Friday, January 05, 2018

Soylent Green Brand Iditarod Dog Chow.

Top of the morning gents,

I like feeding my eagles. If I'm out of moose road-kill from the Kenaitze Indun motherfuckers or surplus product from the area animal shelters, I'll actually spend my wife's money (nate-buxsh) on giant family packs of discounted chicken. No shit, 2-3 large packs of slightly un-fresh meat every day. Safeway and IGA are puzzled how me and bun eat so much stale pork and chicken. I lie and tell them that I feed all the blue-haired zombies at my rest home. Here at the senior center old chicken tastes just like pussy. Sukpik pun dickheads.

Endangered species of birds such as the American Bald Eagle prefer fresh-killed duck or geese, but leftover past-dated and slightly unfresh meats like beef, pork, chicken and house-pets are just as delicious and these eagles gulp down my bloody chunkage like fucking dinosaurs. Myself, I try to avoid eating poultry necks and backs due to the lethal concentration of unregulated growth hormones in Arkansas chicken.

Way back when me and bun were staying at the Sedro Woolley Rest Home and TB Ward in Washington they served us lots of really good chicken soup, dumplings and gravy made from cheap necks and backs. On our third month bun started getting real horny, spotting on the walls and ceiling, marking her territory, then hitting her granddaughters. It also chemically re-activated the grandma branch of the Tactical Womens Alert Team (TWAT). The gizzards and spinal cords in Arkansas chicken accumulate and concentrate fowl and bovine growth hormones supercharging their withered vaginal wind tunnels and blowing the carbon out of our spouse's mortician-bound high-mileage cooters.

We shoulda had a clue something was goofy cuz late all night me and bun could hear cat fights in and around the dumpsters and over in the day room at the Women's Dementia Clubhouse. Up and down the hallway every old biddie in the entire senior center restarted their fucking periods, throwing tantrums and trashing their rooms like tampon trainer-bra bubblegum girl-bitches in heat. We ain't talking no fountain of youth bullshit, when I work up a sweat ringing rusty bells and warming dusty cockles, my dick catches fire hotter'n Kiana herpes and the smoke alarms wake up the coma-fossils. Post-coitus and after the Buckland blister-smoke clears, I scrape crust and wipe my dick on the drapes. Then grandma gets a visit from friends like Auntie B. Itiq, Kathy Turr (catheter) and follow-up in-home long-term visits from Arthur Itis (arthritis you dildos).

I gotta stop fucking women my own age, they all look just like my grandma. Over at the Forget-Me-Not branch of the Post Mortem STD Ward the undertaker told us that grandma ain't got crabs, she got fruitflies, her cherry's rotten. No prob dude, grandma got really small hands and can deepthroat more meat than cervix or colon. When I fondly recall the days when yer pedo-grups were alive, I touch myself.

You remember running yer fucking ass off to the native store or trading post lookin' fer pads and uch-plugs for your wives and daughters and finding the entire Bleeding Hut section empty. Shit nigger, you just got a village dose of menstrual synchronicity. Our wives, daughters and every bitch at work miraculously get real warm, kind of sexy and cooperative. Even Kathy Elam laughed at my jokes, whistled at my wood and giggled childishly at anything penile. But as expected, shit changed. The whole NANA region went dark as eskimo discharge, God became a transgender bitch and totally fucked up all rational thought, safe native child-rearing and the destination of yer HIV-OTZ hig man-goo. Effie Nelson, Edith Melton and Diane Henry all advised I stay home nights and choke fat bat when brooms are too slick to fly. You niggers're pretty slow ain't ye?

No shit, the sewer lift stations all across the brown biscuit region were plugged with diverted high-dollar ball-cheese during Mad Women's Club meetings. Why do tall Finns whack bat and drain donkey balls stink-free and solo? Yer such fucking retards. And monkeys. Our ancient memories and moldy recollections of romantic trysts from our mongoloid youth git wood better'n any hybrid spouse-nate you've been shackled to since the eskimos murdered Manillaq at Nuvruk and Christ wept Sheshalik soils.

When me and bun stayed at the Barrow Senior Center I attended a family reunion with over a million of my closest relatives and they were all killed, eaten alive, gulped down by an adopted FAS knee-high ball-drainin' Pt. Lay midget-coon. "It's not the fuck you face, but the face you fuck, right Cory?" (Willie Hailstone). Itty bitty titty, single digit biscuit are tiny tight and out of sight, yet real noisy when ye put it in soft, then knuckles crack. Green un-ripened pussy and rotten baby-teeth marked dark meat is fag shit fer Selawik river rats. Not me dudes. I'm all about elephant ear nookie with gray pubes and denture adhesive caked all over my pig-skin mud flaps. I may be an oldy moldy bread boffer, but I do my best work alone and never got the clap beef spanking.

Being a descendant of NARL nativity I only eat my own sperm but if I add drool-buckets full of cold saliva this corpse muff-diver can easily rehydrate and reflate silver-back nana-grand-biscuits. Most of you old coppers already lick the frosting off gorilla flavored hairball kitty-lippy. Shit tastes 'lish salty like tunnik punniktuk. And ass. Adii, we're so old. And mean. Pussy our own age tastes like tire and since I'm way past having babies I abandoned all my intimate feminine hygiene products.

Where does this shit come from? After 15 years in Barrow my Depends brand of post-menopausal masculine napkins inspire me to write like old people fuck: badly. Grace Pikok asked me and bun, "Why does my brother Percy still always call you nigger?" Francis Mungoyuk at Stuakpuk (brw ac) told me, "My mom always call you stink-man, we sure laugh." Felton Sarren calls me oochuk boy and Gerald Nayakik inquired if everybody from Kotzebue is half-breed retard. Nup, just me 'groid-man. Florence Luther scolded me, "Dude! Y'ain't right in da head." "I'm jus' 'junk to da max!" If you dildos ever grow old enough to see things from inside a senior center, you'll understand why I tell bun it's not menopause, I was always like this. I miss Flo's contractions. And a foot of antler felt. 

Similar to healthy people repulsed by the sick and injured, children possess tremendous fear of old people. I'm surrounded by old people and I'm fucking terrified of them. They're frail and angry and no longer flexible enough to give a shit nor take one. When ye hump 'em, ye gotta hang on to the hard lumpy parts and keep yer nose far away from the jagged holes and torn seepers. If you suck an old pussy hard enough, their shrunken brains pop right out. I spit 'em, wipe 'em and sell 'em to tourists on Front Street as "artifacts": fossilized FAS baby eskimo brain key-chain fobs.

Parasitic geriocracy is the new reality. Within a few short years, y'all're gonna be overwhelmed with millions of shrieking elderly zombie-tard AK-raisin-rectums demanding you pay ALL their bills. Old niggers'll suck yer wife's tits dry and greedily gulp down yer kids' Cheerios, pet excrement and entire paycheck. Plus they'll pound yer kids fer milk-money. Old fuckers got this notion we gotta feed them, dress them, wipe their butts and cover these expenses out of your grandchildrens PFD checks, grocery budget and huge deductions outa yer AK cookie jars and lunch buckets. If ye let 'em gomer yer chitrens, we'll change our state's name to Camp Siv. Or Ivik.

Welcome to the Retired Sponge District, Parasite Borough, Everywhere Alaska: nobody wants to pay ANY taxes. It's how all us nigger frosties roll. We've matured to the age of treachery, which means sucking your children and grandchitlens dry like spiders draining flies dessicated. This is the painful end to Alaska's obsolete gold medal pensions and Cadillac healthcare plans: your grandkids will revisit us PERS fat asses as indentured servants. Just like the good ol' days before child labor laws, exploited children never go missing when they're so hungry and inbred dull they couldn't walk a mile for a camel nor flee all us elder village grand-rapists. Us old Boomers love to see kids picking cotton, hauling honey buckets and bagging dog-lot biscuits. Child slavery ain't so bad when it's somebody else's FAS-grand-tardrens, and someone else's dysfunctional state. Parallel centuries, intersecting cultures and contexts interfaced you dildos.

Here at the AK-Raisin-Anus Ranch and TIER I pioneer holding pen we cultivate shitloads of vegetables. We don't eat 'em, we fuck 'em. Hence the torn ears and pedo-fruit Pt. Hope DNA in their diapers and drool. The plant food we feed our vegetables is the same institutional cafeteria slop served at the Ilisagvik College for the Mentally Retarded, PukeChee remedial nightschool, MMC mental institution and STD infested native senior centers. Bun got big milluks cuz she was forced to eat horse meat at Indun Boarding Schools when she was a child. And again today if I hold her down.

I killed and ate lots of flora and fauna, but not too many old people. To keep my hungry eagles fat and happy I consulted the dog pounds and animal shelters of Kenai and Soldotna. Now they donate all of their euthanized dogs and cats to me. I chop 'em to bite sized pieces, lug 'em way out to my federal land Stone Grotto and feed a hunnert eagles garbage bags packed with "pressed rat collections", split kitty, "dog legs and feet" (Clapton, Bruce, Baker). Animal shelters all over the Kenai Old Folks Borough are overflowing with dumped grandma mutts, dead cats and a few flat dry birds. So every week I get a ton o' frozen housepets, bagged up, chopped up and piled in my car and then I feed em' to a hunnert hungry eagles. When I clean out the car, the leftover house-pet choogie bits make ral gud allutigak.

I'd like to feed my eagles all the AK-raisin-rectum dotard pioneer corpsicles piling up out back. Shit dudes, at the crematorium behind our senior center we got a microwave built fer two and Pim Vanden Ende's industrial bong smoker that can char-puff mucho midget muktuk munchin' baby-buttfuckers. Real pleasant odors. Dead babies and old people take a match pretty gud, so "smoke a bowl" (David Burnor). Shit, right. The smell of inu-poop-smoke brings memories Kikiknigrunt flooding back and burning us old pensioners smells like Danny Burnor setting the old Kotzebue Air Force dump on fire every year. Fucking stinks. After decades horking down monster bong rips incinerating corpses toke by toke here in the mortuary, Soylent Green Mountain Brand Eagle Chow makes more sense.

Or at least Soylent Green Mountain Brand Dog Chow. I'm always slipping, sliding and falling into Ambler afterbirth consisting of rich steamy K9-sphincter-dispensed cow-pies fortified with fecal worms, cigarette butts and loose teeth. Feeding us retired bitch corpses to Alaska's Iditarod mushing dogs would make a superior lawn fertilizer or kivgik lunch meats. Feeding dogs Soylent Green Mountain Dog Chow made of elderly motherfuckers like us will scientifically sweeten their turds. And they're tasty. Try see.

Eskimo tech dudes: feed grandpa and grandma lung, gut and nut tripe to Alaska's Iditarod racing dogs, then feed all that hi-pro dog poop (Kobuk stew) to our hungry brethren yonder Interior Fort Yukon Region. See? Two birds, one turd. Good dog food makes ral gud poo-chew for Galena too. It's so nourishing and Indun ghosts and nigger-ravens need food, so let them eat 'real' dog shit Made In Alaska from 'real' dead Alaskan pensioner-buttfuckers' eyeballs and bags of mashed up ani (def: anus, plural).

Way back I seen a hunnert ravens clean Bob Douglass' entire dog lot. No shit, a thousand Heckle 'n Jeckle nigger-chickens enjoyed a food orgy that I call an Afro-Potlach. Those ravens woofed down tons of human-sized dog poop-loaves and even cleaned the tasty frozen bits stuck around the edges of them mutts' Idita-rectal Kivalina penis holsters. Goddamn Athabascan blackbirds wolfed down a whole fucking dog-lot overfilled with K9-snickers till it was totally Spic 'n Span. Greedy Huslia-hungry crows chowed down and gorged so much dog poop and pee-sicles they couldn't fly back home to fucking Africa. Just like their retarded descendants today.

This got me thinking so "go with the flow dude" (Albert Monroe). If we force-feed Athabascans warm Idita-dog-pies and call it a Pooplatch, we're merely illustrating what Native American Thanksgivings would be like in Interior Alaska if Christopher Columbus was black. If you smell my in-laws during the holidays they belch Lysol and pumpkin seeds, bad breath and bad farts. Not butt-farts though, the other kind. Fuck I'm a funny cunt.

Elderly asshole bigots like us are best served at room temperature as Soylent Green Mountain Brand Dog Food, then feed all us recycled AK-nugger-fuckers to the poor, hungry and indigenous in the form of big dog turds. Typing this funny shit only gets me in trouble with darkies cuz nobody recycles old spics and spans, nigs, digies and nates. There's no such thing as "Soylent Brown" brand pet foods, dogs won't eat it. Yer such morons, you'll soon be 14-pound canine poo-steamers fattening poor Nulato niggorigines. I'm a much better turd-rich vitamin capsule, than a writer.

Back to eagle shit. I keep my bird rookery totally confidential and I've concealed a diet of 30 thousand calories a week. Last year we seen serious cold temps, so to keep a whole flock of huge eagles fat, happy and alive we fed a hunnert predatory killers TONS of store bought past-due pull-date meats and dog pound dead pet surplus. Each gram of fat delivers 12 calories with carbs and protein yielding 5 calories and since I fucking hate unleaded gasoline, coffee and pussy and sure as shit hate low octane bird food, so I try to feed each eagle a couple thousand calories worth of avian, bovine, swine, feline or canine nikipak every morning.

Eagles are smart motherfuckers that weigh up to 60 pounds, wings 6 feet across, dive over 200 miles per hour and live to the age of 50. Plus like most birds they got primate munching facial recognition pre-installed software, so 7 years later they dive bomb me and bun, land near our feet screaming and competing for attention and treats. Don't try that in public, I've battled dozens of honking geese and these vultures put that pussy-shit to shame. Eagles are way bigger up close and have great fun ripping my hat and gloves off, yanking my hair out and spanking me across the back of the head. These ancient eaters of primitive man truly scare the shit outa me. I like being scared so I wear Denali Man brand diapers with the Gore-Tex brand draw-tite turd cutter. 

I took bun to Soldotna Creek Park for the fair and saw tourists photographing my eagles out on the Kenai River, so I whistled and clapped my hands. In seconds we had a hunnert fucking humanized eagles bombing little kids and chasing mommies and daddies on foot snatching their cotton candy and hot dogs. It was like that Hitchcock movie but without those shit-eating crows but with real awesome eagles terrorizing real trailer Alaskans. Fuck me and bun were giggling like little girls. Ain't no Hollywood raven butt nibblers scaring faggot crybabies. Real eagles. Real funny.

I must not be smelling too gud. Writing this lecture I peed myself laughing and my teeth, eyes and gonads fell off. I also been unconsciously typing in retard Nirvikmee with an extinct Teekiahmee dialect and an asshole Selvikmee accent. During my sleep I have long conversations with deceased gunmen in a squadroom no longer existing, yet I awake every night chained in that horrible haunted jail hearing you coppers machine-gunning dogs, darkies, digies and nates.

Since moving to this rest home I don't write so much no more but I still hear shooting all fucking night. My readers passed away years ago and since no dogs're eagles would eat 'em, they're buried at Squirrel Canyon in that untended graveyard.

Bun says, "Them Hansen boys still always ride out there and put flowers on those graves."

But only during daylight hours.


Thursday, October 19, 2017

Don't it make my blond hair blue.

Top of the morning gents,

Sorry for being offline for so long, there's no Internet here at the Rest Home for the Criminally Insane so instead of typing this stupid shit to a bunch of rusty gunslingers, me and bun been taking righteous hikes all over God's Waiting Room (Kenai Borough). We also been driving like we're black rallying our little Scuba-Douche (Subaru) every dirt road and 4-wheeler trail up and down the Sterling Highway forever searching for fishing holes, berry patches and the elusive mythical Stone Grotto. Since bun sold the Kasilof cabin on Quintin Lake we been looking for new places for coffee and bong hits or tea and toke.

We've discovered a shitload of sweet-ass covert fishing holes on the Cook Inlet fer saltwater and the Kenai, Kasilof and Russian rivers fer fresh and brackish. We've also discovered some giant berry patches that are pert near pornographic. Fuckin' A dude, we're talking 70's porno berry bushes loaded with giant silicone boobies and John Holmes fucking donkey balls. We've scouted some pretty spectacular eagle feeding spots way out in the boonies and quite possibly some of the world's finest toke spots too.

We bought the cabin on Quintin Lake a couple years back when we were shopping HUD repos. We're students of the armed realtor's survival guide, "no dumps, no swamps, no trailers." Put on yer thinking caps, this rules out most of Alaska, but we found a lakeside cabin and large shop on 1.25 acres in Kasilof. One fucking challenge: a huge ass trailer had to be hauled away as a condition of the purchase. Estate sales are like HUD auctions and government surplus disposals so the details were real easy to follow. The original asking price was $100K cash or cashiers check or certified funds and as the property aged on the market the price was reduced to $90,000 then down to $80K. With 280 days listed on the MLS it was technically a little stale and 3 offers were listed for $70,000. Bun offered $75,000 and they accepted, pretty easy: deal and done. LTR NGR (later nigger).

We had to be major fucking dickheads to get that pissy and soggy trailer DTR (down the road). A 40 foot trailer that ignorant tobacco wigger people shit all over: you get the picture. Distill Alaska down to a single niff-ass no-teefer half-breed mud-racer and we're talking real AK907 trailer folk. Goddamned trailer was major tonnage, totally nate and rezzed out with walking rice gagging maggots. After the purchase was recorded and the heirs got paid, my calls to remove the trailer were no longer answered. Imagine that? Dudes, putting that nigger-loving POS somewhere was gonna be a major operation. Dumps and borough transfer sites don't accept fucking trailers so classified disposal techniques might've been deployed. It's Alaska and adaptability is key to disappearing wrecks, appliances, garbage and a hunnert frozen buckets of human cooktuq. Alas, magically, the trailer is gonner duder. Dig me?

Five score and 20 years ago, after you uniformed killers took Zagars and the Capone gangs out of the NANA region, I was transferred to Mat-Su Narcs so me and bun bought a house in Willow. We had to haul away a ghetto-sweet garbage-heaped trailer packed full of Fort Yukon Luggage (trash bags filled with stinking wet clothes and rotten food). We also had a big semi-truck parked in one of the driveways. The trailer took a lot of hard work smashing and tearing off the sheet metal aluminum, knocking it flat and then dragging the frame somewhere. The neighbors were authentic Mat-Su foodstamp buttfucker white folk and begged me for all the aluminum sheet metal scrap so in trade I used their pickup and pulled the 40 foot trailer frame way down Lucky Shot road into an abandoned log-crib septic pit and my very own brand new adhoc dumpsite. I aren't dumb.

Out here in Bush Alaska (Lite), spontaneous dumpsites happen in a blink of an eye. I seen some dumps mysteriously appear overnight and like magnets, they suck my industrial waste all the way there. All by itself. Magically. Alaskans round here are famous for stacking mountains of trash all over the real estate of out of town chump-ass white folks. It's a game of pin the tale on the donkey or tag yer it, crazy winter folks dump heaps o' wreckage all over the properties of snow-bird faggots whilst down south. "It's one o' my rules" (Repo Man).

At our Willow house a semi-truck was also left abandoned by previous owners and never towed away so I called Happy Hooker Towing and had that 18-wheel monster dragged away at the registered owner's expense. A trooper knocked on our door 5 months later investigating a stolen pickup truck. After I explained the truck in question was a giant Peterbuilt, towed away months before and that our purchase agreement specified removal by May, not Halloween, he chuckled, thanked bun for the coffee, said goodbye and left. See? Not all cops are fuckheads.

Our Willow house and Kasilof cabin both looked WAY bigger and roomier once the semi-truck and 2 trailers were dragged away and fucking gone. I'm a genius.

All last year we raked and cleaned our Kasilof property until it was absolutely stunning. We thoroughly enjoyed our time relaxing at the lake for a year or so but in the face of rapidly dropping real estate prices statewide we put the cabin back on the market to try to make a few bucks. We accepted an offer structured with a $12K down payment and $841 a month for 10 years. More than half the down payment was eaten up with all the realtor commissions, closing costs, fees and property taxes leaving bun just a cunt hair over 5 thou. Yup, sucks buttocks but the monthly payments total $10K a year for 10 years. On a selling price of $88,500 and with all the interest bun will reap a total yield of $112K. Fuck dudes, old colored women rock too.

So aside from PERS payments, Social Security, Longevity Bonus (Senior Benefits), Native (common and senior shares) and State Dividends bun also will receive an additional monthly payment until she's pert near 80. Wake up fucks, she's crowding 70 right now, so receiving monthly payments in the form of an owner financed mortgage for the next 10 years far exceeds the shitty interest we were getting with a savings account.

Simply put, bun is acting like a bank. She paid $75K cash at an estate auction for a lakeside cabin and shop, then resold it for $88,500 to someone else via owner financing paying her compounded interest and principal for the next fucking decade. I like monthly payments of $841 because our senior center apartment is only $825 a month leaving bun's PERS/Social Sec./Longevity Bonus/NANA/PFD to provide a comfortable budget for all her other living expenses that come with the indignities and infirmities of old age "weed, whites and wine" (Little Feat). Pretty decent streams of revenue eh bart?

I hope you shooters are impressed with bun's financial portfolio. I pimp my wife, not my ride. Now keep up with me. A fact of life in retirement is less money. It's hard to pull in monies after your "seeds are dried up" (Clapton) and none ye no longer needed on the job. So fuck, a diversified pension is mandatory. PERS TIER I monthly payments and free medical start at age 55, Social Security at age 62, NANA elder dividend and the Longevity Bonus kick in at age 65. Add your regular native dividends and PFD's, your criminal trade and barter like gun, land and cabin sales and ye gotter dicked. Oh yeah, don't forget yer drug proceeds.

I'd like to have kept the cabin and shop to stash contraband, gray market commodities and cars of dubious title, but my job is to take care of bun so that she can live comfortably long after my stupid shit's gone. I'm still hiding legally dodgy shooters off-site and out of the hands of my blue haired zombie neighbors but now I gotta stash my shit in the middle of the Kenai National Wildlife Refuge. Between me and you graying gunslingers, shit like pistols, explosives and doobage ain't easily explained to the administrator of my Rest Home for the Criminally Insane and real dangerous for wrinkled dicks and super-glue sealed pussy to play with. Fuck dudes, here at the vaginal vault for rotten powdered eggs and obsolete ball cheese, stinky seasoned citizen white hair cunts are scary as shit. With a gun they're worster.

I talk of aging and death too much. It upsets our peers born between 1946 and 1964 and baby boomer Alaskan dust farters give me that pinched face look of indignant cunts. In the Gray Hair Long Term Parking Zone here on the Kenai Borough fucking old farts lament and whine way too much about their failing rectal pouches, vaginal tree rings and difficulty locating their own ass in the dark with a greased tube colostomy bag filled with home-brew.

But of course we're not getting old, us wrinkled bitches will live forever. We can whine about our health, yet all us AK-raisin-ass pioneers whistle past graveyards. Graveyards fucking packed with friends and coworkers and despite soiled panties a'bunched and old as shit we're dimly aware of our own brief mortality and even shorter period of retirement. Between birth and death, yer closer to death and all ye Tier I pensioners are pert near time zero to TSI, turn self in for Long Term Care. You know, convalescent care for you deaf and diabetic coppers or Pioneer Homes for all you Alzheimer's PTSD motherfuckers.

Plain and simple, with retired cops, old veterans, lonesome grandfathers and your author on drugs roaming the halls of this blessed end of life hospice care facility it's not smart to leave fucking guns and shit all over. Alaska has the highest rates of suicide amongst native youth and old white men. Us old white farts are just as dumb as young brown farts. In death we're all negro and enjoy ballistic pressures exploding inside our mouths spattering our violent memories, teeth and brains into grandma bunny's dementia breakfast or blasting Alzheimer's plaque and bundles like an airborn mikiuq nikipaq buffet. Edward Wayne Henry launched ahpuatti fer ten but Horace Fields shit himself road-kill nallukituk fer a fucking village.

Wanna smell my finger? I just stuck it all the way inside Michael Mills' bullet hole and flipped you off. Skullduggery scratches yer pork sword with bone fragments and during your next day-mare chicken choke sesh you can visualize me long-dicking the brains out of Dallas Hannah or Ethan Cooley. "Headshots ral gud noollik, gud kookoo holster too" (Inupiaq Oochuk Attigignik). Cranial exit wounds spooge splooey smegma. Davidovics ghosts told me so. Twice.

Did you like that bit of OTZ imagery? I suck nuvuk. And ass. Yer all fuckheads.

Even highly trained motherfuckers aren't the safest fools to have firearms nearby. Imagine the staggering number of funerals for dead dogs, TV's, car doors and every human being you rusty killers have blasted the shit out of. For all ye cops now suffering old age, poor health and severe butt-ugliness, you have the ingredients for a tossed brain suicide salad. "A face a man has by the age of 50 is a face he has earned." Now that you're old, sick and ugly, you can shoot it off.

Don't do a Larry Brown and drunkenly blast out yer cheek and gum. That hurts. Fucker had to dig through the kitchen drawers fer another shotgun shell, reload, then painted Hannah Washington's face and anus with his wormy shit-brains. You could wrap a towel around your head and pull the trigger like child gomer Gill Hall but that baby butt pumper made suicide so un-cool. Bone smoker should've died in agony choking on electrified lamp cords plugged into 41-unit apartment 101. Or Mendenhall's fucking dick.

Look on the bright side of getting old, you don't have to pass any drug tests to collect all your pensions. Senior centers, rest homes and convalescent care facilities encourage industrial drug-induced stupification on a wholesale level. All day and night we get classic rock mindlessly droning throughout our elder care facility cuz it pacifies us really old fucking fossils. If you play arcane old pop music from our puberty, us baby boomers drift back to our mongoloid childhood, remenisce how great we used to be, how cool our cars were and tearfully recall the good old days when our dicks didn't stink native.

Most of us dust farting shooters start our day with a wake and bake sesh and daytime activities include stronger prescription drugs, drool cup meditation, 420 safety meetings, Indun chief seshes, beer bongs and our favorite senior activity, blasting soggy brown diapers across the highway at passing cop cars with our potato gun. I like launching poopy old lady nana-nappies. Unnuk don't bother me, I'm from Kotzebue.

If you choose to retire near your tar-baby inlaws, you'll be munching fly larvae brown pussy, stacking mountains of frozen inbred Shungnak FAS baby popsicle puppets in the cunichuck and yer retarded ice nigger grandkids will be kicking yer ass fer beer money. Oh wait, you guys already been there, done that. Got the t-shirt, noatak burns, herpes blisters and retarded children. Go native ah?

Choosing the color composition of your rest home for your golden years is important. Ethnicity, pets or no pets, smoking or not, whether there's a bar on-site and most important, 420 friendly. I recommend the no smoking no pets selection cuz I been tracking feline fecal Noorvik aggagoobuk snacks and Buckland puppy pie filling everywhere and old cunt-smoke tobacco wiggers fucking stink. On the bar and weed zones, good fucking luck, this is Alaska not Finland and your AK-raisin neighbors are shrunken-head inukun runt-niff sub-humans, not Vikings. Aside from Finns, youth and beauty are often wasted upon the young, so put the slaves on cruise-control, I've got a fucking hair appointment. Dudes, you'll soon awake surrounded by rancid wigger prune-tang that used to be women and used to live in all my trailers.

In Alaska, senior citizens are racist as shit and behave similarly to playground brats and prison yard bullies. Old native biddies will run off any pretty little thing (tasty white biscuit under 60) and wretched cunt white cooters make life miserable for any high steppin' yeller First Alaskan PERS retiree proud of her ancestry, financial portfolio and big akka milluks. Our diaper dive senior center has a sign out front on the Sterling Highway: "no niggers, no natives, no trespassing." We sneaked bun in cuz we checked off the gook box on the application. Saved big buxsh dude, fat deposits fer nates and negroes. There's deposits fer dogs and mongoloids, but not as much.

Old Alaskans are a most vicious lot and the Medicaid have-nots bitch the loudest that the state of Alaska "never did anything for me." Nasty elephant clootch-labials bristle and hiss like varmint vaginals in heat everytime I run off at the mouth about free 160 acre native land allotments, 10K-$50,000 annual north slope native corporation dividends and free native healthcare. Old niggers believe BIA stands for Born In Asia and IHS means Indigent Homo Sexuals. In the dayroom over at the Dementia Clubhouse, discussing JewNo kyping the PFD and spending it on loser native programs like free food, clothing and shelter fer salmon crunchers can be dangerous. And messy. I gotta duck colostomy bag foodfights, getting run over with wheelchairs, old zombies hacking loochers into my drool cup or walking canes speared into my nuts. Fuck I'm funny.

Old shit-ass bag ladies and blue hair migrants from yonder lesser 48 arrive here with their hands out expecting everything to be "free-ninety-free." Grandma got poopy butt? Sorry nigger frosty, shit costs more this far North. These hords of geriatric geezers fucking mob the food banks, church food and clothing charities. Mean old fuckers even raid the moldy bread them weird religious church faggots donate to rest homes to fatten up our mindless bag-lady shopping cart drivers. Good ol' Alaska attracts the worst of the worstess: shit-ass poor, handicapped and the elderly. A real Indun pow-wow. Just with all the pee.

I'd do a couple of them silver biscuits on Golden Girls but if you think that there's hot chicks or tasty babes at AK-raisin rest homes, you're wrong. My new residence hall is filled with cranky old no-teefers and life here at the Senior Center is way different than my years in the dorms at UAF. I seen drunken Fairbanks teenage white party-bitches heave, piss and shit jelly fish out their pussy and fellow inmates wretch up their own gonads. Now I got nasty worm infested diabetic leper grandmas losing toes, tits and tasty bits as they drag their bottoms up and down the hallway like their itchy butt pooches. Being a bitch-nate from Kiana, I still fuck'em.

I'm the only male on the floor and I miss certain smells working with you coppers: Irish Spring soap, Old Spice aftershave and Mennen Speed-stick underarm deoderant. Sniff yer own mums and wives, post-menopausal freeze-dried cunts and their horded garbage stink real fucking awful. If we ever let women into Heaven, I already know what it'll smell like. Like bunking with crab processors, slime liners, soldiers and inmates, senior living takes skill and patience. And nose plugs.

You gotta be tough to live as long as us and after your shitty careers in and out of uniform you'll continue to suffer the ignorance of Alaska's thickest morons. The pioneer descendants of whores and miners are long-gone. Now we're overcrowded with their retarded progeny pooping all over my lawn and Alaska's old folks' homes are filled with constipated white folks that don't know any of you guys. These gape-ass rotting lepers drift up here on the old nigger welfare tourist gig sponging up all our beds, meds and diapers without a clue of how our blessed resource extraction colony come to be and how all you quick-draw killers and graying gunslingers played such an important role in Alaska's history. And restocking our retard FAS hybrids.

These hordes of newly arriving itchy and scratchy old fart visitors don't understand why Alaska is rolling back to it's Appalachian origins. When bun was born to the bleak Territory of Alaska in 1950 she suffered and survived a nightmare. 30 years later government health and safety services exploded as oil revenues fire-hosed all over rural Alaska. Now it's all going away and the horrors of aboriginal tradition, lawlessness and wholesale child rape is returning to Alaska. It'll be like Wade Hampton infected the entire state and we return to the HIV-Pondue Days we fondly remember. Mud, bugs and drugs, tall NeanderTard discharge, bubonic herpes and the plague dude all over the brown biscuit region. Gives me wood.

I've rather enjoyed watching the decline of Alaska and the winding down of our small towns and villages. I suppose that makes my one gas station town just another ghost town in a ghost state. It's staggering to witness Alaska's growth from my work back in the stone ages processing fish guts in 1980 then working for all you sick bastards in uniform and growing quite fond of Don Beuler, Kim Nay and Carlos Salazaar. All you sworn motherfuckers duly infected me with altruistic bullshit concern for community and caring for others above myself. Serious whacking material.

I'm not sure if I'll ever give a shit about this fucked up state, but look at me: I'm typing stupid shit to graying gunslingers that have known me longer than my own parents. My nearly 60 years has been soiled with pert near 40 years of Alaskan residency. Our rotation out of state is already scripted by my fucking whitee tribes of the Palmer, Fairbanks and Kenai Colonies. Come to Alaska, defrost and season native pussy, steal everything not nailed down, then move back to our homestate with all our loot. And herpes. Standard operating procedure for us robber baron scumbags and I fucking wrote the book.

Now that we're old and pert near croakville I'm anguishing my departure. As witnessed by the high turnover of Alaska's residents, most retirees from public service and teaching do the PERS double nickel and leave the state upon retirement. I'm probably gonna do the same but part of me doesn't want to leave the state that gave me a pristine yet completely blank resume, scars I can't remember, nightmares that aren't mine and now a gold-plated pension plan that goes wherever I choose. They say it's something in the water, but every time I leave Alaska I get homesick as a motherfucker.

I've left the state dozens of times for narc work in far-away countries. Now I gotta stay home, I'm on restriction and grounded from the playground and can't play with my death squad and secret police team mates. I got in trouble and my mom said, "Adii, yer such a goddamn nunapichak bitch." "Go milk the goats, make tea, then go to your room and grease the cat's butt."

A lot of us AK PERS dust farting retirees that chose the Long Term Care option will have to annually evaluate our departure to states that have rest homes, convalescent facilities and senior centers that meet LTC's strict certifications required by our PERS program. Senior property tax exemptions are rapidly disappearing at our respective boroughs and the Permanent Fund Dividend is rightly going away. The senior NANA dividend will forever pay our wives from the age of 65 a couple thousand every January so we only lose the in-state senior goodies. The three penalties for moving out of state is the PERS 10% cost of living (in-state) bonus, the longevity bonus and the PFD.

The upside to moving back to the states is much cheaper goods such as food, fuel and lodging plus vastly more affordable life-support systems for our golden years. Of course, the longevity bonus and PFD are soon to be goner dude and in the upcoming era of post-oil, post-longevity bonus and soon to be goner PFD, the only hit to our pension portfolios when we depart Alaska is the 10% cost of living bonus.

I'm afraid to leave, scared shitless sticking around but a statewide income tax and sales tax will tilt our flight back to America the same day JewNo tries to reach into my fucking wallet. I don't know about you killers, but I came to Alaska to get rich. It's my treasure, I stole it fair and square. Talk of statewide sales taxes and income taxes merely advertises the launch codes for our departure. I ain't fucking giving a dime back.

I'm an expert at reading tea leaves. It will soon be time to take our massive medical, dental, vision, audio, LTC public pension packages to out of state facilities.

Alaska is no country for old men. Nor your PERS pension package.


Monday, February 06, 2017

Riding back up Highway 99 with Trooper Nay. To Brockett.

Top of the morning gents,

God fucking dammit. I now got the mean town blues. Anchorage is such a diverse, bug infested cesspool. "Fucking whitey." (Brockett 99 Canadian Native Radio).

Me and bun wrapped up another 2-month Alaska Native Services mish (ANS). We had the all the old lady saw-bone appointments done and fucking over with. We fondly call these mondo fucking medical circle jerks at the "natiff hoshpital" as bun's million mile tune-ups. Ya see, when yer hybrid-tard like us and married nugger ye gotta drag the old bag o' bones to the clinic. Just like my hillbilly limousine veterinarian mud farmer family: I gotta get bun's eyes and teeth done. Then we trim the hooves, check her cow pies and road apples fresh and steaming for cysts, worms and infectious mucous discharge, then we gotta soft-tish inspect the ankles and knees. I dun watched in horror as my other doctor brother Sober Tobus reached all the way up a horse's ass just to check shit out. Last time I did that to bun she convulsed real gimpy and shrieked her upper partials at me. Then she recommended I use both arms.

She's a lot happier now. For a more natural feel I super-glued a pair of tennis balls under each armpit. "Wristwatch, Crisco." "Fist fuck." Frank Zappa.

You see, she's a walking fossil record of kikiktag-runt childhood trauma, indun adult PTSD and tendencies toward excessive and chronic native stuff. You know, half you motherfuckers are cops and know the bullet list: concussions, contusions and compound fractures. My God, she can't even remember how many times she's been beaten and raped, run over and tossed in the rubbish bin like an Eskimo doll. Simply put: from pretty lips to pretty tail-pipe, one piece at a time, she's mostly droid.

Aliens and robots will fucking love her, she'll soon have all their same naughty bits. Airport scanners and martians will scope out her nylon-steel knees, titanium hips and sport fucking wood. The over inflated silicone dos yabbos flesh melons are merely ornamental and for display purposes only. Old tikiaq blue hair has been mechanically overhauled and is now full ten on the fucking peter meter.

Fucking miracle the old nugger bitch is even breathing: her dusty soiled old ans indun chart is an archeological blend of territorial viral devastation, synthetic devices moderno-medico and no-teefer old wives' tales. She ain't afraid of no UFO's, she's from the BIA. "Horse meat at the indun boarding school was pretty fucking good, but I don't like rat."

I'm closing in on my exit ramp with our visit here on Earth with all you coppers. My life is ending: sooner, not later and I've tried to not weep so much no more. My bunnik is so sagely in her advice as to why old men well up and shudder so easy. She says Jesus is best seen through weary soul, watery eyes and trembling lip and I'm so there every God damned day. I've lost all my best friends now and you guys are still hanging around to view me and my dying bed. I pray I can die easy.

I oft scoff her superstitions, but just this morning she sure saulk me that I'm such a fucking pussy, "Yer buddy Kim Nay always come visit. That's why you always hear Gordon Lightfoot on yer radio on the same day that beat up eagle comes by for your treat can." "And why you cry all the time." (You guys too?)

Another issue to discuss. Bun's fucking hacked at them reservation disposal CSP vans. You know, the Anchorage Community Service Patrol fleet of native pick 'em up mobile roach coach minority vacuum cleaner drunk tanks. NANA has the contract to operate that nigger shit. They rally all around Anchor-butt hook-ville searching for coma-nates, blue lip ice-niggers and drunk as shit-ass aborigines. These white vans are an important program to save these little inukun drunks from freezing solid and mistaken for large dog turds and eaten by Alaska's homeless and hungry frickin' black folks pissing and shitting all over Scareview.

These fat white ASP driver fucks got cool as shit job. They must have fun profiling Galena-coons, shungnak shit-snackers, kobuk butt-fuckers, noatak penis holsters and noorvik numb-nut suckers. I don't think any homeless drunks in Anchoragua are from outside Northwest Alaska. Alcoholism is unique and specific to eskimo scralings and visited our adopted families long before our first boner. Seems the whole world of homeless Alaska midgets is our world. Mental retardation is like crap smears and fecal overspray: tag, yer it. Don't feel bad, my kids are choke and puke drunken zombie NANA-tards too. "After we hang a rat behind June Nelson Elementary, we drank down a case a Lysol. It was ral gud." (google brockett 99)

Back to our 8-week shit-ass trip to the white man town. I was lounging in the glorious sun on a park bench in Scareview scouting for jigaboos to shoot and an ASP van drove right up to us. Two big gumby and barny faggots heaved out and instructed bun she had to blow into some device. We both asked why and were advised of a report of a non-responsive intoxicated native female and bun fit the description. Then they lectured us about Jaclyn Goodwin finding her own private Idaho. She was a homeless drunk lost to family and friends, also not locatable in time for the NANA mobile drunk tank choke and puke van and found mutilated in a house full of gross drugs. My sober wife could be next.

I sure felt heavily armed, and angry but I told bun to go ahead and give a breath sample to these fine NANA negroes. It would've been hard to legally shoot these fat fucks and walk away, but I sure felt the need to make lots of noise and kill these goons. Bun blew a zero point zero and then informed these bloated jokers that we don't drink and that she hasn't consumed injun juice in 40 years. These two fat-fucks apologized for the inconvenience, then left me there all alone with an old sober native woman. Moreover a very pissed off and duly hacked old sober native woman.

Knowing me, my really great timing, I told bun that she'd just been profiled.

"Fucking whitey."

Living years in the Fairview-downtown corridor ye gotta be fucking smart, ye also gotta be tough too. I've tried various self-defense tools like big canisters of pepper mace, stun guns and every sort of pop-guns. Nothing works when I got three brothers on my ass or three homeless nates mobbing me like fucking zombies. Once everybody is within handshake, doobie and jug passage distance, self-defense is reduced to hand to hand and I'm 30 years past that fucking bullshit. So bun always got her nigger shooter. Ya-jay, bun sure like guns.

Wells Fargo bank and Alaska USA credit union were robbed on both sides of us and 3 darkies were murdered next door and the worst of the worstess: bed bugs. All the hotels in Anchorotten are infested with swollen ticks and mites that pop when ye smash 'em. Kind of like dead people, and the babies inside 'em. Me and bun phoned all around and couldn't find vacancies in nicer hotels and the bedbug website that lists all of Alaska's infested hotels, B&B's, roadhouses, hostels were packed with losers like us Kikiknig-runts.

Funny, to avoid blight, disease, drug violence and black on black homicides, me and bun gotta retreat back to the Quanna House. Me and bun will be stylin'. Medicaid travel on an 11 minute flight from Kenai to Anchorage, Medicaid voucher for cab fare from the airport to ANMC. Oh yeah, I gotta fill out all that Medicaid paperwork at the hospital...if I could just fucking find my Medicaid glasses.
Sounds absurd don't it? You all expect better out of me don't ye? Life ain't fair. And now you know, the rest of the story. I've just been profiled cuz Finns always pay. "Fucking whitey."

Despite her suffering seasonal arctic moods of murder cruel as fucking nativity, she also likes helping some of the sickest NW native mukes dig all around their homeless encampments for lost years, children's wings, husbands' halos, and even helped locate and refresh long lost memories. She tells me she resets their innate eskimo compass and find their back to NW Alaska to die and catch a ride-along with you guys all the way to the great Hereafter.

Bun's been helping non-natives find their way home too. Bun says Trooper Nay will be there in full regalia with all his guns and ribbons to hold my hand and to assist me through the cunnichuck that go out to front street and an awaiting procession of coppers and soldiers to steady me back up to boot hill and not be so scared. I still cry a lot, and I do my best crying when nobody ain't looking. 'Cept my very best mates: you guys.

And Trooper Nay. He's driving me back up Highway 99. To Brockett.


Monday, July 25, 2016

All's well that ends well. RIP PW13. AK too.

Top of the morning gents,

Me and bun are sure catching up with who's dead, who's in jail and familiar village faces holding cardboard signs all over Anchoragua begging for spare change. Yesterday we saw Richie Henry begging along side of the Sears Mall with a phony Veteran's plea for change scrawled on his dirty cardboard. Pretty fucking awful fact that he's not a veteran but is a POS niff. This morning we seen two of bun's classmates (meaning old no-teefers) all dirty and nasty panhandling with goofy cardboard signs alongside Ingra next to Fred Meyers. In front of Walmarts in midtown we seen dozens of ice niggers sleeping and drinking and trashing prime real estate with major tonage o' nate good stuff. Meaning Fort Yukon Luggage fucking all over. Bags of foul clothes, rotten foods, wrappers, beer cans, empty shittly liquor bottles and wads of toilet paper near bee hives that look like lumpy pee soup. Native food and lots of booze makes for runny shits. Remember, we're experts on native poop, we're from Kotzebue.

For me, it's not too difficult a transition from rural to urban, but a very different story for my adopted rural indigents. Even I tend to drink a lot more when I return to the white man town and the white man liquor stores. This is a really important lesson we all need to teach our darker loved ones partaking the mass exodus from the vill to the streets and dumpsters of Anchorage. Alaska can't handle any more homeless fucked up browntards. Since a LOT of fighting and finally closing all the bars and liquor stores throughout bush Alaska, most of our NANA regional immiktuks have migrated to Anchorage. Yup, lots of drunks that used to scrawg yer wives, children and dogs are now living the life of city subsistence. Meaning Brother Francis (bro fro), Beans Cafe and Downtown Soup Kitchen for food, clothing and shelter, while begging, sucking dick and taking it up the ass for booze. Yup, we really should instruct our migrating nates that the big cities ain't such a nice place for aborigines to live and die. And real tough on yer anus.

The worst drunks you ever met came from Washington: me and Higbitch. I cracked up bun and told her we should drive around and look for huge crowds of drunk zombie white motherfuckers. I've lived in Scareview for 6 summers now and my fucking god, it's nasty. We ought to have a big sign that says, "Welcome to Fairview. Niggers, Natives and No Trespassing Signs." I didn't make that up, I heard a black dude we've known for years named "nigger jim" wave and yell that to us, as he rushed into the 13th and Gambell Safeway Liquor Store. Reminded me of something Harold Wells told me, "ye can't have nothing nice in the village."

Wells was telling me all about growing up black in the ghetto-hood. Niggers and natives suffer the same mistreatment as any poor colored folk: beatings, robberies and rapes of elders and children who have zero defenses until they dial 911 and you cops show up. Sounds real fucking Eskimo don't it? These are the same asshole browntard nates consisting of the demographic body odor as the scum-niggers y'all coppers beat the hell out of and jailed. The same demograph that's pissing and shitting all over this nasty place we call Detroit Junior, "Anc-hole-orage." Harold Wells' radio moniker was PW13 and worked on the dredge sucking up prehistoric sludge and greens from the bottom of Devil's Lake and pumping the bilge muke all over the tundra surrounding our fine drinking water source. He'd radio in asking for some stupid white guy who made really good coffee downstairs at the old jail. I'd dispatch back that lots of morons worked here, but no good coffee. He'd laugh and tell me that the whole town listens to our radio chatter. Guess nobody disagreed with my shit humor about morons working at KPD. A Mexican Breakfast is coffee and bonghits, and yes, I do make a really good Half a Mexican Breakfast: fucking rich coffee.

One thing Wells told me struck me as pretty fucking brilliant. Before oil, Alaska got rich off the armed forces: infrastructure, supplies and wages. Bases all over the place like the Defense Early Warning System (DEW line), the not-so secret NIKE thermo nuclear missile launcher up on the hill above Anchorage, and bases all over Alaska. Almost all of which are long boarded up and packed with garbage and every fucking village me and bun lived in has military wreckage heaped all over. Galena, Nome, Barrow, Kotzebue and especially AssAnchorHole and Shitbanks. These garbage dumpsites were the drivers of Alaska's economy. Fuck, no more.

Oil replaced these previous revenue drivers and wage payers. Ya see, back in the day, all us fishermen and soldiers paid an income tax, sales tax AND what's called a head tax. All us out of town fish processors, rotating medical staff and military personnel paid out pert near 20% in local and state tax deductions. One time only taxes like a head tax is a flat $100 fee deducted from yer pay at the first of the year or from yer first paycheck. My pay had a deduction for the PAB (Pribilof Aleutian Borough) which paid for schools. I also had Fed taxes and SOA taxes withheld. I look forward to those days again.

Sometime in the early 80's an elected retard dildo buttfucker thought it smart to eliminate taxes on out of state workers like my brethren in the military, the fishing industry and the oil industry. Real smart. Now that layoffs abound and the wages statewide are in similar decline, it's a bit late to skim the cream off the top of all our paychecks. I also like sales taxes: on everything. Ya see, when I drew pay from holding items for the mob, selling blow and stealing at an astounding wholesale level I spent my dirty money everywhere possible to clean and wash it and repaint, remodel and decorate my crackhouses and mortuaries. A sales tax would've captured a tasty 10% skim off the top and would've harvested some of my loot for better causes than lining my pockets. Black markets are eventually spent on cars, stereos, drinks and pussy. Sort of crash course MBA for you non-money moron motherfuckers. Taxes are good at scraping the upper crust like us and diverting mucho dineros to the bums, natives and homeless like all my nugger in-laws.

Ya see, I don't point a stinky finger at others, I point it at myself. I've evaded so much tax regulation it should make you sick. My father tells me that I've cheated the IRS out of 10 times that much, "so pay the bill and be rid of them." He's right you know. It's time I pay a little into the system instead of extracting from it. When I buy shit, tax me. When I draw pay, tax me. When I snort blow, chug brewkies, puff expensive cigars or burn a hooter, fucking tax me. It's only fair. Like the song from Ten Year After, "tax the rich, feed the poor, till there are no rich no more."

Well maybe not that far.

So many out of state workers and out of state visitors have come and gone, gotten rich and not paid a speck of tax revenue. Fuck us. My home town of Barrow and the north slope paid for everything that's been built in Alaska during the last 40 years. That's all gone now, so Alaska's economy will deflate back down to how it was when bun was born. Dudes, we're talking territorial grimness and getting medieval on yer ass. Serious hardships await anybody still standing and sucking on our tits like a faggot res-bitch. When bun was a kid there weren't any fat people: starvation was the fucking norm. Food was hunted and cached and wages were earned. Food was the super-unleaded premium value top shelf item and traded, gifted and celebrated exactly like the stories you heard from yer elders. Now food is free and fat people roam the res and good hunters drink. Bun seen dozens of Eskimo clans digging through Air Force garbage and lugging food scraps all the way home. Sounds yummy. If me and bun stick around Alaska, I could get used to garbage grubbage. Walk to the dump and back, then chow down dude.

The litmus test or canary in the coal mine is already ringing the alarm up North. Chatting with my friends still living in Barrow trying to unload their homes, they can't even get what they bought their house for. My tenure up on the North Slope was exactly half-way through a 30 year mortgage. Yup, on year 15 ASRC no longer needed our duplex for crew housing for slope and project workers. That was an eye-opener dude. When the state's largest oil field service employer no longer needs housing and is laying off TONS of workers, ya might get a fucking clue as what the state is looking at. We started worrying about a huge depression in Barrow so we put the house up for sale. Boy did we miss that bullet. We bought the place for $220K and sold it for $255K. We made a meager $35K but grossed a dozen years of rents at four thousand a month. Not too shabby eh barts? 

That's all nice and groovy for me and bun, but what the hell is the rest of Alaska supposed to do? Ain't none of you rusty shooters read tea leaves nor gaze into crystal balls to steer us into our inevitably Michigan state of mind. Meaning real broke. You fuckers remember the 80's when we all got laid off from the PD and took work elsewhere. I got my first lay-off from KPD when lemon pecker-head brain onion Jeff Smith was shitty manager. Mike Dennis at the District Office liked my work as inventory clerk so he hired me as janitor and maintenance at the main office for the school district. My job was emptying out the print shop and all the offices and storage rooms packed with old school shit and lug it all down to Roger Nordlum's warehose. I even emptied out a half-dozen connex containers filled with fucking every imaginable piece of bullshit ever used in the history of the NWAB school district. Nearly a hunnert truck-loads driven by Albert Monroe, Howarth and Sommerfelt were loaded by me and unloaded in Nordlum's warehouse all winter and was the site of a huge junk sale and auction the summer following. Maybe that will be the big money maker for Alaska: junk sales, flea markets and picking for food at the Kotzebue K-Mart. The city dump dildos. Imagine me and bun digging for scraps of food and sharing them at the senior center with you crippled lot.

Our retirements and pensions are looking good now, but the state has a debt of $15 billion for our programs we paid into. All us PERS pensioners are guaranteed our benefits because of a 25% hold on the Permanent Fund. Yup, all the retirees have claim to a quarter of the Permanent Fund due to poor money management by folks in Juneau. All your contributions went in the General Fund and got spent on highways, hospitals and schools with the idea that our oil would never run out. Oops.

Thinking that the Permanent Fund will bail out the rest of the state ain't happening. By law and contractually the state will be paying our monthly checks and covering HUGE medical expenses for all of Alaska's Public Employees for years to come. As the big AK Depression comes along, we've already started looking at affordable places to live. Spokane, Washington is rolling out the red carpet for all ye graying gunslingers. Nice big hospitals (both native and non-native) are awaiting your plush medical, dental, vision and audio benefits, and happy to tap your Long Term Care options with brand new old folks' homes.

As the mad rush of baby-boomers who can't see or smell their own aging processes and are dying in piles, we're beating the tidal wave and investigating senior centers all over the Kenai Peninsula. You should too. Most old folks' homes have a minimum age of 55 such as the Cooper Landing and Sterling Senior Centers, but the one we like the most is the Soldotna Center has a minimum age requirement of 62. Shit, I gotta wait 7 fucking more years to join the blue hair club. So, we've started looking at Washington for a nice place to grow old and die.

Speaking of dying old folks like us, when ye get on in years, ye start to think of better places to die. Ye all know the bad places to die: on the toilet or far from yer wife and alone. Dying alone totally sucks dudes. We'll feel the brain freeze or chest crush and fall on or faces crying without the woman that's held our hand for fucking most of our life. Years ago and a continent away I used to secretly pray that I'd make it home so bun could make me my dying bed.  Dying in prison don't have that certain cool panache that us Finns foolishly dream of. Quite the contrary, it's sickening and so, so sad. One fellow convict and cellmate of mine died in prison and he asked that I remember him and tell his tale. "Sing of the dead Karl." "I'll hear you." Alas, narcs like me seldom get a choice of where we're gonna suck a bullet or hang. I don't mind dying in Alaska as long as bun is set up well, comfortable and close to me. I pray she doesn't have the heartbreaking chore I fail to drink off my mind: the chore of burying loved ones alone. Our wives may already know this, but tell 'em you love them anyway, "tomorrow might not be here for you."

Full circle mates, I left my old self and Washington wrecked and during a horrid depression, now we'll soon leave Alaska and our bodies in the same shape. The sign on the border with Canada and our tombstones will simply state "Last one leaving this fine place, please empty my honey bucket."


Sunday, July 17, 2016

Driving and crying.

Top of the morning gents,

God bless my wife she sure is funny, today she wanted to "go ANS and see natives." Yup, the ANuS is where I always find 'em. I don't have the guts to correct the Mrs. that the new native hospital is now called ANMC. Alaska Native Medical Center for all you nigger shooters. Some things are best left alone. My bunnik is rounding the big 66 this September and trying to continually correct NANA elders towards proper "tunnik" wordage is a high risk venture and possibly a "gussuk" fool's errand: could get me chopped up and eaten. I've totally accepted my titular acronym of SFWM, stupid fucking white man, earned it and wear it, loud and proud. Despite my complete lack of Nativity, mud lives matter and this norse-mutt is solely authorized to write about deadly hybrid folks like us.

Me and bun parked in the designated native elder slot. They're just like handicapped parking but without all the blue gimp logos. We ditched the gun under my seat, walked in the front door and plopped down near the check-in desk at Quanna House. We just sat and watched a long line of injured sick booger decorated village arrivals argue about Medicaid Lodging squinting at all the paperwork with real thick Medicaid glasses. Lots of screaming boogered kids in Medicaid diapers reeking like rural skinky butt-sex that put a hurt on my nose. No sweat, poop-stench don't bother us, we're from Kotzebue, down with the brown and senior center bound.

I'd collected shit-loads of hot sauce packets and just for fun I tore them open a little bit, then handed them out to all the hyper-anxious screaming little kids. Shortly later the crying included moms and dads who'd somehow gotten fire-ass hot irritants all over their shit too. Bun looked at me and thought out loud "run nigger, time to book." After a hunnert years of marriage us old Indun primate silver-backs read minds. Bun sure hates kids and dogs, but real pretty, smart, laughs at my shitty humor and is the only human that waits for me to return when beatings, gun shots, dog attacks and overseas narc jobs have gone horribly wrong. She's also the only human that sits with me in the ambulance, ICU and the emergency room.

During my extended black-site retreat in jail, I've held onto sacred notions that all you coppers were waiting for me too. Notions that upset me so bad that to this day, I hide my crying in secret. I do my best sobbing in the private so nobody can see me, 'cept you mates.

Four and thirty years ago me and bun walked out onto the Kotzebue Airport tarmac, boarded a Mark Air jet and flew all the way to Seattle. Upon arrival bun startled my brother Cully by pulling a loaded 357 magnum revolver out of her purse. He commented "What's up with the fucking gun?" Bun responded we always carry guns due to Karl's work and two of her childhood friends were torn to shreds by packs of dogs, so she always likes shooting strays. But to his continuing dismay he further inquired, "Yeah, but on a goddamned airplane?" Oh shucks, guess me and bun are air marshalls too. Way back in the 80's you just walked onto jets at the ol' OTZ terminal, so guns were no biggey. Bun sure likes guns.

Nowadays, I've got to remember to ditch our pistols before entering banks, bars, courthouses and post offices. I've also got to do the same before entering ANMC. At the entrance to native bars, they got bins for backpacks etc. I just clunk my vest in one and pick it up on the way out. Hell, to reduce my symptomatic PTSD I only drink club sodas and coffee but no bong hits, so I won't get a writ fer MIW. Now that I drive again a gun is essential for aggressive drivers that wave with missing fingers and horns louder than gunfire. Aside from a presidential motorcade very few cars on the road are armored so fenders and windshields only add shrapnel to well placed shots to the headrest. As the old Eskimo slogan goes, "white man, big truck, little kookoo." Even white women can drive big trucks and SUV's and if you can gag through their smell, unfold their elephant biscuit labials, you'll also find a teeny tiny penis. Exactly where my side-gunner aims, right in a bitch's uch. Bun always tell me that white women all got AIDS and only think with their dick, better known by old native women as "the little white man in the boat."

After visiting with our blessed chief of police me and bun had to drive all the way back to Los Anchorage. A redneck truck-butt-fucker with no mufflers was roaring down the Glenn Highway burning plumes of motor oil pissing everybody off and in the back of his truck were 3 nasty dogs barking at all the passing cars: with no chains holding them in. My wife bunnik rolled down her window and let loose a super loud thumb and fore-finger whistle. Fuck me, one of the fucking dogs turned his head our way, lept out of the truck and was instantly run over by a dozen cars in the thick blue smoky exhaust wake. That pitbull exploded and turned into nuts and butts juicy road-kill burger and Jesus fuck there was guts and red paint all over the highway. Bun stated that dog is now a good dog. Bun sure likes watching dogs launch airborne and blow up. We sure laugh.

Old Induns can grow fangs and in wolf packs cut off all yer goony googoos and chow down on yer eyelids, cheeks and gonadular grapefruits. I've seen feeding frenzies on surveillance video from behind the Kotzebue Senior Center and seen a fucking hunnert zombie elder native woman feasting on fresh human organs. The cutest and smartest boys and girls from June Nelson Elementary disappear behind that horrible place. Late at night the dark parts of any senior center are extraordinarily dangerous: except for all our half-breed retard kids, just look at any Alaska highschool yearbook, only the dull and ugly graduate to the age of breedhood. All the cute and bright micro-nates are long gone and are now airborne asspaint stool samples in yer akka's kuktaq (old lady poo stew honey bucket). I've hauled easily a thousand honey buckets from 'round and under houses 711, 676 and 369 to the old dump. Me, Marty Hall, Harley Bronson, Scott Wade and Big Dumb Dale have seen tons of half-eaten excrement that resembled numerous missing native children. Instead of posting their photos on milk cartons, put 'em on 5 gallon buckets. Smart pretty native kids fly through an elder Induns ittiq faster than shit through a goose.

Every time we walk through the native hospital bun hugs and cries and laughs and shares tall tales with really old blue hairs. I also gain material for these am cop talks. Cop talks that are now old murderous man talks. Death may be not proud, but I'm proud to work with you soldiers. Tears of joy mates. Without all you graying gunslingers I would've never survived to tell these tales. Pert near 40 years ago I met bun and started drawing pay with you old shooters. Now we're looking headlong into a grave recalling a fucking lot of pain, misery, suicide and homicide with detailed personal clarifications and crime scene photos from you rusty killers. Of course bun adds language expertise, old Eskimo context and her wonderful nightmarish sense of native humor. God bless my wife. She sure is funny.

Audiigaa, we sure laugh.

Karl. .

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Ten Commandments Fer All Ye Retarded Commandants.

Top of the morning gents,

Even a broken clock is right twice a day, and yup, Euro-trash often tell me I'm "daft as a two bob watch." So forgive me if I'm repeating myself like a fucking broken record. As stated heretofore: retirement is a bitch. It's also a really hard time due to widely varying latent adult maturity levels and my absolute NAZI financial security we've implemented so now we gotta clip our buddies that crapped out and never chased a drug, pussy, mortgage portfolio nor academic potential. Retirement is a process of isolation and locking in a bulletproof and ironclad spousal companionship for the REAL long haul. All the way to the bone yard, squirrel canyon or boot hill. Give it a fucking name but it doesn't include dysfunctional assholes.

Watch out for inbreeding sibling traps, scam-niggers, stoner rip-offs, incestual ambushes and wallet moochers. Some folks that you've hated for years will become real nicey-nicey and fucking camp yer porch. Weird in-laws, old buddies and bucket neighbors magically remember yer email address, phone numbers and goddamned ghetto-vil house number. This will not do. Water seeks its own level and the world is perfect exactly as it is: I like life now. You fucking better start liking life too.

The rumors are true I've been a major fucking dick to my best friends from the Edmonds FAS mud farm, Lem's mortuary and crack house and even most of my tundra nigger buddies from Krotchebue and Barrow. I close down relationships as fast as I establish them: few folks get the existential picture I'm painting. You play with me and grandma ye might get raped or run over, shot or beaten up. Or worse: relapse. Our silver playpen still contains hazardous materials and people. Me and bun travel, wine and dine, bar hop, pub crawl and sponsor commercialized marijuana despite minimal chemical graffiti and carpal tunnel wrists writing you lot. The physical demands of retirement kill small children. And pussies.

Some of our best douche bag friends and coworkers that zeroed out in the financial world now look at you AK PERS TIER 1 buttfuckers with much lust and covet licking chops. I fucking get emails from up-river monkey-niggers, tired UAF pussy and all yer ex-wives with invites and offerings of freeze-dried poontang that smells like black girl seal oil. When word gets out that yer retired, wealthy and can still tear the shit outa delicate floral petal arrangements as well as mammoth uch, half the NANA Region will send you scratch and sniff greeting cards. Greeting cards odiferous and entrancing as the Kotzebue Jail: after gumby hatches aborted eskimo cow pies out his yard long distended anus.

Being retired well is never childproof. Remember when yer nugger wiffs started shitting out chimplets and y'all stopped hanging around party animals? Same thing with retirement, ye gotta stop hanging around working people or families with kids, retirement is far too dangerous. Don't hang with folks that are already having money problems. How many bozos have cashed out their pensions and now looking at all you old retards for a handout? Fuck that shit.

Me and bun are always running financial analyses on all our beer garden buddies and gooner grower dudes. Alaskans are such thieving fuckers. When bun walks down any street in Nome, Clam Gulch or Soldotna her heavenly milker milluks swim upriver defying gravity whilst rattling her jewelry, pocketbook and change purse. Fucking a-hole Alaskans only see dollar signs and start inflating their suck ass nigger lips in prep for mooching. I fucking hate moochers. Bun will deflate yer swollen cunt face with a rock and rip yer lips off when she sees ye puffing up yer ass-sucking cheeks: "Don't even start. My tits are dry!" It's also her email signatory mantra. It's no coincidence we avoid family AND village friends that can't keep their hands in their own pockets. And off my dick. Fucking aunts, daughters and single old women become evermore needy and demanding.

We already spent pert near $100K on Sara Magnum's cosmetic teeth and face, travel and schooling in Seattle, now we're discussing investing in bun's beauty: I'm thinking of wheelbarrow sized breast implants with real bourbon reservoirs. Silver hair, perfect teeth, slim figure, tighter cooter and bigger milker jugs and bun's good to come. I mean go. Fuck, I'm thinking whacking material again aren't I? Goatboys are us. Pimp yer wife, she's yer ride. New headlights and tailpipe make every man's heart fonder and dick longer. Fat dicks make post menopausal women feel really sexy. Then worried. Bun's most recent thought was I could get a penis reduction operation. Funny old nigger ain't she?

Now I hurt granny biscuits with only half my dick. Tall finns wear inflated cushions around their dicks to prevent lacerations and tearing of the most vaginally deep kind. On the good side it sure is erotic parking only half the limo in the carport at the Old Nugger Pussy Hotel with luggage stacked high and dry outside in the parking lot and all yer baggage has to hang out in the hallway.

I surely hope I'm making fucking sense. Illiterate FAS mud farmer flogged toddler finns like me use colorful colloquialisms racist, stunning imagery sexist, gross exaggerations uteral, fecal putrid alliteration and ironic inconsistencies abound to illustrate the awful fact that the hot chicks here at the senior center USED to be loose. Not no more. Every gray cloud has a silver lining, Post menopausal pussy smells way better than the roller coaster ride and blood spatter bleeding hut. Yup, me too. I let a monster into my life: an evil being that used to bleed all week yet NEVER fucking died.

My grandfathers advised me to never let a bitch break your adolescent heart, when yer my age they throw themselves at yer feet. Women are just like fucking dog doo: old ones are much easier to pick up. Deepest pussy I ever pushed the bottom out of was a petite drop-dead gorgeous tiny beauty from Ukraine in her early 20's, that darling little cooter peach telescoped all the way between her lungs prompting her to sing quietly in my ear oh so beautifully then cry out to comrade and country. Call me Alfie or Dr. Zivago but she was one of many tearfully pretty muses and alas heartbroken swollen breasted angels.

I fucking hate myself. Just last night I wept whilst dreaming about legions of naked nymphs that absolutely loved and adored me. I wept like a baby to be honest. Some jobs shorten my lifespan. I get acquainted, fall in love, arrested, detained and suffer extreme rendition. I'm an addict for romance, dubiously legal yet fresh pussy and heartbreaks: same shit different contract. Have gun will travel. I've enjoyed so much love and affection from the most beautiful women in the world and ironically fortunate for me, the darkest and prettiest one married me.

Us retired old farts got the best smelling bush in the Bush. The old gray mare she ain't what she used to be, but this retarded neanderthal sure enjoys riding her. I'll sell her to the glue factory next year.

Last year I ran into Tom Evans in Anchorage. Man sure looks different, walks different too. He lectured me and bun that being overweight plus nicotine equals double amputation. Fat fucker walks on special olympics high tech prosthetics from the knee down. Old Dispatcher #3 now books on diabetic gimper dude tennies.
As always bun shared she was retired Tier 1 PERS whereupon Evans whined he'd cashed all his out and was a "cripple surviving on disability." How depressing. Real winner that guy. Don't be that guy.

A friend in need is a pest: merry welfare and a happy food stamp ye fucking dildo. Lose the nicotine, lose the weight and you'd be surprised how much farther yer dick sticks out. And how wonderful it is to have functioning feet, toes and testicles. I've kept my weight exactly at my high school number over the last decade and now my pill cabinet contains only aspirin, vitamins and fiber caps. A few crumbs of gooner bud. Lots of KY too. Doc Sollenberger took me off ADHD amphetamines, numerous diabetes and blood pressure drugs years ago, now I just have to work on my drinking habits that are too fucking Alaskan and not enough Norse. Drink to yer health, but avoid drunks, inebriates and spin cycle dry alcoholics and twitchy bitchy nigarette smokers. Pot smokers, now that's an entirely different picture. OPEN sign on my door if yer offering green beer and green tokes.

Steer clear of silver back gorilla grunt-rut bitches whining fer dick. Drunks, whores, skanky stinkies, anal bitches, and most party goers are there to poach married men. Few people poach married women. Ick. Besides, any old gaper broads showing interest and asking if you have a twin brother or son, they're already applying bag balm to yer donkey putter.

Menopause is an easy read, makes women look evil and glowing. Down here on the KP we got lots to choose from. The Kenai Borough contains more old folks than the rest of the state, so even the druggies are old rotten blue hairs, the place is just filled with short sharp shallow grisly chewy pussy. Sort of like Palmer, but more money. Nice trucks and SUV's, pedigree dogs and ugly old white women y'all never lick nor pork. All the old KP clitoris look a lot like snapping turtle beaks that are so brittle they'll shatter on yer cervical jackhammer and glue gun.

Be ready to kill dickheads by the dozen and forgive yourself in advance. In our old age, some assholes are too rank to arrest or set up in a sting. Best ye just dump a shot gun blast in their upper torso, rob the house and grow rooms, then burn the entire nigloo. No fire crew can douse a house fire containing burning tires, sizzling man roast, pressed rat collection, dog legs and feet. Toasted nigger nuggies dude. As elderly cops and criminals, we need to choose our unclassified felonies with great care and at least keep them to no more than once a week. This means having to throw perfectly good guns on the piece of shit and walk away.

And I mean walk. Or bus, bike or cab. A car is more traceable and trackable than a cell phone. Working server admin and computer lab rat monitor we had to pencil in code assigning unique IP numbers to any available modem identified operational on our network. A network consisting of 2 Cray Supercomputers and with only 7 in existence this mug was hired to loosen up old school 'puters and get them talking to each other. As in re-writing some of the text in Hyper Text Telephone Protocol: the http part of every web address. Now servers, routers and towers in cell phone nets are used in targeting locations for almost anything, lighting your house as you drive up the driveway, parking and taxi cab apps and drone assassinations.

No shit, our old work at UAF is now used in highly sophisticated ways to keep the net up to date where you are. Location, location dudes. At all times yer cell phone is located 3 ways via GPS, hence term triangulation that determines who gets a drone missile up yer fucking ass and who's phone call is dropped to another tower, your cord free micro-modem is sought out by another router and server. If my name shows up on your old school Y1K Nokia cell phone, throw it away and run. Someone's fucking dying.

I'm no longer brilliant, that damn mouse wins me through the mazes too much and all the doctors simply thank me, shake my hand and wipe their eyes without telling me what PTSD, STD, VD and early onset concussive Alzheimers means. Bunnik is proud of me still. She tells me unbelievable bedtime stories of her husband's service to her village, town, city, state and country. Fucking stories that only serve to give me nightmares. When you have dementia like me, everybody is a stranger everyday. One guy I see every morning sure looks like Jesus. Scars don't match up though. Nigger needs a fucking shave too.

Silly me, I'm such a fucking soak and stupid old git. Despite recalling all yer gun oil body odors and tobacco liquor voices, I must beg your forgivess, for I can no longer remember your names.

I simply repeat to myself that Christmas is always just around the corner, bar's open and you soldiers are really proud of me. But one thing we all know: I don't know much anymore. Don't hear much neither. When
I reluctantly listen above my roaring tinitus, I occassionally hear someone near and dear in uniform weeping, then passing away.

I'm schizophrenic and so am I and it's sincerely been an honor and a privilege working with you all.


Friday, October 11, 2013

Despite tattered uniforms, broken bones. Growing old ain't fer pussies.

Top of the morning gents,

You can tell I'm old. My friends in uniform fart dust. Being old is better'n dead though. Suck it up and take it like a man, growing old ain't fer pussies. You uniforms need to start thinking and acting like the last fucking generation of American prosperity with decades of stagnation, decline and world wars to look forward to. My kind of universe. Fuck ye.

Listen up fucks. Before my forecasted civil war and we ship all Africans, Mexicans and Natives back home, take the time to floss, walk, eat metamucil, vitamins and of course yank yer crank. Daily. Besides, I just flossed and flicked out bits of Soviet tobacco, cully bud resin and silver mongoloid pubes. Call my Nordic loud mouth "Cuntsmoke."

Statistics show a significant increase in longevity if your gums and choppers are in primo shape, ye walk yer dick off and most important: ye crap big, smooth, shiny non-stick brown trout out yer ass, and pee lots of vitamin yellow beer foam. We ain't kids no more, you can stop eating from the garbage pile like gumby, drinking rot-gut liquor like Ham or Blanchard, smoking shitty nigarettes like Jewell, crapping runny brown water out yer fucking ass like Downing or week old cement blocks the size of Wallace loaf constipate. Taking a healthy shit is the 907th wonder of the world and oughta be SO smooth ye yield zero Eskimo evidence on yer TP. On a good day yer crap smear oughta come back negative.

You'll have to school yer rancid marsupial pussy spouses on our culturally pedestrian old fart lifestyle most healthy: lose the purses and handbags. If ye ain't got yer shit pocketed, then ye better keester her shit up her penis holster. 3 little kittens may have lost their mittens, but accessories are fer cunts (literally), not maturely frosted booty. When yer no-nut brown spouse misplaces wallets, purses and gloves due to old bitty drain-bramage, us men will have to carry the damn things. That's fag shit. If yer bitchy niffwich insists she tote so much crap, put it all in the backpack on the wheelchair in the foyer, then tie the old no-teefer salmon cruncher to Werneke's garbage truck. Ye ain't racist if ye married nugger. Real fucking dumb maybe.

Scorched Earth to Retard: Don't mess up yer schedule, daily routines are habit-forming, especially when they're healthy Charlie Daniels kinda habits. Get stoned in the morning, git drunk in the afternoon. Or as Sgt. Waller phrased it back in 1889, "wake and bake, strong coffee, shit shower shave, then gun up." Fucking around with yer sleep cycles is just retarded. Four percent of your cones and rods are dedicated to circadian cycles. Something we inherited from our reptilian and amphibian lineage akin to gills at 12 weeks. Prenatal OTZ bar hopping and rotating KPD shiftwerk will fuck yer shit up: great-grandchimps too.

Us old retarded folks do really well with good regular sleep, woof down vitamins and stay happily married. This part totally sucks: "happily married" as in a long term relationship...monogamous and healthy: sexually, physically and psychologically. Yup. me too. Strike three. I married a native.

In the year of our Lord 1980 I came to Alaska to run away from stupid shit. Even before the turn of the century I took work overseas to run away from stupid shit. You guys should've at least said something. You funny fuckers simply stood by and watched me fuck up and suffer. The stupid shit is right here. It was me. My brother Cully once said, "You'll never know who Karl's gonna care about." A whole culture of misfit scraling ice darkies north of mason-dixon. Fuck me.

Now hold on a second fuckface, I ski full-length mirrors with my big nose and snow board frosted snot peaks followed by a champion breakfast of Industrial Bong cocoa-puffs. I awoke one day in Krotchebue adopted by an army of cops and funny minded monkey talking Eskimos. In an epiphanic moment of clarity and dumber'n shit career move, I turned all my guns on my own kind.

Whose uniform am I wearing? Why are all these fucking cops in my phone book and email contact list? What happened during the years of empty space on my resume? Figure it out nigger head. Extreme rendition, frequent beatings and lots of drug abuse makes for a really unstable graying gunslinger. I suffered more shell shock from my years of triplicate passport shredded narcwerk, than my years of narcommerce.

Yes, my mother was also retarded (that's pretty funny) and God could have made me bright, but I fail to grasp the humor. So fuck, alas, I laugh at my own dumbass and the silly notion that I could ever make a difference in villages AK run by nigger mob rule.

Fuck! A life of community service working with you cops preceded by a life of really good Mountlake Terrace drugs and Edmonds venereal disease. Yup, the community service decision was real fucking dumb. When I served the Lincoln Administration, I was the biological Dept of War agent that delivered all them rail-car loads of poopy diseased blankets to all them pockmarked Induns. Then in later iterative reincarnations, I'm testi-lying in court against coke head drunkbake assholes just like me. Hell, stupid me. I do narc jobs pro-bono. Free. Volunteer of America. And Apartheid Alaska.

We need another Lincoln, or someone just like him: Hitler. My narc work is close enough: a war on human rights. My kind of war. Civil war never ended: just our uniforms. We ain't from Alaska, but Alaska loves fleeing war criminals, exiled soldiers, confederate cowboys and lynched lawmen.

Enough about serving in the wars on drugs, colored folk, natives, liberal midgets and lesbian buttfuckers, I'm bitchin' at y'all uniforms to age like professionals. No shit, floss fuckheads, drink lots of metamucil or fiber caplets with yer fucking vitamins. And walk yer dick off.

One thing I've not told any of ye. Most restaurant food is low in fiber and vitamins but on the plus side high in fat, salt and sweets. When we retarded, we had only 2 people to cook for. But I ate for 6. Big servings and all the leftovers. One day I ran out of weed and that was the last day I grazed on shit ass leftovers. Stale moldy dried out foods taste yucky without pot.

Say goodbye to the kitchen ye wrinkled coonass neegroids. Eat out, drink out. Save money. No dishes, no native food smells. Cooking is so weird with no kids, no pets nor dumber nugger grand kids to dump gross food on and send 'em home sick. Fuck leftovers. If bun don't got a whole 907 niggerhood to cook for, I handcuff her to the sewing machine. I'm learning to enjoy cafeteria food at the senior center. If I'm way-baked I'll woof down frozen microwave dinners with a side order litre of Finnish White Wine. Vodka niggers.

Also, get a couple pairs of good hiking boots. Aside from the Sorrel winter boots, invest a small bundle in combat tenny runners or extra tuff walking shoes too. Pavement don't need monster boots even down to 10-20 below. But I mean it, get some good traction and sole between you and 'crete dude. AssPhault cruisers or geriatric felony fliers are for fucking dork-ass blue-haired gomers: those huge bright white shoes old granny crusted tourists wear are gay as shit.

We burn up fucking shoes. We always inspect our footwear for blow outs, worn heels and defects and pick native butt-nuggies out the tread, then we flee the senior center and book it to Walmarts or Fred Meyer, grab a new set of skins and ditch the toasted nasty shoes in or next to the shopping mall garbage bin. I like wearing my new shoes on the walk home: feels good and I get to show them off to the older residents in the native wing. "Neener-neener nana neeger."

And another thing: ain't nobody got dick rot here at the senior center. We only wear condoms fer blow jobs cuz diane henry down the hall once told me I haven't lived till a native gal takes her teeth out for me and she keeps a condom under her upper dentures. She's a real professional there dudes. Deepthroat yer donkey, eat yer load. Rubber and all with only alligator gums. Felt like she keeps a condom up her ass cuz when I pulled out she farted prophylactic bubbles filled with retarded Octuck sperm all over her wheelchair.

Yup, I laugh at stupid shit too. She don't fart dust like all us, but like yer wives.

Mind you. Good for the goose, better for the gander. Adding up the infidelity of yer nugger wives, you guys all got truckloads of savory sweet white pussy coming yer way. When ye get back home to the senior center smelling peachy and snatchy and hangin' WAY low, simply remind her of the times she was screaming, grunting, farting and sweating underneath our coworkers and her in-laws both before and after you got married.

Hell, just look at yer nugger runtlet chimps: some look like mudrace halfbreed buttfucker clans strangely similar to Erlich, Westlake, Schaeffer, Baker and Tom Peters. Hence epidemic OTZ/FAS AKA Kiana Herpes and Noatak HIV AKA butt-ugly child syndrome with their wandering Inutard infant eyes (and asscheeks ikriq) so far apart. GIGO...garbage in (the pussy)...garbage out. Them guys dick everything that stinks. Even little boy butt-pussy. Go native ah?

See? Fair is fair. As heavily armed round eye gwylo nazis: we got about 17 sets of heaven sent biscuit to catch up to the number of lovers and rapists our nugger wives have scored compared to the surprisingly small number you white cops have sacked. Call it your bucket list that may soon be overflowing: as soon as Cathy Trr and Nurse Medicate (catheter chemicals up her pisser, poo cavern and clooch) make their floor rounds: douche and wash colonic and narcotic.

As yer wife nods off and returns to coma status, just whisper "sleep tighter sweetheart" and come join me. I always spit out my pills and stuff them in old man John Ward's colostomy bag, then squeeze the contents back into his abdomen. Hell, I'm already climbing out the facility window to sneak a toke with squish. Fuck, senior homicidal moment, I forgot I was gonna suffocate someone with my pillow.

Or my diaper.

After yer wives' first stroke simply tell them these big-boobed young ladies are assisted living attendants that double duty as angelic Florence Nightengales for our overgrown fart hammers. After menopause, she'll thank you from the bottom of her deep throat. Contrary to modern anglicized myths about elderly eskimo women: you can pack way more meat in her mouth-than her cooter.

Good is bad, right is wrong. But you cops decided which is right, I'm your very own warrant-less assault on sub-human rights. I cake this universe of text with rendered bucket honey I call the crossroads of the occidental and the oriental. Analogous to the genetic intersection between Europe and fucking China. More simply: where you'll find white donkey bags slapping brown slagger biscuit and shitloads of cross-eyed retarded brown chimplets. Rapeville dudes, taint of the universe, land of the anus colored folk: Cuntfart County, NWAK.

Ya see, growing old ain't fer fucking pussies. Neither is my shitty writing. Ye gotta have a HUGE sense of humor, lots of KY, BIG heart, gentler half of your penis and even bigger understanding of the care and feeding of elderly Eskimo women. Thou wives shall smoke bone or smash their windpipes and burn 'em up at 7-Lakes.

Watching all ye soldiers fer the last 300 or so years, we sure struggled with issues regarding faith. The money comes and goes, then it sticks around and attracts even more. But I see divorce, desertion, depression and anti-cyclical death 'round ya'll and yet you're still reading my stupid shit so that means you all got hope. Also means a lot to your author on drugs, liar in uniform and long dead gunslinger.

My side of the mountain and our side of the state has always been a magnet for dying uniforms, racially and culturally confluential and ground zero for stampeding people in fucking tidal waves upon the shores here at the wrong end of the North American continent where the worst civil aspects of colliding cultural masses are adopted and retained.

Hope is good. Unless yer a fucking soldier. Ye got wars to fight. Chimplet AK will forever be an extraordinarily violent epoch moment of no hope. That's why ye coppers are here: dead-ended ghosts in tattered uniforms follow migratory wars tectonic, exterminations wholesale, extinction a compli and nativistic subduction.

I absolutely love writing y'all, but brevity is the soul of wit, so I best floss fangs, take my vitamins and shut the fuck up.

aBorIgiNaLly yOuRs,

chArLey gOrdoN itO





































Thursday, September 12, 2013

How can a soul ever un-see shit?

Top of the morning gents,

How do you uniforms un-see something?

I'm trying to un-see some things. Things that hurt to not think about too.

After a hunnert letters, books and upsetting council, Irish Mick Fuck Commander Craig Sir! advised me of an old SAS/OSS mental exercise to distance myself from the images we can't even talk about. In a nutshell, convert yer nightmare memory images to b/w then reverse telescope the horrible blood on canvas portrait away from us. No kidding, take the color out of the horror, then let the image flee from you, forever getting further and further away. As time goes by, you no longer will feel so homicidal and burdened with Jacob Marley's iron chain weight of guilt. From a psuedo-conterfeit-christian view, I need to understand the bigger picture that these long gone souls are in a better place. Or fucking hell.

Craig's lectures parallel my wife's sagely advice to wrap a painful and hard memory inside a soft bookcover and then walk over and physically set this parchment wrapped nightmare on the bookshelf, then take SaraMag, Harley and that retarded Mendenhall boy out near Squirrel Canyon or past the lagoon up above Lucy Nordlum's Camp Ivik and shoot birds, barrels and bottles.

Works for bun, she can no longer remember how many times she's been molested, raped and beaten as a child by elder InuTurd Asshole Wrinkled Dicks. Makes ye hate all elder natives, don't it? Raping shit-ass Ice Niggers: all of 'em. Most times I fucking hate my wife's entire race, culture and the way her monkey relations fuck each other for the last 10,000 years too.

On one of my many bouts with poor impulse control, anger management and employed overseas and risking predictable incarcaration, I spent idle hours healing, days hungry during months of scheduled and vigorous questioning. My remedy was to simply remember, recall and re-live fishing off b&r docks, poaching fucking everything upriver near spud farm. Ya see, even under extreme duress I would fill my soul with silly old visions, smells and sounds with my fellow agents VPSO Mashburn, Fields and Ramoth. Despite my caucasian arrogance, those boys never did give a shit that I wasn't Alaskan, brown, kind nor illiterate. Fun job, cut down a few hangers, lugged out old-aged croaker niffukuns and shot a lot of foods. I grew up, found my balls, but this tin Finn-man never found his heart.

Good times. Not. With images of lifting shitty Eskimo rope a dope neck stretch suicides and gallons of gastic juices soaking my duly sworn brown shirt, I just can't seem to drink it off my mind. One of our own: Officer NUSH dispatched an AK arrestee sapien, numerous canine detainees and even killed a patrol car door: all with 9 or 10mm. He and I have discussed these job-related moments of no hope. He'll be alright. Me too.

Maybe not. Maybe not ever. Just take a look at me. Now take a look at his dad. When me and kim are in the same room, same page and same sentence: we're drinking, we're smoking. We ain't livin'. Just visit yer dead and loved ones at the senior center (God's waiting room): Nicotine, alcohol and AK midochondria flavored lippy brown biscuit are now no longer so damn dangerous.

On another job I seen a boy freeze to the sidewalk. Hard as a rock and glued to the ground just as solid as the homo-erectial corpse Richie Reich and Scott Whalen chopped to shit, licked and humped full of pink sperm, then froze inside the 1974 Dodge Homosedan outside Midnight Sun Cab. Scott and Richie are in hell and happy as dikes in Aushwitz.

I was on a job in Soviet Moscow, walking maps, pavement artistry and surveillance pursuing a target that my SUPO/US handlers deemed to a be very bad guy that I should get to know and love. I stepped into a bodega shop fer nigarettes and a kid bolted past me out the door. The shop owner started yelling in Russian "Stop thief!" Two coppers were ambling nearby, heard all the commotion and ran to intercept this kid. They didn't arrest him, they beat him really hard with PR-24 type truncheons, killed him, returned the stolen merchandise to store owner, took their generous cash tip, then left.

After my evening meeting with my handlers, I walked home and found the boy frosty and frozen solid to the sidewalk like a little porcelain cherub figurine broke-winged boy angel. Despite massive head injuries and frozen solid, the poor kid looked at me like he was related to me. Even dead, and again this morning in the middle of this page of text, his eyes still see me and I haven't gotten over it.

Poor kid, little boys are always the last to know they're dead.

My chechen pals Yousef and Oleg Seleznev from the UAF shooting team had put the finger on a real bad muslim player. To my evil supers the finger meant green light go and he was scheduled for execution. My job was to find him, photo him and report back. If I could get a fecal, hair, urine or skin samples, dirty fucking underwear, hairbrushes, or toothbrushes: anything his organs came in contact with, then I would've greatly please my SUPO and US bosses.

I found him. And his vicious partner. I moved in with my UAF shooters to kill them, then capture and interrogate them. In the shittiest ethnic neighborhood in Moscow and in the worst piss soaked apartment building I've ever seen, even worse than 29/41 unit OTZ, we kicked their door in and shot the whole grovel to pieces. But zero body count fer my AK sick 907 scorecard.

Within minutes I got an encrypted email from my SUPO team leaders that my targets sniffed us out and were booking it back to safe-keeping. I phoned my bosses with their probable vectors. Seconds later the LEO Russo version of BOLO APB was issued and these two monsters had been detained. One problem: they were now in police custody and I couldn't get my hands on them to torture the shit outa them.

My SUPO/US bosses simply ordered me to improvise.

I like that word 'improvise', makes everything perfectly clear. So we killed them both. Including the court service officer that was escorting them to the courthouse. Reports of car bomb destroyed the court transport van, all the occupants and the entire side of the courthouse. Investigators merely had skulls to gather to match the inmate roster. And the driver in uniform.

For me, it was the beginning of the waiting time till I book.

I was sitting in the Moscow State School monkeying around in the compurter lab when I got nice congratulatory message mission accomplished. They also advised that 2 extra skulls were onsight and radio silence from my UAF partners.

This kind of mistake stings don't it? This mistake hurt as bad, maybe worse than that little kid on ice.

We built the bomb with 4 five-gallon buckets filled with fertilizer soaked with heating oil and attached a simple string of blasting caps hooked to a stripped down garage door opener. When I hit the remote control button to open up the garage, the whole building opens up. Nice huh? This car bomb didn't require bb's, nails or scrap metal, ours was an impact explosion distorting the integrity of all metal and concrete structures within burnt ear-shot, including the sand-niggers inside.

I saw the blue Ladda sedan next to the old rusty Vauxhaul coupe easily within range of my vantage point. On orders, we had to put in duplicative redundancy to our plan, so the old Vauxhaul was merely filled with buckets of fertilizer/diesel mash. No fuses were installed on this car, the concussion of the primary blast is sufficient to detonate the second car. With all the commercial ordinance available: C4, new plastic shape charges or even trinitrotolulene (tnt) our orders were to utilize deceptive materials and to direct any subsequent investigations away from us. Mind you, it is SO much easier to send in regular uniforms to blow shit up, but the residual signatures would be obvious, damning and stupid. So we made our fireworks look poor, muslim and chechen. Eskimo Tech bitches.

I put in my bright orange sponge ear plugs and when the van was right next to my double whammy, I ducked below the window, held my garage door opener up to the glass then pressed the button.

Can't undo that manmade disaster.

I dusted off, peeled off my workclothes, put on my best shoes, slacks, sports coat and long black dress coat and with camera in hand, I lit a French Galoises nigarette and went with the crowds to gawk, rubber neck and take pictures. I took some fucking great pictures, then walked to the tram and headed back to the campus and our dorm rooms to await further instructions.

After the message that my MIA UAF shooters had accomplished something extraordinary, nothing. Not an email, phone nor fucking smoke signals. Quiet is scary thing, but quiet is still a good thing. I think. Exfiltration was the plan. Not silence.

During the weeks prior to my arrest I simply carried on as the MBA fraud and computer hack. I never knew one of many Private Mannings would download large text files classified, then deliver them to Julian Assange whereupon Wikileaks would post the most interesting parts of my life online for all to scoff, dismiss and ridicule. It wasn't a leak in the cables from me to my employers that would ultimately betray me and hundreds of my colleagues, it was our own soldiers selling info to the enemy. Fucking Russians pay good money for FAT classified files, especially when it concerns pre-emptive terror attacks on their soil. Russians simply paid a spy to betray our country. That's what spies do. Russians scooped up a whole shitload of guys that lie, cheat, steal and commit murder for their countries. Me included.

Now I'm a transparent bookcover behind blue eyes and ex-fil was postponed for 9m3w2d. And until a trade of equally high-value moron could take place. I was also being held for the two extra skulls. Odd how we pay for our sins. These two Chechen UAF shooters were my guys, not citizens. I swear, both cars were unoccupied when the prison transport van approached the courthouse entrance.

I tried to explain myself but they kept punching and dunking me in the playtime pool o' poop. Poop don't bother me, trained by the best. I'm from Kotzebue.

On my return to OTZ/KPD the chief of police hauled me in and asked me what the hell happened during the last of my dozens of flights rendition. Then stopped, then asked all the other officers to leave the office. Man, I got all choked up. I fish-faced, hemmed and hawed, did the throat bob and with runny eyes, I said nothing. He looked away, at the ground, then blinking out the window, asked if my team made it back.

Holding back tears hurts way worse than holding back piss with rope, clothes pins, hammer and duct tape. Sort of pain that rings fresher'n busting a knuckle by missing the head of a nail.

If I'm behind the wheel or walking somewhere I'll fall into a type of emotional and focus robbing pit. Man I wander like a gloomy black cloud grieving zombie if I'm not steered by an aged spouse with worse periods of lost time than any of us.

I'm bigger'n most. Tougher'n most. But just ask me about coworkers deceased and I simply turn to shit. I ain't even fit to drive a car or own a gun. These spells of paralyzing grief are awful. PTSD is simply one long male menstruation, hangover and depression lasting longer'n a troopers' funeral.

You boys likely all have the same ailments and never speak of them outside the squadroom. I'm different. I'm the fair child that pointed the King Has No Clothes.

And the man in uniform has a broken heart.