Saturday, April 21, 2018

My heroes have always been policemen.

Top of the morning gents, 

Torture is a funny thing. Despite decades it will continue to interrupt yer train of thought. 

Late at night here at the Rest Home I like to take my coffee by the back window and read my old class notes from narc school. Pert near 40 years ago I got popped for felony cocaine distribution in Seattle and instead of ratting out all my local wholesale associates, I was coerced into agreeing to a mandatory minimum of 10 years of service in law enforcement all over fucking Alaska. I had no room to bargain by turning in any of my business partners because they were already on the pad for Investigator Beuler. My own business partners ratted me out resulting in my arrest. Judge Schillberg explained to me that my 2 choices were 6 years in the can or 10 years working for the other team arresting bootleggers and drug dealers for the Alaska State Troopers in the world's most remote arctic nig-fested shit-hole villages. The choice to work for the cops would earn me a paycheck whereas sitting in a federal penetentiary would earn me bad food, bad sex and a bad attitude. 

Legendary troopers Godfrey and Nay instructed a condensed accelerated police training program as part of my deal out of a long prison sentence at Walla Walla State Penitentiary. Godfrey and Nay continually lectured that most crimes go unreported and most criminals go unpunished and that despite the TV bullshit crime scene forensic analysis solves a very small portion of village crime in rural Alaska and extrajudicial punishment would be left up to my own discretion. The overwhelming bulk of my crime solving is the recruitment of informants and analysis of limited information. Native aboriginal Eskimos fucking hate white bootleggers and drug dealers and happy to drop dime on assholes bringing shitty liquor, weed and meth into their sober and dry villages. Reading village cop, dispatch and jailer training manuals refreshes my ancient memories from decades ago when my friends in the cop business were still amongst the living. 

I awoke startled to find myself alone in the dark hearing branches and bushes crashing from across the field. The woods are the route my best friends to come and visit me. I seen Nolton blink his flashlight twice, then him and Waller hiked outa the tree line and booked up to my porch. I opened the door, let 'em in and they sat with me next to the window, kind enough to not notice my old age. 

Paul and Jeff are two more of Alaska's hero officers and my best friends from the police department. These two seasoned gunmen are extremely dangerous and prefer to visit me late at night. "You still got guns from yer friend Pim?" I showed them a couple of revolvers that've only been handled with gloves so that any prints on 'em are from previous owners. The serial numbers will only lead back to dead gangsters or unsolved homicides in Seattle.
Without touching them they examined the guns, talked about various ammunition, then picked 2 wood-gripped 357 revolvers and a box of ammo. They donned leather gloves, loaded the guns, put them inside their coats and headed for the door. I asked them what kind of job they were on. Nolton told me that he and Waller finally located a couple of wanted felons that needed killing real bad. "Me and Waller are gonna get a couple boys that need serious extrajudicial justice." 

The following morning's Peninsula Clairion newspaper headlined a story about a double homicide up in Cooper Landing. The Knapp brothers, a couple felon drug dealers responsible for numerous native deaths were found in their car, parked in the Sterling Highway pullout with their knees, nuts and stomachs blasted to shit. Each corpse had six close range entrance and exit craters indicating the assailants were on both sides of the car, shooting through the windshield and side windows resulting in the victims inhaling glass shards from screaming and gasping for air. The troopers found two firearms on scene that were linked to out of state crimes years ago. Neighbors reported hearing numerous gunshots then ungodly shrieks. Like good neighbors, they waited a half hour before calling the cops.
There's been a couple dozen crime scene masterpiece theater homicides similar to these gangland type slayings where the guns are simply dumped on the bodies. Good luck finding any suspects, my old cop buddies Jeff and Paul have been dead for years and there's still quite a stockpile of old firearms nearby. I'm just an old man in a rest home reading old material until I get sleepy. I'd never hurt a fly. 

Just the other day I was reading my old emails from Helsinki and dozed off. I awoke back in my old Soviet detention cell seeing and hearing children reading comic books out loud and telling me stories about their toys and games on the playground. A cute red headed kid told me not to go to sleep and despite travelling numerous continents he and his friends appeared next to my bunk and were waiting for me to hurry up and find my way back home. This little boy looked and sounded just like my childhood friend Michael Callahan. Damn kid didn't mind how my nasty my injuries looked and told me his mom was a nurse and she'd come clean my burns and cuts and where I messed myself. 

I asked him how long he was gonna stay and keep me company. He assured me that he could stay over until I got off restriction and we could ride our bikes home and eat lunch with his friends at Maplewood Elementary. Michael shared his sandwiches and chips and screamed and cried at the men when they came to my cell and were real mean to me. He even showed me his Secret Agent lunch box and told me about the brand new cars his dad drove and that his best friend lived on a farm. 

He chatted away about how he and his pal were gonna milk the goats and deliver newspapers and buy lots of candy bars when they got bigger. All I had to do was not go to sleep and he'd hold my hand when those men were hurting me really bad. Michael told me awesome stories about riding horses real fast like cowboys through the Indian Trails and racing his Toyota Corolla around Catfish Pond. That little Callahan kid stayed with me for my entire detention, washed around my bleeding shackles and even ran to my jail cell when the interrogator teams were coming for me. If I stayed awake he promised his dad would take us to Ocean Shores to picnic and skip rocks at the beach. 

I awoke hearing him explaining that he had a friend in the jail cell down the hallway and he'd died during interrogation from severe electrocution. Michael would bring him over and they both read me stories from their new books they got in the mail from Weekly Reader. These two kids were sitting on the edge of my jail cell bed holding their books up high and pointed to the pictures so I could see them with my good eye and chatted to me in both Russian and English. 

Another kid Michael brought over to play was the Neuman kid that had ligature marks on his neck and accidently hanged himself in his dad's garage just blocks from Chase Lake Elementary. Those two kept on telling far fetched childish tales about all kinds of animals that they got to play with and that their friend let them help feed, water and milk them. I could go and play with them as long as I didn't go to sleep when those men hurt me real bad and made me cry. I still wake up late at night talking to my best friend from elementary school, yet Michael Callahan died many years ago. All this old man can do is go back to sleep and figure everything out in the morning. 

Fuck I'm drowsy, I need to focus on my old lecture notes. Beverly Cutler lectured us city and village cops that the best way to beat a rape charge is to have an all female jury because at least 2 jurors will secretly believe that the bitch had it coming. Beverly Cutler was a Superior Court Judge and lectured us on the legal entanglements surrounding the prosecution of sexual assaults and domestic violence. She drilled into our heads that whenever she directs a male defendant to treatment or prison for drug or alcohol related domestic or child abuse the female spouse always goes out and gets another alcoholic offender boyfriend. 

The cycle of abuse is generational and the victim always becomes the abuser. Judge Cutler's nail driving lectures stated that Alaska's most violent rapists are women. Her experience is that if the mother has an abusive childhood she'll commit the physical injuries on her own children or she'll repeatedly bed down with awful men that will continue the child beatings or sexual victimization. Cutler surveyed the room and queried us jailers which cells are always the stinkiest and messiest. Before we could respond she rudely barked that it's the female inmates that piss and shit all over their jail cells. Needless to say, mother nature is a bitch and Cutler's rule also aplies to the stinky old ladies here in my rest home. I get so drowsy in my old age and my nightmares seem as fresh as today's newspaper. 

I'm always awaking in hospitals. I've done long stretches at the Kotzebue Hospital fer sick ass dog bites, lip infections and bullet holes. One kid sat with me and played his guitar and told how his older brother Jimmy Girvan showed him all these chords and how a capo worked. Tommy was his name and we planned all sorts of midnight missions through the horse pasture, over the fence and play catch at Maplewood Elementary in a totally dark baseball field. 

One time at the Barrow Hospital I awoke to a kid next to me whose teeth were cracked and eardrums broken. He said he forgot to latch the gate and his horse got loose and killed on Highway 99. His parents beat him real bad so he asked me if he could hide in the ICU with me and read to me for a while. Kid shook me awake crying and sobbing not to leave him and that if he didn't do his reading he was gonna get in trouble again. Poor kid was in pretty bad shape and despite bleeding lips and ears he spoke clearly enough to read his homework to me and to screamed me back to consciousness whenever I passed away. 

Here's the trippy part, this little kid read me court transcripts and confidential updates from the Kotzebue Trooper Office and impersonated the voices of the historic troopers Dial and Koslof. Those to old cops were busting a gut that "narcs and drug agents are no more than garbage men hired to take out the trash, except Ewing drove a really big garbage truck." I must've fallen asleep cuz I awoke with this kid snuggled against me, again imitating my trooper friends in Alaska. "Fuck, Henry, you shoulda seen my guy operate in the Valley back home." 

"Take a cruiser from Wasilla to Talkeetna and you'll run outa fingers pointing out meth labs, grow ops and cocaine parlors our guy Ewing torpedoed." "Tyler said Bleicher and Bowman were constantly bailing this clown outa MSPT, expunging traffics with Cutler at Palmer and fending off a shit load of constitutional and human rights violations." "Pre-trial barely kept up with the caseload Ewing dumped on their desk." "He ran Legal through the ringer but he's bowling all strikes." 

Over the commotion of nurses and doctors yelling my name I heard Trooper Nay talking to me, "You know Karl, if our lives were different and you continued working for the other side, I'd sure hate to go up against you." "I hate getting all mushy, but I'm damn glad you decided to give us a hand." "I'd feel real awful killing you, but as it turned out, it's been an honor watching you work." 

The IV tubes got tangled and alarms sounded so I picked up the kid, held him in my lap, untangled the IV lines and quieted the beeping hospital equipment. He continued reciting police stories in the haunting voices of my old friends. I asked the kid how he knew these long dead cops and how'd he mimic their voices. He just shrugged his shoulders, leaned his head against me, held my handcuffed hands and said he knew all these cops back when he was little. 

Pretty smart 6 year old kid. He wiped the tears from my eyes and told me torture is a funny thing and despite decades it will continue to interrupt yer train of thought.


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 our spouse's withered
vaginal wind tunnels and blowing the carbon out of their
mortician-bound high-mileage cooters. 

We shoulda had a clue something was goofy cuz
late at 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 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

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 advised I stay home nights and choke fat bat
when brooms are too slick to fly. You niggers're pretty slow ain't

No shit, the sewer lift stations 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

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

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" (Harley Bronson) 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

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-Potlatch.
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

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, 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 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" (Harley
Bronson). 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 Moose 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
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

Wanna smell my finger? I just stuck it all the
way inside Michael Mills' bullet hole and flipped you off. A wax mold
of Sheila (aka: hole in yer bucket) Romaine's bowhead blow-spout
yielded a dildo identical to the John Schaeffer Brand Fart Hammer
Model anal plug. 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, reminisce 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

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. 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

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. .