The atmosphere of the beer stube was typical: rotund Germans seated on rows of benches lined up along rough wooden tables quaffing great steins of the elixer of barley malt and Hollertau hops with oompah music providing a lively background. Buxom girls in dirndl blouses ran the beer, and all was well among the suds, the duds, and the cheer.

Suddenly, an unusual, and evidently unwanted presence entered the hall: a frumpy and relatively stout woman, obviously well past her sell-by date, wearing a brown wool skirt and beige shirt surmounted by a Sam Browne belt, came through the door with a most self-important air about her. "Silence, silence!" she shouted, "Make way for our new group leader, Thudolf Twitler!" Behind her strolled in a most unprepossessing man dressed just as she, except for trousers in place of the skirt, though he looked as if he might well have been comfortable in a skirt. This Twitler* ascended the stage at the front of the hall and gazed about as though surveying his realm. Running his hands across his chest and then extending them toward the crowd, he began speaking.

"My fellow pedants; too long have we been assailed by those who would undermine our culture. The purity of pedantry has been continually attacked by an international conspiracy of those who would pollute the purity of our scholarship by disdaining primary sources and instead using reason and logic in the analysis of historical events. This is intolerable! We have been working diligently toward cleansing our ranks of these vermin. We have been doing all that is possible to make them leave. We have attacked their postings, looking for any little flaw, and assailed them on the basis of wrong in one, wrong in all. We have made them wear yellow asterisks on their coats, so that all might recognize them as despised outsiders. Still, they will not leave!

"Well, now we have a final solution for this problem. We have places where we can send them, where they will be isolated, silenced, never heard from again. They shall be as nithling, banished, rooted out, prevented from ever again challenging the right, the way, my way. Trampled under the footnotes of the only acceptable way to history! For I am Anglcynn, and Anglcynn is me! One volk, one research, one leader!"

At that the dowdy woman, now on the fringes, begins chanting "Hail Twitler! Hail Twitler!"

Some in the restive crowd take up the chant while many, fearing retribution, do not express their opposition and remain nervously silent. Twitler raises his hand, commanding silence. "Let me assure everyone, my ambitions are modest. Give me Anglcynn, and I will not touch Britannia!"

At that Twitler leaves the podium, amidst the relieved cheers of the beer sodden throng.
*****************************************************************

* The well known “Bayerischer Bastardy and Other Aberrational Oddities”, Billy Bob Bosch, Editor, Nuremberg Press, 1941, pp 270-271, records that Thudolf Twitler was actually born Thudolf Gunthigruber but changed his surname to Twitler so as to avoid the disgrace of being recognized as, shall we say, undocumented.

WRITTEN BY Hunding Wuffing, 2004. The foregoing parody is, of course, fictional, and intended purely for the amusement of the reader.