Friday, February 04, 2005

Snow for breakfast

Top of the morning gents,

Woke up to blowing snow and frozen door locks. Some mornings are better than others, when I see the mud roads covered in snow; I’m a happy motherfucker. Suppose accuracy is in order, a happy grandmotherfucker.

No shit, windy and blizzard conditions. Colder than hell out, frozen puddles, and dark gray clouds. On the night of our first sunset, thus triggering decremental decay to our 2 month long days, we are also blessed with a full moon and a light dusting of snow.

Ya see? A farm boy from the old country keeps his eye on more than his bank accounts, animals, and intoxicating vegetative crops. But contrary to agrarian creed, this feral lad thoroughly loves his snowfall, icebergs, and extreme latitude, even in the middle of your summers. Only better season is fall time on the farm; yellow, orange and red leaves, pumpkins pert near ready, and darkness even a glowing angel can hide in.

The early morning view out my workstation where I type to you blessed sons of birches consists of fog, mist, spiraling snow, and the Arctic Ocean. Since the wind reversed, all the pack ice blew back in bringing a shit load of polar bear and walrus. Happy Gary Gilmore just may go sneaking and peaking this morning. Snowstorms on August first and second may seem extraordinary, but again, none of you besides Nasruk have the gonads to make Barrow your home amidst all these extremely violent Ukpeagviks.

Some folks ain’t happy until they’ve migrated as far north as humanly possible; a universal dipshit disorder. Even my permanent grotto dwellings on yonder continent, put this troll’s nigger ass consistently in an Arcticus Circular Superior holding pattern. Fuck you, the smell of polar ice shelves and fjords is addictive, no matter which side of the globe you regain consciousness on. Just ask any Eskimo, that certain crispness to the ocean air is what makes fish and seal oil much more tasty and agreeable. Just my beach never loses its icebergs.

Saturday and Sunday were busy days indeed. The Mrs. baked fresh whole wheat bread, and cinnamon roles, but no lard bathed Indun Fride Bread or Jim Beam. I’m gonna stick to the Jesuit delicacies of aromatic bread and bottles of decent Port. See? Life-changes are as simple as choosing a dildo over a poop stained coffee thermos.

Did I just say that? Shit your author is rather flippant with words and phrases that offend the less infected humans of diminished cranial capacity and latitudinal malfunction. I used to wish God distributed selectively pruned brains equally, in my ripe old age, I’m fucking thankful the world is composed of marching morons.

Civility is still too far out of my grasp, best us reservation rejects remain where we landed.

Water seeks it’s own level and your ruthless and vicious asses are exactly where God put them; far away from polite folk. Again, fuck you, when it comes to mental illness, “Alaska has far more of everything.” You weren’t sent by divine intervention to partake in all this subsistence illness, you were sent by divine intervention to improve life here in our quaint drinking villages including their respective chronic fishing problems. Despite all you motherfuckers suffering from hearing loss due to unprotected sex, and unprotected gunplay, you can still hear the pleas for help echoing from the masses of abused children and girls, all within a stone’s throw from each of us.

What the fuck have I been saying? God loves you boys, humanity pukes when you go back home. Upsets the whole apple cart. Jesus never returned to preach in Nazareth, true to parable, myth and analogy, your contribution to the betterment of existence lies right where you hang yer fucking hat.

Did you also know that Buddhist Monks find this world and this lifetime in perfect balance, homeostatic, and harmonious exactly as it is? Us frickin’ retarded monkeys gotta sniff out beauty in a cat box full of snickers and rice crispy treats.

If brains were shared equally, like they supposedly are in now extinct aboriginal egalitarian cultures, we’d all be writing witty shit to each other. Funny fucker ain’t I?

Just fucking with you. I may be the only person that sees a rare genius in each and every one of you. I’m attracted to clever humans that make me laugh and are a challenge to run with. We pukes may harass each other with quips like, “way to go dumb shit”, all mere smoke screen and deflection. I won’t list the inventory in this paragraph, but each one of you possesses a unique skill unduplicated by any other fucker I’ve abused or crewed with.

Two of you can shoot better than anybody I’ve ever worked for. One of you is capable of visualizing 3-dimensional sheet music, and playing in four. Four of yer brains have a curious fascination with criminal potential and abhorrently humorous murders and rapes. Fucking cops, blessed angels, all of you. Even our deceased comrades chuckle with us, we gotta keep ‘em included in our contextual audience, or they’ll haunt you whilst you sleep like that mean old lady that haunts me with her incessant chatter about blue dot acid and similarly tinted mice.

Slap me (and Columbo perchance) on the ass and call us Ted Bundy, the nursing intern from Washington that clipped a couple of sutures on the thorax of an gaunt elderly woman recently recovering from appendectomy surgery, then rabbit fucked the newly formed abdominally incorrect, yet moist pussy on the side of a crippled old insect-like cadaver (Psych 264 Lecture-Human Sexuality-Kane Hall-UW 1979). I’m sorry mates, I could never be so prehistorically macho. Call me a dumbass.

Way back a few decades, a batch of bastards residing on Greek Row, University District, all got up early, chugged coffee and bong hits, then sat in on lectures that we weren’t even enrolled in. Lectures on deviant sexuality and criminally insane behavior were way cooler than English 201, the class us morons (me, Stuart, and Gregg Olson) ought to have been in. If I could do it all over again, I’ll likely really fuck up and have even more fun, full shred dudes. Something amusing about murder novels and vignettes, but ain’t nothing as engrossing as true stories of dead meat carnage scrawging right outa yer own neighborhood. Fuck all.

Significant point of interest; each one of you was adopted by a crew of coppers suffering from a geographic handicap, a penchant for saving children, yet with hyperactive tear ducts but faulty hearts unbreakable due to the inherently flexible nature of scar tissue.

Glad to make yer acquaintance gents. This thug walked to hell and back to be with you boys, to enjoy a leisure life of killin’, butcherin’, saving kids, and subsistence, plus lots of writing.

Heaven sent? Maybe. Hell bound? Highly likely.

Shit boys, I’m truly glad to be part of your weird world. I'm gonna go play on my bike out in the snow.

Stay nasty.



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