Silverwolf was about to take off to give another of his blog readings at the Matilka Community Centre (and let’s retain British spellings since they did do us the favour of inventing our language) and as he was passing through the placid rusticity of the tiny dog-bark free hamlet of Holland, before tackling the ascent and persuant descent of Hope Mountain that would debouche him in front of said centre, he was accosted by Blue Dog who informed him as to the medical status of Judge Ted. The Judge is just about the friendliest good ol’ boy you could hope to find, till it comes to the topic of Fascists. His verdicts on these are well known throughout the county, and not fit to be put into print. Seems the Judge is having a bit of trouble with the old plumbing, since he likes his daily constitutional, despite the fact that Silverwolf has explained to him how booze leads to low zinc levels in the prostate gland, which in turn can lead to prostatitis, or even worse. We hope to see the Judge back on the bench soon, helping to keep the county “Fascist rein”.
As Silverwolf descended the dingle that leads from the dog-bark free rustic hamlet of Holland to the approach to Hope Mountain, he began to chew over the colonial injustices of the Dutch (undoubtedly triggered, the Freudians in the audience will asseverate, by associations catalyzed by the town’s name) and the disruptions caused by bass speakers in auto- and home- stereos, two of his pet peeves (he is hoping to breed them). Here he must strongly disagree with Gardener Bill, the unofficial “mayor” and “police chief” of Holland. Bill thinks that dog barks are worse than stereos, bad as they may be. Silverwolf takes the opposite tack, and vociferously differs with him. Sometimes they get into some pretty heated verbal fisticuffs, but nothing that cannot be calmed by the halcyonic bromides of Balzac’s coffeepot and Franklin’s chessboard. Bill arrived in Holland being regarding as something of a pariah, and was at first viewed as a bit of a hot head for calling folks up at 3am after their dog had been howling for an hour. “Is your dog O.K.?” Yep, why? “I just thought he might be sick since he’s been howling non-stop for an hour.” Nope, as far as I know he’s fine. ———– Gardener Bill also had a penchant for driving his noisy old truck up in front of someone’s house when their dogs were barking on and on at 2am and getting right in front of the dogs and then leaning on the horn for 15 seconds. It worked countless times. Now that their property values have soared ’cause Holland is the quietest berg in the whole valley, the Hollanders ribbingly call him “Mr. Mayor” or “Sheriff Bill”. But any noisy-dog owner who would threatened their newly-elevated property values would quickly be drummed out of Holland and driven all the way down the dingle and then up over Hope Mountain all the way to the semi-ghost town of Matilka.
But forgetting dog barks, the matter of the Dutch squandering what they had pilfered during their colonial administration of the “Dutch East Indies” caught the solemn consistory of Silverwolf’s consciousness, for it illustrated both an economic and a moral turpitude. Up until not many years ago, a Dutch citizen working in government positions could claim disability due to “stress” and receive a pension equal to 100% of their old salary beginning at age 50. Of course, as any Libertarian economist of the Austrian school, for example, Von Mises, Hayek, Rothbard or Rand, could have predicted, the fund eventually went bankrupt due to abuse, since all one needed to do was claim overwhelming psychological stress to get your free money. A similar phenomenon occurred in Poland just before the fall of the Commies. It was possible under their regime for government workers to retire at 50 with a pension equal to their old salary. On this they supported an extended family of possibly 10 people. Of course, as Toqueville could have predicted, these extended families always made sure they all voted, and there were so many government and ex-government workers that the Commies always won. And then, of course, just like all collectivist paradises that think there is a free lunch, (and all you have to do is rob the rich, middle class, and upper working class, and take that money and have bureaucrats make loads of plans as to what to do with that money, instead of letting the free market make those decisions, and having all that tax money that was collected float around in the free market to give it a filip instead of sitting in government coffers or being wasted in non-competitive bids) the Peoples Proletarian Paradise of Poland finished up pisspoor and had to go save itself by going over to that wicked capitalism (loud weeping and lamentation from the benches on the left).
Beginning the ascent of the incline that demarks the end of the dingle, and the start of the upgrade towards Hope Mountain’s pinnacle, Silverwolf noticed his soul’s solemn consistory had devolved its attention onto economic matters, but now he sucked in the inspissating fragrance of the spring blooms, sweated out of them by the calenture of summer. Turning his muzzle to the right, he cast his glance towards a little tump of Doug firs up on the slope, amongst which might be discerned a cabin of well-aged wood. This was the residence of She-lah, a female wolf (one of the few other wolves residing in the valley) an eccentric but not at all bad looking she-wolf whom Silverwolf had conversed with from time to time on sublunar topics. He could hear her computer blaring out, playing the secret Nixon phone-calls that C-span had just released and which She-lah evidently enjoyed more that almost anything else in the world. However, the Nixon tapes were usually interlarded with trumpet concerti of Pachelbel and Fasch, at which time she was approachable. But while the Nixon tapes were on, she would stalk up and down, yelling at the top of her lungs what that “B-st-rd Tricky Dick had done with her diamonds”, or how he had “stolen her gold mine”. Silverwolf believed her, but most of the valley seemed to think she was a kook, far more eccentric than Gardener Bill. However, Silverwolf found them to be the only normal folks around.
“He that can have patience, can have what he will.” —-Benjamin Franklin
I’ll howl to that. Hoowwwwwwwwwwwwwooowwwwwwwwwwww——–Silverwolf