back in 1958. His wife had him cremated, so technically speaking he’s no longer a cadaver; he’s a burnt-to-a-crisp crematee. And he represents the long-suppressed yearnings of the Dead Rights Party.
 
But more about Ab and his marvelous run in later posts.