Archive for April, 2008

Silverwolf and The Miracle of the Pontiff’s Visit

April 17, 2008

Silverwolf awoke the other morn to read on one of the major news sites that a sense of peace was pervading America as the Holy Pontiff began his visit to the USA. And Silverwolf knew something strange was up when he went into Spelunker’s Crossing.

First off, he stopped at the Spelunker’s Specials grocery store, where the only thing special are the especially high prices, to procure a newspaper. As he pushed his two washingtons across the counter  towards Wayland, he notice a beatific smile had replaced his usual post-Coors scowl.

“Howdy, Silverwolf. Wonderful day isn’t it?”

“Yep, I guess it’s fine for thems that doesn’t have to work.” (Silverwolf’s English grammar is really atrocious.)

“Times are rough, eh, Silverwolf? Wait, I tell you what, hold on”, and turning towards the back of the store he yelled “Ethel”. “Yeh, Wayland” came back. Ethel is Wayland’s “wife”, and wouldn’t give you the drippings of her nose for free.

“Is it OK if I let Silverwolf have a copy of the Spelunker Screamer for free? Sounds like he’s having a rough time, and you know, today is the start of the Holy Father’s visit to our land.”

Ethel, whose face looks like an old Charles Laughton hung-over, popped her head out from behind the curtain that cordons off their back office. “Why sure, Wayland. We ought to honor the Holy Pontiff’s visit to our shores, by initiating a new spirit of love, understanding, and cherishing all human beings. So, sure, Silverwolf, you take that paper, you enjoy it, and just put those two old washington slugs back in your pocket, because Wayland and I surely don’t need them. Yes, the sense of peace in our land is almost palpable this morning.” Silverwolf had never heard Ethel wax so poetic, so he got out of that store fast.

Since he was out of gas, Silverwolf stopped at Jeff’s Chevron to fill up , because his prices are the highest in town, and Silverwolf has recently been experimenting with masochism as a form of consciousness-expansion. Jeff came out to greet him, while Bump was pumping the gas (Silverwolf would have done it himself but state law makes that a crime). “Howdy, Silverwolf, beautiful day isn’t it, if you ignore the fragrance of the gas fumes. Fillin’ ‘er up? Yep, it sure does mount up fast now, don’t it. Yes, siree. But wait, I can’t have our old customer like Silverwolf paying those price-gouging premiums. Bump, I want you to knock a whole buck off every gallon that Silverwolf takes.”

“Gee, a whole buck a gallon, boss?” Bump sounded incredulous.

“Yeh. Let’s do it. Silverwolf is an old customer, and today is the start of the Holy Sees visit to our illustrious land. We all need to make some gesture towards our neighbors to show a new spirit of peace and harmony has come to this country, coinciding with His Holiness’ stepping onto our sacred shores. So knock that buck off Bump. Cut away!” And twirling on his heels, Jeff went back to his little kiosk, while Bump, shaking his head, handed Silverwolf a wad of crumpled one-cers.

Then, Silverwolf seemed to find himself in the middle of a checkout line in the Spelunker’s Superstore-Super Supermarket, about 23rd from the front, when Bob, the friendly store manager, came on the P.A. “Folks, we know you’ve been having a hard time lately, and so, to show our appreciation for your continued support, we’ve decided to give you whatever is currently in your shopping carts, on the house, in honor of the  Holy Pontiff’s trip today to our country. We hope by this gift, to encourage a permanent spirit of sharing and cooperation amongst all the peoples of our land, and we are confident that today marks a new beginning for our culture, thanks to His Holiness.” Silverwolf managed to avoid getting crushed going out the door.

Then Silverwolf stopped at the Wolfmen’s Bank, to open a 5 year CD for twenty-nine cents. Miss Spitzenhorn, the New Accounts “Executive”, explained that rates had had to fall to 2% in order to save the country, but in the middle of the paperwork, Mr. O’Brady, the bank manager, came over and greeted Silverwolf warmly. “What are we giving Silverwolf today, Miss Spitzenhorn?” he asked. “2%”, she replied. “A measly two percent?” He seemed genuinely shocked. “Look Silverwolf, we’ve known each other for years, ever since you were in our Pup Scout Troop. We can’t have an old friend like you getting such chintzy rates. And remember, today is the first day of the Holy Father’s visit to our country, so, in honor of that event, and in order to promote a new spirit of togetherness and mutual caring in America, I am hereby directing Miss Spitzenhorn to goose your rate up to 23% for as long as you like, up to 10 years, with no early withdrawal penalty. Now how’s that for brotherly love?”

Silverwolf had to dab at his eyes, but he did it surreptitiously, so as not to ruin his reputation around town. “Do I still get the free pen and them free vegan mints?” he asked anxiously.

Driving home, Silverwolf could sense the great peace and love that had settled over the land. All was well in America. Tomorrow would mark a complete change in society. When he woke up the next day, he knew he would find a society utterly transformed, in perfect harmony.

After all, miracles do happen, don’t they?

Hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf

Silverwolf Listens to Judge Ted: Bunky and the Hudderites

April 13, 2008

“Oh, and then there was the time”, Judge Ted continued, ” when Bunky started courting a Hudderite (sic)  girl.” (Bunky was one of the Judge’s sidekicks back when he was a young pup in Wahpeton-Breckenridge, ND-MN, before the Judge had to come west because of his bunions. Silverwolf should note additionally that the Judge uses the common yet incorrect term, “Hudderite”, in place of the correct “Hutterite”, but Silverwolf has retained the incorrect pronounciation throughout to garner an air of quaint authenticity.)  “I figured I’d have a go at Bunky just to rib him,” Judge Ted continued, “because it was said round that way by some folks, that the Hudderites were such a strict religious sect, they had a hard time attracting new blood into the clan and, frankly, they were afraid of inbreeding. So if any boy showed the slightest interest in a Hudderite girl, they were on to him, and God help him if he slept with her, they’d follow him to the ends of the earth to get him. At least, that’s what some said, but, like most religious prejudices, there was no reality to back it up. The Hudderites are Anabaptists, who live according to a pure form of communism, that also eschews coercion. The idea of them forcing anyone to do anything against their will was patently absurd, but I doubt Bunky even knew what a Hudderite was, let alone an Anabaptist. I figured that  Bunky, who never left the bar or the railroad yard, probably didn’t know a thing about the Hudderites, and maybe even thought a Hudderite was some kind of fish for all I knew, so, one day, putting on a mournful face, I told Bunky the bad news, as if I were announcing he had the clap, that he’d better be darned careful with that Spitzenhorn girl ’cause the Hudderites were always out for new genes, and if you showed the slightest interest in a Hudderite girl, they were after you for life, and had a network that would track you to the jungles of Bolivia or Borneo, if need be (because of their  worldwide missionaries — I really played up that bit!), even if you’d only put your hands on the breast of a Hudderite girl, and you know,” I said, looking him solemnly straight in the eye, and wagging my finger in his face, “them Spitzenhorns is Hudderites. You be careful, Bunky, or they’ll have you for life. In fact, it’s probably already too late.”

“The next day, Bunky didn’t show up at the rail yard for work, nor did he show up at the bar for his daily analeptic of four Carling Black Labels interlarded with three shots of Wild Turkey. That night, I got a frantic call from Bunky’s folks, cause he hadn’t come home; then one from his sister, who hadn’t seen or heard from him.”

“At first it never dawned on me, and I was briefly as worried as the others, but then I thought: Oh, oh. I know what’s happened.”

“Well, late one night, about six months later, after not hearing a word from him, I heard a gentle tapping on my bedroom window, and  at first I thought it was the neighbour girl coming over for our periodic fun, like we’d been doing for about a year straight, but when I looked through the window, I saw a haggard though familiar face who I soon recognized as Bunky, with greasy hair, dirty clothes,  and a month-long beard.”

“I was about to blurt out, where you been? but Bunky beat me to it with, ‘Have they been round asking for me?’ His hands were shaking; there was real fear in his voice. Gee, I felt sorry for him. ‘No, no one’s been asking for you, cepting your folks and sister. What’s the idea of running off like that? And look at you, you look like a derelict, and you smell like somebody spilled a bottle of Wild Turkey over you.’ ”
” ‘Well, to tell the simple truth, for the last six months I’ve been hiding out in Minneapolis in a hotel room on skid row,’ ” Bunky repled. ‘I figured that would be the last place the Hudderites would look for someone, and even if they found them, if they looked like a drunken bum, they’d probably not even want them for their gene pool. But, I tell ya, Ted, I still can’t sleep over it. I see this army of Hudderites standing over me while I’m sleeping, and they wake me up, and tie me down with them little strings, and cart me off to some shotgun wedding’ — , a wave of fear spread slowly across Bunky’s face.”

” ‘No, nobody came round for you. And anyway, I was wrong about the Spitzenhorns. Turns out thems is Mennonites, not Hudderites. And since you run off like that, the Spitzenhorn girl found herself another boyfriend, and even married him. So you got absolutely nothing to worry about now.’ ”

“I tell you, the look of relief that spread over Bunky’s face…he lost five years before my eyes.”

Bunky: “Hot damn! Howzabout coming down to Ole and Lena’s bar, and having a few Wild Turkey’s on me?”

“No. It’s gotta be Ten High for me, or I won’t drink with you,” said the Judge, smiling.

“It’s a deal. Skol, brother!” said Bunky.”

Great story, Judge Ted, said Silverwolf, but I’d really better get back to the Lair and start my dinner of “lentils a la wolfbane”.

Judge Ted, “Oh, and then there was the time…….”

Hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf


The Japanese Murder Four More

April 10, 2008

Silverwolf has just heard the outrageous news that the miscreant nation of Japan has just sadistically murdered four human beings by hanging. But that should come as no surprise to those who, unfortunately, are familiar with the history of this unfortunate “nation”.

Besides having a talent for bayoneting and burning alive Chinese, the Nipponese criminals are also pretty good at mass rape (the “comfort women” of Korea), torturing whales to death by slowing electrocuting them over a thirty-minute period, and annually hacking dolphins to death. So keeping people on death row for years, with the knowledge that at some moment, without warning, day or night, they will suddenly be dragged from their jail cells and hung, is pretty typical for these sadists. Such a nightmare has occurred to four human beings during the last 24-hours, in that scat-house of Asia, Japan. Honestly, Silverwolf thinks you soon won’t be able to tell the Japanese from the Texans (except for Ron Paul).

But Libertarians take action. And when it comes to the money-grubbing miscreants of Nippon, it’s obvious that the greatest action is inaction: the boycott, the severing of all ties, economic and social, the “sending to Coventry” of the British Trade Unions. Japan is going into another deep recession; its economy is on the rocks as the Yen rockets upwards, making its exports uncompetitive. It’s Sonny Liston on the ropes, being pummelled by Mohammed Ali. It cannot bear a boycott.

So as true Capitalist Libertarians, who universally oppose the death penalty, wolves (and humans) can strike a blow against this former Buddhist culture, by following the Buddhist directive of “sitting quietly, doing nothing”, and by this gentle action, Libertarians will be Ali’s fist, smashing one through Liston’s mouthguard. And when our Libertarian fists are well-down their economic throats, Libertarians will say, “Nip on these!”

To hell with Japan, a nation of miscreants!

Hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf


Spitting in the Eye of the Fascist: The Olympic Protests

April 10, 2008

Well, maybe Ron Paul’s campaign is bearing fruit after all, for the news has been filled the last few days with the courageous protests against the Clinton-Democrat-enabled entry of Chinese Fascism into some of the most sacred sactuaries of Libertarian Capitalism: London, Paris, and Frisco. The murdering Fascists thought it would be a cake-walk to gain legitimacy in the eyes of the world by parading their nationalist garbage in front of the lobotomised American, British and French publics, but it looks like the spirit of Lord Bertrand Russell and Lord Acton, Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus, and Sam Adams and Thomas Jefferson, still lives. John Rothmann’s namby-pamby suggestion of turning ones back on the run, coming at the same time as he is campaigning for the wife of the man who enabled the Chinese Fascists to hold on to their vast theft of Tibet, a theft that has lasted for almost 60 years with hardly a peep from the so-called “free world”, a world that should have shunned all contact with the Chinese Fascists, this namby-pamby Rothmannism has been put aside for the spirit that spat in the eye of war-criminal Hubert Humphrey at the Chicago convention in 1968, and his vile, woman-clubbing sidekick, mayor Richard Daley. Back then, the people knew how to treat those war-criminals, just as the Libertarians of London-Paris-SF are treating this insult to the whole American Spirit, when our miscreant officials permit the Chinese-Commie criminals to parade through our streets. London is no longer a sleepy town for the street fighting man; socialist Paris is getting some testosterone for a change, and SF — well, hell hath no fury like an incensed Tenderloin Queen (so we hear). Give em one from Silverwolf!

Hey hey, my my, Liberty will never die.

Free Tibet! Boycott the Chinese-Communist murderers. Elect Ron Paul President of the United States of America. Just do it!

Hoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf


Silverwolf on Silverwolf

April 7, 2008

It has come to Silverwolf’s notice that he has published a series of blogs under his own name, Silverwolf, and he thinks it is about time that he commented on his own discursions.

Frankly, these pathetic blogs have become a source of irritation to the reading public. These ineffectual posts, extolling the virtues of Congressman Ron Paul, have grown almost puerile in their adulation.  They have been singularly ineffectual in getting Congressman Paul elected President of the United States (so far), but of course the battle is far from over. Needless to say, these abrasive harangues, coming from the quill of Silverwolf, have probably done more to harm, than to hurt, the gentle Giant from Texas. Silverwolf’s unrelenting attacks on some of the most revered members of the senate, and house, and of both parties, have left a bitter taste in the mouths of many readers. Silverwolf’s fustian, his prolixity, his constant negativity, have started to grate on the nerves of the American body politic, and he would do the  literary public a great service, if he would retire to Pembrokeshire and raise wolf-wool. Does the public need to be subjected to such trashy writing? Is Silverwolf’s horrendous style not some justification for draconian censorship laws?

Few can know the tediousness of being locked in a cranium with such a compulsive writer — no, scribbler is more appropriate. To have to constantly hang out with a consciousness always on the lookout for the cheap, but catchy phrase, the clever, but shallow, literary trick, the shoddy and rushed sentence construction a la Balzac, — all these must be tolerated by your interlocutor, as he lies stranded in the cell formed by the cerebellum of this crafty wolf.

As to literary style, it’s obvious that Silverwolf wants to show off his supposed erudition. If he can use an obscure, long word, where a common brief one would suffice, you can be sure he will take the opportunity. The sign of a rank amateur. Honestly, I just don’t know how the public stomachs reading his drivel?

Then there are the ridiculous flights into fancy and fantasy, that must make the public really wonder. Silverwolf has read few writings as ridiculous as his own. He’d give them a D minus if he didn’t enjoy reading them so much, which shows that he also has horrendous taste in reading matter. All around, a bad literary character, who should not be permitted to work in the literary grapevine lest he taint the entire crop of new bloggers and turn them sour. Let’s face it, the fellow is not sound.

Therefore, I must strongly urge the reading public not to read this blog, or any of those prolixious pieces of petty prose that Silverwolf has tried to foist on the reading public as serious blog material. We must stop this literally literarily-dangerous movement in its tracks, by all agreeing to not read this blog, nor any of the other blogs put out by this literary charlatan, this verbal mountebank, this grammatical wolfanapes.

When it comes to blog reading, you definitely don’t want to read Silverwolf, in Silverwolf’s humble opinion.

Franklin teaches that self-examination is necessary to attaining the Art of Virtue. With this blog, Silverwolf has fulfilled Franklin’s directive.

Hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf


Silverwolf Acts Shakespeare with John Ritter

April 3, 2008

One of Silverwolf’s ancient memories, recordere during his sojourn in the human form, the form of depravity, was his indelible experience of acting Shakespeare with John Ritter.

Under the watchful eye of the ebullient Addison Myers, who was such a good drama teacher that he was soon snapped up by Beverly Hills High, the assembled Thespians set to work on the dueling scene from Romeo and Juliet, that all-male scene in a play concerning ying-yang dynamics. Silverwolf was assigned the task of playing Romeo, while Mercutio, and the sub-direction of the play, under the general tutorship of Mr. Myers, was undertaken by a cat named John Ritter, whom Silverwolf recalled had a famous father. What struck one about John was his utter earnestness in throwing himself into the production of the play, and a complete lack of that pompous conceit that actors are supposedly so notorious for displaying. With John, we were all in this play together, and the product was the product of us all. No fustian in John.

We must have rehearsed that play for six weeks, prior to our performing it at the Shakespeare Festival at U.C.L.A., when all the schools in the L.A. Unified School District would send their representative Thespian delegations armed with a scene from the poor old tired Bard of Stratford, who must be truly sick to death of hearing his same old lines delivered over and over for about 500 years now. What bliss to be forgotten after you die, and take your place amongst the obliterated phenomena of this vast cosmos, where all facts and actions are retained only in G-d’s memory and mind, if he has one. No such bliss for poor old Shakespeare until the sun blows up.

One of the hardest things for Silverwolf, in performing the scene, was when he had to stab Tybalt, played by Hector from Ecuador. Hector had a way of rolling his eyes heavenward when Silverwolf would run him through with his rapier (not really—just make believe, for the record) in such a comical way that Silverwolf would be busting at the seams. In fact, Silverwolf’s main fear for six weeks, was that he would break character at the final performance, after the troupe had couped the first prize.

As it turned out, his fears were almost realized. On the day of the Shakespeare Festival at U.C.L.A., the troupe performed and won their first two rounds. This winnowed out 90% of the schools. Emotionally exhausted by having to kill Tybalt twice in a few hours, and contain his glee at seeing Hector roll his eyes in death, Silverwolf, in concert with John, Hector, and those whose names have slipped from Silverwolf’s memory with the passage of two score and more  years, managed to give another brilliant performance, which catapulted the troupe into the final trial. And once again they succeeded, thanks to that divine diva who hovers like a mother hen over Thespians. G-d loves Thespians, and so do the Fates.

Now repaired to Royce Hall, the troupe awaited the final declaration of the winners. Over 100 schools had competed, and presently the top three were to be announced. And Silverwolf’s school was one of those three.

There are moments in life, key turning points, when one sees things as they are with great clarity. And such was that moment, as the troupe sat nervously fidgeting, not knowing whether to gear up the adrenaline for another performance, or brace for the disappointment of a second or third place finish. (The winning scene was to be performed, yet once again,  in Royce Hall before all the assembled Yobos.) For it was at this moment that Silverwolf knew, with a great assuredness, that the last thing on earth he wanted to be was an actor, and the last thing he would be capable of doing was going before the eyes of 600 assembled Yobos, and once again stabbing Hector (not really, for the record), and not melting into a pool of giggling jelly in front of 600 very embarrassed high schoolers. Silverwolf didn’t want to be there; Silverwolf didn’t want to be an actor; Silverwolf had stagefright!

“And the winner is…” A groan of disappointment went through John Ritter and the assembled troupe; a flood of sweet relief went through Silverwolf’s cerebellum. We had not won! We had come in third! What joy for Silverwolf!

It was thus that Silverwolf learned he did not want to be an actor. But it was also thus that he acted with someone who did want to be an actor, who was completely devoid of that selfish self-centeredness imputed to most actors, and who went on to practice his craft for decades, bringing great joy to hundreds of millions of people, literally billions of times.

Acting Shakespeare with John Ritter: Not something Silverwolf will soon forget.

Hoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwww! — Silverwolf.