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Disdainful Reply to an Imbecile

December 15, 2010

The other day I got an e-mail from Melvin Mayo, who told me that Admiral Porkliver has been in the Czech Republic for the last several months. All the members of the group say hello to everyone and hope to see you again one of these days, with the exception of Stoughton Finney, who instructed Melvin to attach a Word file to the e-mail. The document consists of a lengthy rebuttal to my last posting. Melvin explained that Stoughton expects his response to appear on the website. So, ever obedient to his commands, regardless of his apparently unyielding hostility towards me, here below you have it.

-- Jacob Silverman

This is a manifesto directed in part at a cretin and traitor, a worm of a man who fancies himself the lord and master of the pathetic and utterly uncultured establishment of supposed music, a disreputable locale bearing the crude and thoroughly uninspired moniker of Uncle Steve's, the namesake of the club's absentee owner, who is himself an incarcerated piece of societal refuse and stands guilty of a number of crimes dumbfounding in their sheer idiocy, pointlessness, and shockingly bad taste. The aforementioned contemptible miscreant can be none other than Jacob Silverman, a failed hack instructor of English who, it must be noted here, has never risen above the lowly designation of adjunct faculty, who is incapable of writing anything but trifling babble, and whose shrunken and perverted aesthetic faculties shun all that is inspired and elevated, and instead shamelessly gorge upon all that is crass, common, and artistically worthless. Such is the despicable state of this petty potentate who fancifully imagines that he can snuff out the golden spark of divine musical inspiration and replace it with the cacophony of mind-numbing melodies created with no other object besides that of providing inconsequential ambience noise for stupefied, beer-swilling nincompoops and stooges. However, as I shall soon make clear to all who read this, his villainous intentions have borne no fruit whatsoever, nor will they ever succeed in doing so.

Aided by his base and treacherous accomplice Norm Fabian, he conspired against me and my orchestra, and secretly encouraged everyone in Bratwurst to avoid our historic concert. Both of them imagined that this would greatly demoralize us. As an outcome of their scheming and ill-will, we found ourselves performing without any audience whatsoever. Certainly, Silverman and Fabian expected that this humiliating experience would cause us to abandon our noble quest for musical perfection and that, filled with desperation and despair, we would consequently debase ourselves and our music by seeking to curry favor with the lowest common denominator, that is, with individuals completely devoid of any distinction or culture, and one might hardly imagine a more apt example of such insignificant persons than that walking flesh tube through which a veritable ocean of substandard beer has been poured, otherwise known as Bert.

Finally, unable to withstand another instant of Bert's insulting presence, and finding my habitual civility and dignity unnecessarily strained by the disrespectful and insubordinate insinuations of Silverman and Fabian, I realized that a new way had opened up before me, which was none other than the shining path to liberation and fulfillment. Bidding my fellow musicians to accompany me, we gathered our belongings without a moment's delay, and stood beside the road to await our destiny. Admittedly, we had no plan besides that of submitting ourselves to the dictates of fate and the decree of the gods.

Within the mere span of a few minutes, destiny itself appeared as a large tractor trailer rig driven by Miss Eustace Cummings, who graciously allowed us to stow our instruments and belongings in her empty trailer, and then offered us shelter from the elements in her luxuriantly spacious cab. As we pulled away, not a single one of us deigned to gaze back for even the briefest moment in the direction of the place where we had been subjected to such gross and unpardonable indignities. We had shaken the unworthy dust of Bratwurst from our feet and moved on.

As the divine decree would have it, Miss Cummings proclaimed herself the sister of the wife of the Czech chargé d'affaires at the respective consulate in New York City, to where her noble vehicle happened to be journeying for its next shipment. We were told that the Czech diplomat, Andrej Dvorak, had a penchant for avant-garde music. Pursuing the matter further, and making abundant use of my matchless powers of persuasion and charm, we secured the use of Miss Cummings' cellular phone and I found myself speaking with Mr. Dvorak, who actually had some familiarity with our musical repertoire by listening to live recordings posted to the Internet by Joe Minsk, who is perhaps the only human being in Bratwurst deserving to be spared from an untimely death. Our spirited and animated conversation was brought to a close by Mr. Dvorak's insistence that Miss Cummings conduct us to his stately residence on Long Island, where we would recover our energies, feast upon fine cuisine, and perform for Mr. Dvorak's distinguished guests the following evening, all of whom were visiting from the Czech Republic.

Naturally, we performed only one composition for that event, which was the five-hour piece titled "Vana Slinivka Zaklení Clonou Uzáver (Bathtub Pancreas Expletive Orifice Fastener)," sung entirely in Czech, the performance of which had been so rudely interrupted in Bratwurst the night of Silverman's nefarious betrayal. Upon the song's conclusion, we were greeted by a stunned silence that lasted for a full minute before Mr. Dvorak began clapping slowly yet forcefully. Soon, all the others present had joined in, and the applause gradually built to a thunderous roar. Those who witnessed the concert will never forget that transcendent moment.

Afterwards, we were approached by Ivan Svoboda, director of communications for the state television network, who informed us that he had just bought our plane tickets for Czechoslovakia on his Blackberry, and that he had already begun arrangements to have us perform before a gathering of top government officials the following week at the palatial retreat of the minister of information. Before I could even mention the matter of visas, Mr. Dvorak warmly took my hand and firmly assured me that such concerns had already been resolved through his secretary, who knowingly winked at me.

From that moment, we have continued forward with an unbroken string of well-deserved successes. We have become something of a sensation in the Czech Republic. A fan club has been started there, and a poster featuring my magnificent countenance is now being generally distributed and sold throughout the nation. We have performed live on state television, have been interviewed by several newspapers, and have had to fend off legions of Czech fans incapable of resisting the impulse to pursue us into our private quarters and cut off locks of our hair and tear off scraps of our personal clothing as souvenirs.

So, in conclusion, adieu to Bratwurst and to the unappreciative and idiotic commoners, chief of whom I name Silverman himself, who were unable to discern the true value of the brilliant diamond that had once rested within their filthy and undeserving hands.

-- Stoughton Finney

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"Won't you tell me where my country lies?" said the unifaun to his true love's eyes...