Friday, February 04, 2005

Electric Soylent Green

Top of the morning gents,

In context of living side by side with this smelly gang of Inupiaqs; if ya can’t join ‘em, beat ‘em.

Just finished stuffing my credit cards back into my wallet, second most responsible thing I did all day. I swore I'd cover old man David Craig's long distance phone bills, and subscriptions to the Arctic Sounder, but logging onto Shotgun News online with credit card in hand, whilst under the right influence is part stupid, part retarded, and part stupid.

Few days ago I checked both my MCI and AT&T cheap ass calling cards, and both were zeroed out. Fuck I felt lousy. You boys likely need a lesson in caring for elder WHITE gentlemen. Fuck you.

With the oversight and emotional support of my rather pretty wife, I tend to, care for, and spoil more old Eskimo gals than a poop stained Oosik. Looking out for old man David is merely a reduction of duties from taking care of the two of ‘em; David and Rachel Craig. As you Siberian shooters know, she's hanging around my place north of 70 lat, helping with the numerous edits your weird reading material requires.

First things first moron; phone in a credit card number and get one of them spent phone cards fat again. Then phone 360-432-9067 and let Mr. Craig know he's hot and good to go. I'll have to phone AK Newspapers (and bird cage liners) and request a re-up for his senior discount 2nd Class Mail weekly Arctic Sounder subscription from Anchorage to Shelton, Washington.

Here's the heart of the matter, you ass fucks all better start every retirement account you can pitch a nickel into. I'll do a champion job of taking care of Sir Craig, but if all you simply lean on yer gay ass PERS retirement accounts, I'll be recharging more than your phone cards. You poor retired sons of bitches will have to try my detuned defibrillation machines that I’ve redesigned to induce line drop, meaning a significant drop in voltage, but a cooking spike in amperage.

The way I got it rigged is cooler than shit. I have both paddles and alligator clips, but with longer cables so I can strap one to your fucking flat head, and the other to your smelly feet as to insure a complete phase shift in the AC current that your central nervous system operates on.

Hence, why more people are killed with the lower voltage 110-volt alternating current, than all the other power sources combined (220, 440, AC/DC). Alternating current is the best way to snuff expensive horses for the insurance monies, but then I can’t expect you non-Finn, non-farmers from assuming I’d do such a cool thing. My parents still have a couple dozen healthy horses; smoking the sick ones pays the feed bill and buys a new tractor. Fuck you all very much.

Back to your dismal financial futures. Most online accounts only require a $500 balance, easy, but far smarter than playing with Shotgun News online. An online investment account is easier that ordering an automatic weapon that you’ll likely end up selling to me anyway. (Do you have any idea how many guns I’ve bought from you murderous, yet uniformed felons? Don’t worry about the half dozen Tech-9mm’s I collected from Gumby et al, I doubled the price and sold them to some Kotzebue Korean fuckers that may or may not have any ties with organized crime.) Bite my dick.

So, to prevent me from removing yer sorry SS asses in the future, start a few play accounts today. The preferred online investment accounts are aimed at safe broad market indexed funds, like S&P 500 or Russell 2000 or the Wilshire 5000.

Each number indicates the number of companies each fund is invested in. Never invest in less than 20 companies, and treat them all like your own children, NEVER love one company over another; allowing that one or two will likely have to be returned to the pound.

Don't make me visit any of you soon to be broke old farts, because my methodology is far cruder than Dr. Kevorkian's; not a pretty thought. Tall boat drinks, good cigars, jacuzzi bubble bath, and a goddamn BOSE stereo system arching out in yer fucking bath water. I'll sneak into yer damn old farts piss bed and jerk off station, charge my modified paddles and not yell "Clear!"

Me and Cully once paid a visit on one of his missing buddies from CareLess Medical, south of 85th and Greenwood, near the dumpster where Kevin Zabrisky put a pistol under his chin. The old Ballard house Cully’s workmate lived in was above code, meaning he had pennies in the fuse panels since the old glass screw in fuses always popped due to old wiring and 'line drop'. With the super genius pennies in the screw-in fuses, a lad can now draw full current from the telephone pole directly to the smoking abdominal discharge flooding out from behind your mud flaps. Ick, sorry.

Dropping a radio in your own bath (accidentally), for 4 days makes a place smell just like Thanksgiving dinner. I was afraid to touch anything metallic or wet like a light switch, toilet, or kitchen sink. As with every corpse I sniff and lick, it was my Good Samaritan Duty to snoop about and pocket all the goodies left for me by the deceased. No corpse is gonna enjoy a sack of pine bud or a half ounce of diesel damp toot.

Fuck you very much, I also snagged the champagne, Crown, and Chivas. As soon as I was done puqukking around, Cully phoned the King County coppers and Medic 1. The tall Finn, namely this honorable chap was finished stealthily stashing a handsome collection of illegal contraband into his modified 72 AMC, and fixin’ to split and let Cully chat with the coppers, he seldom had outstanding felony warrants.

As a pal, it was my duty to clean up his now unnecessary earthly lodging, and belongings. Unwritten rule: if the body is still warm, you can do 2 things; get a quick nut, or remove all the money and drugs. I could have boned that corpse, but it was still humming with current and burnt to the old metal bathtub.

30 years from now, if you see a tall Finn with a silver beard covertly exiting one of your retirement homes, that smell ain’t the mess hall, it’s one of you bastards doing the fish, with some odd alligator clips attached to your nose, toes and gonadular structures.

You’ll know when yer time is due, me and Columbo will be phoning you for your date of birth, social security number (s), and the address to your wife’s dike mistress; all required data for any life insurance policy. Feel lucky, when composing this retarded diatribe, I almost typed in 30 days (vs 30 years).

It is not my duty to judge you murderous thugs, that’s God’s. My duty is to merely make the arrangements for this meeting.

Gentlemen, besides strolling with me down murder memory lane, we can also hold hands and walk down future events boulevard.



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