Old Fart Ass Bite Stageshow

Top of the morning gents,

Nothing witty today. No narc chatter, patrol
lectures, or gun instruction. Ya gotta take yer hat
off and send a sweet mental prayer towards Cyrus's
direction.

Our boy at Maniilaq has the shitty job of burying his
poppa.

Cyrus Harris is the subsistence foods coordinator at
the Kotzebue Senior Center, meaning he phones
Karlukmun (this dumbshit Viking) for muktuk, meat, and
blubber.

What makes our exchange so cool, is in return for the
2.25 tons of whale grub we send him, Cyrus ships me
Mondo bags of Hogleg sheefish. You have no idea how
macho I feel lugging those huge bags of sheefish from
the back of Josie Brower's pickup up the steps and
into the front entrance of the Barrow Senior Center
whilst a whole bunch of septuagenarian aboriginal
candidates for modern dental and vision care drool,
smile, and hug the Mrs.

It ain't all that bad, remember the taste and smell of
old ladies that hug and kiss us handsome boys? Not so
north of 70 lat. These old gals with few cuspids,
fewer molars actually deliver a dose of affection, not
the obligatory abusive hugs I deliver to ugly neighbor
children.

Sorry, I'm trying to find happiness and fulfillment in
this blessed murder zone, but I can't get passed
resentful and impudent peckerhead native kids.

I get the feeling these elders that surround me and
the Mrs. with hugs and quanakpuks are truly making up
for a hunnert years of hatred, cuz they're now wise.

(Unless they're lusting for a chunk of Scandinavian
blood sausage, a cultural holiday cuisine, that is, if
these toothless old gals can gnaw through grisle)

Funny fucker today ain't I?

Bob Knight, former commissioner for the Alaska
Department of Community and Regional Affairs once told
me, "the reason I don't fuck women my own age is cuz
they all look like my grandmother." My retort of
simply inserting your moisture missile into the old
gal soft and then listening for the bones to break,
almost gave old man Knight a heart attack, asthma
attack, and hearty laugh and cackle till ya loogie.

Older the goat, the longer the horn.

At my ripe old age, I now get to scare the living shit
out the grand kids. When they're acting up, whining
fer shit, and knocking about incessantly, I tell 'em
all to shut the fuck up, cuz "I'm going upstairs to
fuck the shit outa yer grandma!"

Those poor brown turdbite mudrace runts get real
quiet. If I pull my wallet out and threaten to show
them pictures of us fucking, they'll cry for hours.
God is a fucking comedian, us humans are far to stupid
to laugh.

Fuck it, they may be my grandkids, but they ain't my
fucking responsibility. Ain't no Native daughters
gonna hatch whining units, then dump 'em off at my
fucking house.

Ya think those midget aboriginal mukes are gonna show
up at grandpa's house with money, Jameson's Irish
Whiskey, and Cheech and Chong footlong doobies of
crystal pine chron? Fuck you again. Ain't happening.

It's imperative I scare them now, just in case they
think vicious old Vikings won't shoot kids for sport
later when they convert into hormone driven nasty
mashing baby poopers. Generations from now, young
kids will know better; ya get yer eyes scooped out
with a sharpened spoon if you come around Karl and
Bunny's and beg for candy, cigs, and money.

Remember the Kotzebue (actually Vietnamese) kids that
greeted you with, "you got dollar?" "you got pop?"
Kids that I find begging in the streets of rural
Alaska frequently star in snuff films such as "Gone
Missing", "Orgasm 1" (formerly titled, "Ease up Dad,
yer crushing my smokes") and "Buckwheats, the high
fiber breakfast enema with the 12 gauge applicator".

It's all scare tactic, save these miserable runts from
the horrors us burnt out uniformed felons know all too
well, but can never communicate to children.

See the problem?

You can't express wisdom, a four dimensional
understanding unfit for a 3 dimensional preadolescent
imagination.

Dimension or paradigm, same shit.

Facts are the building blocks for knowledge.
Knowledge is the building blocks for WISDOM.

Ain't no shortcuts. All a moron can do is lecture
facts. Kids hate facts, so mock scare them with the
possibility of being forced to comprehend how this old
Viking takes care of all our elder gals at the senior
center better than a poop stained oosik. (I've used
that line twice now. God I'm a puke)

Lesson: growl, grumble, pee and fart with the bathroom
door open. Trust me, you'll be free of flea infested
dirty little grandchildren forever. Amen.

I've got the girls, Tina and Sara so riled at my
violent stomping and grouchy dad tirades they'll
likely stay clear of the Mrs. and I for at least
another decade, God willing.

Back to our boy Cyrus, and his father's (padre, pader,
padron) burial duties, lets simply pay a little more
attention to the remaining elders, despite their
culturally horrid sexual practices.

I'm attaching a published essay, it's from last year,
Arctic Sounder. Ya can feel the love in my writing
can't ya? Bite my dick.

Karl.