Category Archives: Wolf Tales

How the Chief Is Coping with the COVID-19 Quarantine – April 3, 2020

Reading about my family history has always been exhilarating!

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April 3, 2020 · 10:58 PM

The Chief’s Most Valuable Possessions

My father’s urn

My mother’s official wedding portrait from 1959, along with other old family photos

The box containing my dog’s ashes

My computers, including this 10-year-old desktop

My cell phone

My vast collection of books

My model car collection

Music CDs

My library of National Geographic magazines that stretch back nearly 80 years

Wine and other spirits

My stash of adult DVDs

And finally…

Who would’ve thought?!  At the start of the third decade of the 21st century, this shit would become a coveted item!

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How the Chief Is Coping with Isolation and Self-Quarantine Amidst a Near-Apocalyptic Meltdown on the Alter of Toilet Paper

I’m all set for…

The End

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Ah, 2020…What Could Have Been

“The future belongs to those who prepare for it today.”

Malcolm X

As we continue moving forward into this third decade of the 21st century, I can’t help but ponder the many things both we and our forebears thought society would have realized by now.  I’m considering all of this in the midst of the growing COVID-19 scourge; which now has been officially declared a pandemic.  Just imagine…by the year 2020, we thought we’d have:

Flying cars

A cure for cancer

A colony on Mars

Contact with extraterrestrials

Found Bigfoot

Achieved teleportation

Bullet trains in every major city

Life expectancy exceeding 90

Instead, what are we doing? Teaching people how to sneeze into their sleeves and wash their hands.  What the fuck happened?!

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Valentine’s Day Greetings for the Disenfranchised and Proudly Introverted

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

I’m happy now,

I don’t need you.

Roses are red,

Chili is hot.

Yes, I love you,

But you’re too fat to be on top.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

I like when you cuddle,

But not when you moo.

Roses are red,

Sunflowers are yellow.

Just give me a Xanax,

And I’ll stay mellow.

Roses are red,

Knives can cut.

Don’t wake me up now,

Or I’ll kick your butt.

Roses are red,

I love the morning dew.

Don’t blame it on me,

Because Cialis won’t work for you.

Roses are red,

Ivy is green.

Above all else,

You’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

Roses are red,

And some are pink.

Change your damn underwear!

You’re beginning to stink!

Roses are red,

The sun is bright.

Steal my cheesecake,

And we’ll end up in a fight!

Roses are red,

Set plants on the windowsill.

Cry all you want.

I won’t pay your damn cell phone bill.

Some roses are pink.

Some roses are red.

I don’t like how you think,

And you’re lousy in bed.

Roses are red.

I feel I’m next.

When you’re around,

I only want sex.

Roses are red.

Politicians are crass.

I have to admit,

You have a nice ass.

Roses are red,

And you called me a hog.

That’s okay.

I’d rather spend time with my dog.

Roses are red,

And you’re the best.

I really love it,

When you braid the hairs on my chest.

Roses are red.

The sky is gray.

You stood me up last night.

So, happy fucking Valentine’s Day!

Top image: Tee Public – Scare Baby

Bottom image: Srandovní obrázky

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Hormone It

Over the past couple of years male friends of mine have openly and shamelessly lamented the various travails suddenly burdening their aging lives.  Some have actually announced they’re experiencing hot flashes!  Seriously?!  Hot flashes?!  In the olden days (c. 1970s and 80s) I often heard my mother and other women bemoaning the onset of this dreaded mid-life scourge.  Since I only heard women complaining, I thought we men were safe and had to deal with other traumas; such as our eyebrows growing together and more spontaneous urination incidents instead of spontaneous erections.

Alas, it seems the much-loathed hot flash has zoonotically migrated into the Y-chromosome crowd.  I knew women shouldn’t have been allowed to vote and wear slacks!

While I’ve attributed recent cranial temperature spikes to allergies and Texas’ perennial schizophrenic weather (which might explain some Texans to the rest of the civilized world), I don’t feel I’m experiencing hot flashes.  I prefer to call them “hormonal readjustments”.  They’re similar to gray hairs; they’re not gray hairs, people!  They’re stress highlights!

Shortly after I turned 40 in 2003 – in the days more commonly known as BH (Before HDTV) or BF (Before Facebook) – I came down with the flu for the first time in my entire life to date.

“What’s this shit about life beginning at 40?” I joked with my then-supervisor at work.

A round of Tamiflu, coupled with orange juice, rum and refraining from frequent masturbation helped over that uncomfortable, microbial slump.  But I still had the gnawing sensation my body had finally decided to divorce itself from my soul and try to lead a life of its own.  I think a number of people experience that same feeling as their odometer reaches the number 40.  We never ask for that kind of life change; the shit just slaps us upside the head!

Now, however, at age 56, I’m starting to experience more unexpected physiological changes in my body, as well as cerebral alterations that occur upon realizing life moves more easily when sound and sober.  Unexpected, yes, but even more pleasurable.  It’s not the same kind of pleasure one might have seeing their best friend and one-time spouse or life partner drive off the cliff in their new vehicle.  I mean, what a way to get a new car!  Full-coverage insurance be damned!

For me, it’s my body finally getting adjusted to NOT holding in all the rage and angst I have when people piss me off – the madness otherwise known as “Life”.

Remember, we don’t develop gray hairs!  Now, my own indigo locks haven’t sported many – yet!  But metaphorically, I’m covered!  Still – no gray hairs, dear readers!  They’re stress highlights!  Thus, it’s good to let out as much stress as you can.  Just watch out for flu varmints and two-timing best friends!

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Inoculate This!

Another week of the latest reality TV show to torture the masses, ‘The Harlequins of Washington’, has thankfully ended.  The histrionic personality of Faux-President Donald Trump has yet to abate and find its happy place.  Trump is the “Typhoid Mary” of the current political arena: infected, contagious, absurdly disgusting and in obvious denial.  Where’s Louis Pasteur when you need him?!  Or maybe Jeffrey Dahmer.  Oh, Great Candelabra!  I guess I shouldn’t be so brutally honest.  But the unbridled scribe in me often takes over my brain faster than Germans at a beer festival.

Yet, every day of the week – including weekends and holidays – the U.S. and the world are treated to regular puny-worded rants from the American Putin.  Trump is quicker to name-slur his adversaries – “Crooked Hillary”, “Lying Ted”, “Little Marco” – than he is to produce his tax records.  Which, by the way, have yet to be removed from whatever subterranean vault they’re being housed in at Trump Tower.

The schizophrenic weather and temperature fluctuations that have traumatized Northeast Texas in recent months have left the Chief and many other locals swaddled in a morass of mucus, madness and melancholia.  I dragged my carcass into visit my doctor this morning, hoping for a shot of some life-altering tonic: cortisone, Vitamin B12, hydrocodone, Don Julio tequila.

Afterwards, I realized our ‘Dear Clown Leader’ could use much of the same; just inject a slew of medications into his fat ass – a process that could last for days – in a concerted effort to nourish his pickling cerebral cortex into some semblance of normality and subsequently (hopefully) save the world.

Alas, dreams are always a good thing.  Never give up on them!  Now, I’ll steer my haggard self from national news broadcasts, partake of some Don Julio, and embed myself into another reality TV show; one with considerably more plausibility – “Ancient Aliens”.

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