Food, Drink, and Stink, but no think. From way north of 70 lat.

Top of the morning gents,

Paying close attention to C-SPAN and Juneau's Gavel-to-Gavel coverage may improve my debate skills and add depth, factual and statistical density in my writing. Paying close attention to the Cooking Channel, I can forever prevent my neighbors from confusing this blessed residence for a rich Mexican's.

If you don't receive correspondence from my Arcticus Superior Computing Station, it's likely cuz yer pussy ass lives in Washington close to yer mommy’s uterus, or I'm busy experimenting in new ways to negate our entire constitution in the name of the War on Drugs or in the kitchen messing about with new ways to make nasty ass tundra animals north of 70 lat, taste better.

This weekend, I refrained from composing any vignettes offensive and amorally clever constitutional rights violations offensive. I spent far too much time cooking, butchering, and earning a brown tooth.

You'd think my cooking skills would accelerate at the same trajectory as my steep learning curve. They do.

The Mrs. concurs with me. I'm like a retard child learning wonderful discoveries every fucking day. She'll watch me read recipes from my Kansas City Barbeque and Smoking book, ponder temperature, cooking time, and spice content, then simply state, "your so cute."

Yes, that gal has impeccable taste in men.

My newest werks: Caribou soup that don't stink like rotten butt, or pussy.

I sawed the rear limbs off a baby caribou my hard breeding, drinking, and hunting pal Arnie Brower beat the crap out of, then suffocated; bare handed.

Yup, that same fictional character Arnie is the same murderous son of an ugly Eskimo you all have met before. This tough Inupiaq unit is one lethal motherfucker habitually offending the life expectancies of hundreds of animals. Animals that properly prepared, cooked and eaten by your author on drugs, make damn fine turds.

Again last weekend, after downing too much blended Canadian and caustic fumes from the Industrial Gravity Bong, our man Arnie and I rallied out to gas well road at top speed, smacked a mommy and two baby caribou into doing cartwheels, exited the truck and proceeded to strangle the living shit out 3 newly gimped caribou.

Obeying Barrow's municipal code banning the discharge of firearms, we took advantage of our mutually shared penchant for murder, albeit with tools derivative of an epoch prior to the Bronze Age. Fuck you, this is fun shit. If you don't agree, put a sock in yer cunt.

After our brief and hyperventilating choke and cut murder spree, we tossed all three animals in the back of the truck and drove back home. The drive home was just long enough for our boners to subside. Animal executions are nutritious fun shit. If you ever tasted my hand-killed punniktuk and baby tuktu broth soup, you’d know why, but not how.

Merely tossing these meat chunks into a soup broth merely yields icky and gross native soup. The kind I smell whenever I enter Kenny and Annie's, Albert Monroe's, or David Burnor's house. Also the same kind of soup neither myself nor Sara Magnum will put anywhere near our mouths. Gross shit Maynard.

Sara Magnum used to whisper to me, “Gross man, their house always stink native.”

If an alien Finn pays close attention to the Cooking Channel, we'll see the world's best chefs prepare legs of lambs, legs of cattle, and gunshot piggies. The epiphany I recently discovered was substituting skanky ass game meats my drug buddies kill by hand for fun, with the premium meats we see on the tele.

No shit Sherlockmute, my badly battered brain bucket absorbed some perty kewl cooking tricks.

After ripping the hide off of a pair of darling little baby caribou legs I did what's called a 'rub'. I powdered them both with garlic powder, pepper, and salt, then let them set over night in the fridge.

The following day, I rinsed the legs off under warm water, then proceeded to dissect them following the fatty membrane segmented muscle groups, then trimming these amusingly small legs into their individual muscle components, whereupon, I re-applied some more of the same spices.

Hold your horse dicks, these ain't ready for the stew pot yet. Following my Southern Rub, I now have to perform a French sear.

Take yer largest fry pan, and melt a cup of lard or clarified butter on the highest heat, just short of burning.

I didn't have any lard, so I took a cup of shortening from me Bunnik's Indun Fride Bread deep fryer with all those delicious yet residual pastry and bakery flavors you graying gunslingers miss from home.

*Just like our Siberian wives, our mom's will always be near and dear to our hearts, despite spawning you violent miscreants. Most of our mothers are still alive, so ya mite want to send them a nice letter telling them that you miss and love them, unless yer a pussy still chafing from diaper rash. The Goulsbie conspiracy is real. So just like our beloved Sgt. Waller, phone your mom, or prove your literacy to her and write a fucking letter. Amen?

I melted my pastry shortening, then tossed my hunks of infant meats in. The idea is to almost burn these meats on all sides in lots of super hot grease and shit loads of spices. Every few minutes, I rotated them allowing each part to brown.

Pyro fun you can eat.

After all my baby meat hunks were nicely browned, we are supposed to let them 'rest' on a plate and cool to room temp, allowing me time to get a large stew pot of onions, carrots, and celery to warm and simmer.

Draining the grease from each piece, I dropped them into my stew pot and allowed them to simmer on low heat for a few hours. The leftover hot spicy grease is best bound fer the shitter. With all the goddamned Polar Bear Warnings all over my fucking neighborhood, dumping this grease outside will likely only improve my own flavor.

Note: At any time during these procedures, my house never smelled native. Bonus dudes.

On Saturday afternoon, my pal I fondly refer to as Super Dad from Unalakleet came over for a few rounds of bourbon, smokes, and cards. No cigs, they're bad for you. Fuck you.

During the heated card games of chance, skill and sobriety, we chiefed down some continental sativa, earned a brown tooth, and made fun of other natives.

I can't explain it. Living so far north exempts my merry band of killers from civilized behavior you whitey but no tighty fags call Politically Retentive.

Ethnocentrism, xenophobia, and jokes about pockmarked Indun scumbags is fair play. Fair play cuz the racial hatred is mutual.

You'll often hear jokes, tales and insulting pussy stories about subarctic subhumans at my bar and card game table. It's natural and historically accurate.

"Half a gas can"

"Athabascan Dumpster Divers"

These are all terms of non-dearment since the Yukon River was God’s natural barrier between Ice Niggers and Pockmarked Induns.

Ain’t nothin’ wrong with racial hatred, if yer skin is browner than mine.

For this Finn to wear T-shirts emblazoned with the slogan, “White Power” could be misconstrued as distrust and dislike of folks suffering from excessive skin melanin. But it ain’t, my distrust and dislike includes all folks dummer than I, including white folks with shit brown hair and shit brown eyes. Half-wits, not Half-whites, dumb asses.

All humans used to be colored. Oops, I mean 'of color.' Then the aliens or angels came and mixed it up with some terrestrial, yet short and shallow pussy.

If you buy that load of horse puckey, yer welcome to drink and smoke at my card table, providing you have outlandish and unbelievable tales why humans are so fucking adverse to the diverse.

Under closer examination, I see a feral Finn stealing all sorts of killer shit from all sorts of races and cultures. I serve food, drink, and smoke from all cultures of the world, yet I enjoy hearing my busted knuckle hunting pals make fun of brown folk existing at roughly the same status on the Totem Pole, at the bottom with piss and shit dripping off their faces.

Regardless, it's fun to hear subhumans make fun of other cultures, who are subsequently, equally subhuman.

I stink, therefore I am.

You boys stay nasty. It’s best that you only read my moronic drivel. It’d really suck if I was yer neighbor and had to smell yer nasty ass cooking.


Karl.