Friday, February 04, 2005

Big Dumb Dale. My 300 lbs mongoloid.

Top of the morning gents,

Did a spot on job absorbing my fucking book of dumbshit narc chatter transcripts and recital under oath. I must apologize for my inconsistencies in abusing my favorite men, you thugs in uniform. I hope my hodge-podge essays from the gimp bin weren't entirely devoid of interest.

Our blessed rurality has offered so many horrific, yet comic shows and spectacles. As always, I thought we’d browse through some old photos of Kotzebue.

This dusty batch looks like they’re from 1991; lots of villagers from upriver seem to get tangled up with my hired help from Seattle.

Mary Ann Russell, some Lysol sipping Eskimo zombie, just a shell of a scab, falls off the back of a speeding 4-wheeler, does a series of unconscious back flips and lands with a crunch directly in front of Bun and I.

With a windpipe and mouth full of muck, this Finn had to reach down her throat to clear an airway, resulting in me getting covered in homebrew, Lysol, seal oil, and pumpkin seeds.

You would’ve never recognized me, I smelt just like yer in-laws. Kidding; Bun and I feared vertebral breakage and regurgitation asphyxiation and were dutiful to maintain the straight-line posture she miraculously collapsed on the ground in. She had a fine pulse, just lots of muck and grub blocking her breathing. After some rather productive burps and coughs, she no longer needed to throw up in my mouth.

Mary Ann responded to continued resuscitation, blessing me with some new flavors and odors. When she awoke she immediately started crying and saying, “I’m sorry Jesus.” I reassured her the similarity is merely due to a bunch of Vikings hijacking all of history’s biblical illustrations, hence much bias and ethnocentric context from King James forward.

Must have been that magic touch. Mrs. Russell simply sat up, wiped her face, spit a loogie, said thanks, and staggered towards Hunnicutt’s.
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On a late night stroll with the Mrs. we witnessed Phyllis Scott Henry getting kicked by a crowd of natives, at 31 below, in front of 634 B, and pregnant. Ok, not all natives, Chip Hailstone and Rick Miller were contributing some doozy boots on her head and face.

Bun pulled out her revolver while I yelled at the crowd of ghetto slugs that I really ought to fucking shoot them and turn their faces into cunts. The crowd dispersed in mere seconds, and Bun and I walked Phyllis over to White Mike Baker’s trailer and cabin, in front of The Lyons Club.

After he and I split a pink cap 51, he was plenty juiced up and pissed off. I steered him towards buttfuck Chip and Icky Prick Mildew. Boys, justice was served; Baker kicked in Mary Hailstones glass door and pummeled both Willie and Chip, in front of Mary. Delicious. Even in Kotzebue, ya don't disfigure another man's ugly girlfriend.
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On a hot summer day in 91, in front of the Lyon’s Club, Big Dumb Dale and I tried to pull a drunk Selawikmute off of his drunk Selawikmute girlfriend. She was covering her face with both hands, and he’s simply punching her hands. Real asshole eh boys?

Fucker was just dying for a tune-up, so Big Dumb Dale proceeded to deliver a couple dozen bitch slaps, and then a brutally romantic take down. Makes a Viking proud as a poppa; my prison mongo can bust bones like firewood, never failed to impress me.

Externality not foreseen, our drunk friend and punching bag grabbed a handful of his girlfriend’s hair and needed persuasion releasing the wad he was pulling out of her scalp. Dale stepped on his forearm whilst the tall Finn stuck downward and repeatedly crushed his drunken hand.

Miracle on Front Street, drunken monkey fucker let loose and walked remarkably cooperatively with Dale and I back to house 704, then out to the beach. Our wife-beating aborigine needed swimming lessons. You would’ve laughed. White Mike, Scott McConnell, Harley, and I were busting a gut on the beach while a semi-retarded 300 lbs mongoloid, thus titled “Big Dumb Dale”, repeatedly dunked and slugged our quickly sobering monkey fucker.

I’m sorry, that ain’t a hate crime, if ya hate ice nigger wife beaters. You boys all need to adopt a semi-retarded 300 lbs mongoloid, them FAS fat-bastards work well too, and with the right incentives, those monsters do EVERYTHING you ask of them. Git 'er done.

Don’t point any blame at this amoral psychopath, you dipshits let me fly my convicted sex offender gorilla mongoloid up to Kotzebue and pound the crap out of my shit stain neighbors and criminal biz partners.

God loves you boys, I just needed a few decades to now see the logic. Dale bashed Randy Kem around the house, Pete Norton up and down the beach, bounced Bobby Richards down our front steps, and taught good manners and drowning lessons to our PukeSick Selawikmuke.

Jesus Fuck. Pit bulls, a retarded gorilla fucker, and all the criminals I can rob, fuck over, and biscuit split. I now understand you chaps, geniuses, all of you.

Despite your current epidemic of ethno-specific crime, you don’t want to let me move back into yer neighborhood.

I’m itching to replay another episode of This Old Kotzebue Crackhouse and Morturary. House remodeling, LSD smuggling and distribution, and criminally insane moron rectal poaching; sounds like one heck of a town wrecking time. Have Columbo and Nay get all the non-disclosure agreements ready, and I’ll be there in a fortnight, with a whole slew of semi-retarded 300 lbs mongoloids in tow.

We’re ready to buy another bucket dump native puke shack as a remodel project. It’s highly unlikely you boys’ll mind if I recruit all yer criminals to work all year for Blue Dot Acid from Bellingham, then sell the place back to KIC.

Don’t look so surprised. This old con is merely converting real estate and LSD into 5 figure checks from a native corporation; same game, inventive methods.

You boys all remember the rule? A vampire requires implicit permission to enter your domiciles and communities. Sounds fun, don’t it?

You boys take a moment and count yer blessings, me and my retards from Washington ain't eating yer vegetables, and stealing their wheelchairs.

Call me a dumbass, good cover is priceless.

Karl.


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