Sunday, February 06, 2005

Our Mutually Violent Ancestry

Top of the morning gents,

I assume by the scant commentary that yer all
recovering from binge eating. If any of you uniformed
felons put your fingers down yer throat, I’m gonna
slug you a good'n fer wasting good food.

If you can't keep it down, you ain't sittin' at my
fucking dining table. I'm real particular about who I
eat with. And suffice to say: not with whom I drink
with.

Few years back, I grew accustomed to dining with
people that neither spoke my language, nor cared. It
was up to me to quickly absorb the Estonian or
Lithuanian or Russian if I wished to be a welcome
guest for dinner, or drinks.

This is hard shit you dummies. I had exemplary
linguistics training and incessant tutoring, yet still
stumbled and stammered and tripped all over my words.
My dick too.

"Po He Man Kowtoo" is how I phonetically break phrases
down. Means "Drink to your health" in old slang
Suomen. Obsolete pre-Russian/Brit distorted Finnish.

Makes raising a glass of Finnish white wine (Vodka) and
toasting an abbreviated cheer so as to not slow down
the ancient drinking pace these rosy cheeked slant
eyed Finno Ugriks endeavored to implant upon this
handsome Alaskan felon.

Strange huh? You boys have adjusted to your alien
environment. I'm getting there.

I'm so fucking color blind.

I forget I'm surrounded by restless natives. A race
of fine people that ought not follow me overseas to
places where you can buy cigarettes, cold beers,
bottled vintage wines, and liters of hard liquor from
vending machines up and down my street. And in the
main foyer lobby at the Helsinki School of Economics
where I worked.

Imagine the crowd that would accumulate around my
front yard here in Barrow if I installed a vending
machine full of Jim Beam pints complete with a credit
card or cellular phone bill payment system? Scary
dudes.

Further exemplifying my geographic handicap that I, of
all people should respect. But I don't.

I'm fully settled into my community. Meaning I "drink
native" and wear my most favorite stink clothing: my
blood and blubber reeking ski pants and coat.

On this fine and dark 27th day of December, I'm a real
beaut. For your New Year's resolutions, add just one
more; learn the language of married women.

Once or twice a week it's a real adventure to explore
my closet and try on my old dress clothes and suits I
absconded, extorted and prostituted in Eastern Europe.


The Mrs. is always pleasantly surprised and very
grabby when I arrive at her office in slacks, sport
coat, dress coat and black leather gloves. If you
think dressing up puts the steam on foreign pussy, you
oughta try it on yer own wife.

Funny how excited a spouse becomes if you "treat her
like you first meet her."-Timo Aristo, HSEBA MBA class
of 2000.

Ya see, Scandinavian men treat all pussy like new
pussy. Wine and dine, drinks and dinks. You put a
little predatory cruelty in yer sex, she might marry
you all over again.

As stated before, a little rape makes for a happier
marriage.

Better yet, only spank her when she's pissed off, then
gently escort her to the bedroom and explain to her
she needs a little "time out." Just like the kids,
'cept the ol' gal is gonna put out, and like it too,
goddamn it.

Take the word of a serial rapist and hobby craft
killer, every married gal appreciates a licking to
keep ticking, but will thank you sincerely after you
throw a mean tune up and lube job into her.

Domestic violence laws don't cover kidney punching.
When yer hands free, and swinging an elongated and
swollen Mr. Wobbly. You also don't need to call a
contractor for repairs if you punch the bottom out of
yer well. And knock all the mortar outa the sides.
Trust me, the old gal will heal.

It's a felony for me to promote prostitution or conspire
with you uniformed felons to commit a rape, unless
your target is wearing your own goddamn wedding ring.


So, start scheming. I want all you Siberian Mongoloid
motherfuckers to behave like...mongoloid
grandmotherfuckers.

Grin, ponder, then deny your nefarious imaginary
mechanisms involving your fully flexed groinular
tricep, and any of the numerous abdominal cavities God
dispersed all over the female body that oddly enough
married you, and even hatched yer ugly children.

I said scheme. Some of my subtle suggestions might be
illegal in some states. South of the Moron Dixon Line
that is.

"If her daddy's rich, take her out fer a meal. If her
daddy's poor, just do what you feel."
-Loving Spoonful, In the Summertime.

Fuck it. This afternoon, sneak home and force sex on
your very own wives. This my friend, is the affection
we should've seen on more Norman Rockwell paintings.

Old farm gals blush and purr for days after a surprise
rough and tumble with the old goat she married, and
his ever increasingly longer horn.

All you boys have aged, at least 15 years since I
started abusing you.

One rule of thumb: young girls have no clue what
goodies you possess, but the older gals sure do. Even
Ben Franklin scribbled numerous diary entries of elder
gals, and their devoted appreciation for expanding
gristle and genetic depth charges. Hooah!

Cheers mates. More boners.

And quit being so sexually patient.

To your wives, the best thing to come out of a penis,
is all of the wrinkles.

Fuck all.

Karl.

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