Friday, February 04, 2005

Insanity is geographic. North of the Arctic Circle.

Top of the morning gents,

Gotta stretch and work out some kinks.

"Ward, I think you were a little hard on the Beaver
last night." Leave it Beaver. Amen.

Full moon Boogie, or some shit. I think I need to
walk over to Caribou Street, drink herbal tea with
Hildagard and Wolf Zeiler, and get crunched and
stomped by a fucking chiropractor.

McLeod, Dr. Cecil McLeod I believe was the chap's
name. Back in the 80's, that old chiropractor rented
rooms at the Senior Center.

I ain't fucking kidding, chatting in a waiting room
full of shrunken head Inukuns is gravity intense.

After my motion palpation and fluid imbibement at each
and every level of my habitually bipedal
musculo-skeletal system, I fucking swear I'm taller'n
shit like the Jolly Green Giant, "Ho, Ho, Ho."

This weekend busted balls. I whined and resisted
shoveling my fucking driveway to clear a spot for the
boat that's being delivered today, and I whined and
resisted packing Gladys Kagoona's frozen airborne
mushuk.

I know I'm abusing another language, but I cackle
thinking of some nasty old Eskimo lady scolding me to
eat my "mushuk." Sounds like gruel and dog spit.

The Mrs. is laughing at me, cuz my recipe of dog lot
biscuits and pallet scrapings may well be fairly
accurate; if you live in Kivalina.

"Mushuk"; what a marvelous way to combine the guttural
sounds of diarrhea and the chopping sound of a paper
cutter, and an attractive way to promote a Burnor
cabin breakfast of champions.

Fuck me in the goat ass, all of us have weirdness in
our ancestry.

Imagine if my grandmum were alive today, serving
boiled coffee brimming with explosive Finnish white
wine (vodka), and lots of melted reindeer lard to Tina
and Sara's babies, filling their fur coat pockets with
burnt hot potatoes, and smearing Petroleum jelly on
their faces. Finns are smart, convert breakfast into
a drag racer fuel; the arctic cold prevents
spontaneous combustion.

Different culture, different century, and different
continent, but same fucking latitude, so you know the
emotional iciness and psychological bestiality
concealed within all arctic aboriginal cultures.

Y'all think Alaska is the pits. Lets call a spade, a
spade.

In Arctic Finland we have the identical rates of
alcoholism, suicide, and murder as all you
Inu-Mongoloids suffering from congenital Siberian eye
structure.

Same awful thing happens to me whenever I head north.
As soon as I cross 60 degrees latitude, I’m fucked.
Don’t matter if it’s here in Alaska, or over yonder on
the dark side of the mundo, everybody gets a bit
gnarlier.

Further north I go, crazier folks get. Make sense?
Same insane shit goes haywire within the old Soviet
Union, that massive expanse of arctic land where the
last accurate census was performed nearly 30 years
ago.

Nobody knows much about the world's largest collection
of indigenous species of aboriginal humans on the
largest continent, occupying more than half of the
northern circumpolar region.

This’ll invert yer thickheaded notions of the ‘drunken
native’; I saw more passed out drunks in Kubaka, the
Russian Far East (AKA; Siberia), than I do here in
Barrow. Probably equal to Kotzebue’s general battery
and rapestistics though.

Fuck national stats, the real horror lies within our
ungodly circumpolar purgatory. Old man Burt Tiegen,
Barrow AC store manager loses almost half of his
employees every year to extreme north latitudinal
malfunction. Folks recruited fresh from all over the
lesser 48 collapse under the stress of isolation and
overwhelming dark time.

He says that it’s always the opposite of your
managerial intuition, “the tea-total sober folks drown
in booze, and families explode.”

“The best candidates are the crazy ones, like you
Karl.”

“You’ve been living in Northern climes for how long,
over 20 years. How do you maintain such a façade of
phony mental health?”

Funny fucker ain’t he?

Sad truth? Frequent beatings and lots of drug abuse.
What a recipe for health, wealth, and beauty. I’m
lying. Ride a mountain bike all over hell; eat shit
loads of vitamins, good bread, and game food up the
ass.

And oh yeah, marry smart. Only real cops have 3
wives, you boys in blue have yer shit together. My
observation of this crowd earns honorable mention, for
a bunch of fucking cops.

* Minimal cigarette action (pipes and cigars don’t
count, bongs too)
* Minimal alcohol chuggage (author is excluded,
doctors orders)
* Only moderate mental impairment (excluding Mydol,
she dropped below 60 IQ)
* We all score tops in domestic violence though. Yeah
team, go niggers.

Odd, every one of you fuckers is a serial killer in
relapse. Morbid discussion of Wild Bill Hickock’s
weak hand quick draw that settled a violent bar fight
in Cheyenne, Wyoming with 5 corpses; 4 headshots, 2
heart shots gives me hard nipples and a remarkably
handsome, swollen and distended can opener.

You too, huh? Gotcha. This may be the headquarters
for SA (snipers anonymous). Hey, nice thing about
relapse, we don't gotta go to all them fucking
meetings.

When I fail to find any modicum of expertise or
artistic flair, my crime scene is usually filled with
bad tempered weapons discharges and passionate rage
release via small arms ordinance.

Only in Alaska? Not even. Only every place I visit.

Carry on gentlemen, one clipping about 38 cal
Anchoragua divorces, and one about vast regions of
surplus timber. Got wood?

Cheers mates.

Karl.

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