Care and Feeding of Ladies Raised by Natives

Top of the morning gents,

Rough night. Sore hands and head.

As reported previously, the entire Western Alaska
Caribou Herd is stalled out in my own backyard.

I was warned by a brown shirt that it's illegal to
discharge a firearm in the city limits. Who'da thunk
it?

So, in my retarded mind (that is still head and
shoulders above my educationally robbed neighbors) I
figured we could play like ice nigger cowboys and rope
and bind our caribou like cattle.

I'm sorry, but a farm boy thinks this way. Livestock
is livestock, mount a horse, rodeo yer ass out there,
lassoo a doagie and drag it back to the house for
branding.

Last night, after splitting a bottle of blended
Canadian 3 ways, we did exactly this. 'Cept with
caribou and snow machines. Fun stuff Maynard. For a
couple seconds.

One of my Eskimo hunting and drinking pals (a quickly
dwindling crew) by the name of Arnie Brower, sped
aside a tasty doe and tackled it.

No shit. No guns, no knives, with just culturally
trained bare hands. He killed me a tasty doe. He
tried to break it's neck in a headlock, then stood on
it's throat to cease it's breathing.

Dudes, we're all such pussies when I establish the
context of comparison.

Now here's the perspective you Siberian Mongoloid
motherfuckers miss. I'm surrounded by darker folks,
splashing gut bags and blood all over my kitchen floor
and having a pretty good goddamn time.

I feel I should express remorse or sadness. But I
fucking don't, so I won't. Killing caribou without a
firearm is funner'n shit, and may save my failing
hearing, for another week.

---

Octuck, Westlake are this week's recipients of
Operation Muktuk.

Last month I nailed out Bunnik's list:

Dean Westlake
Patrick Octuck
Art Fields
Alvin Ivanoff
Ella Jones
Sara Evak
Tess Sheldon

So fuck it, I'm starting over. I ditched 3 caribou
legs in Pat's freezer, plus another block of muktuk, a
block of blubber for rendered whale oil, and a whole
frozen sheefish for "Calq" I shipped him yesterday.

In the Fairbanks Underground 'Skimo Society, he's the
rich nigger in the food chain. Dean's got the
monopoly in the Galena zone. He's also now stocked to
beat shit. What the fuck, you guys are my dudes.

I'm really shitty at keeping friends. My foul
language and fly swatter honesty runs 'em off perty
quick. Why the fuck are you uniformed felons still
putting up with my shit?

I don't want to hear your dumb answers, I'm just truly
thankful.

Heartfelt thanks mates.

---

Oh, and gents. Be a little extra careful with your
indigenous wives this year. This is rough time of
year for them.

Since statistically, more of our Native wives
experienced poor treatment at the hands of their own
family, we're in for a wild roller coaster emotional
cycle ride with the highs sweet and sexy, the lows
tearful and violent. Amen?

Well chaps, we're in our darkest hours as we speak.
And the absence of brilliant sunshine beaming through
our windows regularly puts our Siberian beauties in
inexplicable sadness, countered and thwarted with
anger and frustration. Still with me?

Nothing pisses a male human off more than an angry
swiss army wife in a deadly mood, yet offering zero
reasons. We are greeted with resentment, but are
clueless of our guilty actions, aside from our normal
sinfulness.

This my friend is abuse. Not paybacks at their broken
dysfunctional families, back at you mates. We get to
play the part of child abuser. Without our consent,
or a script.

Every swinging dick needs a primer in battered and
mistreated femininity, cuz nobody has the balls or
brains to write and publish a manual on the care and
feeding of broken and justifiably angry Inupiaq women.


We're clueless.

The best we can do is try really fucking hard to
understand and be patient with traditionally poor
Eskimo interpersonal communications.

You boys deserve a goddamn medal. My hat is off to
you.

I offer no advice, but I will encourage you lads to
continue holding hands, wiping tears, and insulating
your babies from the ancestral horrors that burden our
blessed wives' hearts, minds, and marriages.

For too long, I've held and comforted a crying angel
every Christmas. Ya see, something really terrible
happened on a Christmas day a long, long time ago, and
we can only guess. And shudder.

When I press this lady I married for masculine
responses to direct questioning in these troublesome
matters, you know, the 5 W's with details and
rationally grounded and logical answers...well, you
know what happens.

This year, don't do what I do. Don't ask questions.
Don't react to barbed and jagged gesticulations. Your
job as a husband to a girl that was raised by natives,
is to only understand that you'll never understand.

I sure have an eye for the fucking obvious, don't I?

That's why you read my moronic drivle. You boys are
too complex and intelligent. I on the other hand
aren't burdened by excess intelligence and training.
Remember the kid that yelled "The king has no clothes"?


That's me mates. The tall naked guy with a pitcher of
Jim Beam, bumping into everybody, with my dick.

Naivety is bliss. Nativity is hell.

Nuff said. Now go back and apologize to your wives
for thinking like a rational educated man.

Their our wives. They're supposed to behave like
women.

You dummies.

Karl.