Taxes, Death, and Reincarnation

Top of the morning gents,

I finished a few more chapters of my Internal Revenue
Codebook. Volunteering to prepare our elders’ tax
returns for free is a tougher bugger than I’d assumed;
MBA and all.

Fuck it. Break time.

For pleasure, I exercise the language centers of my
brain and my cello and string bass calcified
metacarpals. The reason I stimulate my language
centers is cuz they’re perty darn close to the God
spot in my brain, which sadly, was destroyed a few
years back.

Hell, if I can’t beat right in the burning bush, might
as well beat around it. I’m lying; me mum claims it
was destroyed a few lifetimes back, thus explaining
the typical Finnish belief in reincarnation, not
heaven.

Ya see, Northern Scandinavia, Iceland, and the
Svalbarg Islands were the last resistant holdouts
against this revolutionary new thought paradigm,
Christianity. When all you sorry bastards arrive in
heaven, you won’t see a single Scandinavian, or a Russian.

Most deaths for fair-skinned folks ‘round those parts
happen so fucking quick, a lad is seldom aware of his
own passing. We’re slow to recognize our own death
much like our inane Arctic driving habits, us Finns
usually slide right through, and well past yer
Christian existential ‘stop sign’. Metaphor again,
fuck you.

Not that we possess unacceptable souls or don’t desire
to hang out with all you blessed angels in heaven, its
just we always return to the same damn chore we died
doing. Rural Finnish peasants can’t comprehend such a
restful place.

No chores and shit, know what I mean?

Despite honorable intent and golden hearts, us dirty
Nordic farmers don’t believe we’ll ever be ready for or
worthy of such a final resting place. ADHD, or more
specifically, ethno specific divine modification to
the A4 allele on our DNA prevents us from even
comprehending a state of relaxation, or peace.

How the fuck can a whole race of obsolete and quickly
vanishing blue eyed and blond haired, hyperactive and
violent alcoholics grasp the concept of a heaven, if
our chores are never finished? To us inferior
peasantry that live by the rule of cyclical harvests
and perpetual butchering, heaven is viewed to be here
on Earth.

This self-replicating and never ceasing existence also
makes for good cannon fodder and suicidal behavior
that’ll never kill yer ass. Least that’s the way it
feels.

Let me tell you a story.

Just got back from the dentist last week, and the eye
doctor this morning. Since I’ve got a skoach better
than minimal subsistence health insurance, I thought
I’d shelve my inherently masculine fear of medical
treatment and git ‘er done.

Ya see, at the Ilisagvik College, it’s assumed
everybody here is an ice nigger suffering from
excessive melanin with Indun Health Service; meaning
free and shitty third world ‘health’ insurance, thus
why P5 offers only scabby and scant coverage.

One problem. I ain’t Indun or ‘Skimo, just a time
traveling murderer from the Killing Fields of the
Pacific Northwest.

Another reason I truly enjoy making
appointments with smart white dudes is that I get a
chance to dress up and wear one of the many suits,
sport coats, slacks, and dress shoes I absconded and
prostituted from a few dozen Scandinavians of ovarian
descent. Still with me?

This Finn couldn’t possibly kill the dead or rape the
willing.

I don’t have any vision problems, aside from a
deprecated self-image, but like colon cancer, I won’t
know for sure until I shove a coat rack up my ass or
put drops of battery acid in my eyeballs. Right
mates?

As I let the eye doctor do his evil craft, I nervously
sat still, and followed all his instructions, tests
and procedures. He did the LSD drops, plus the eye
chart, with and without the iron mask. Pert near used
up a whole hour, which made me wish I stayed with my
Bessie Ootoyuk at the playground. This shit sucks.

He gave me a 20/20, no glaucoma, no scarring, no blind
spot diagnostic bill of health, including no scratches
on my predictably stiffening lenses. We ain’t talking
boners here dudes, we’re talking age as a coefficient
in the timely decay of all human corneas and lenses
due to exposure to sunlight. The eye doctor concurred
with my theory that living so far fucking North on
this and the Asian continent may have prevented this
predictable lens stiffening and cornea clouding.

Whew! I breathed a sigh of relief that almost yielded
warm brown trout down my pant legs.

With the good news behind me, I spent a few minutes
describing a goddamned inventory detailing injuries
and infections that I refrained from revealing
previously.

I told him of gasoline splashes, fingernail polish
remover douches, inmate Hepatitis B spittle and
sputum, intentional pepper mace sprayings, including
diseased poop splatter when me and Marty Hall hauled
dozens of truckloads of poopy Inupiaq lunch buckets
from house 711, 676, and 369 to the dump.

It now appeared it was someone else’s turn to cut fish
and turds via his optometric mud cutter. My
big-brained eye doctor was a bit dubious of my tales,
so he asked for details. What a fucking dummy.

I continued to explain that all boys growing near and
around Green River played with gasoline in farm
equipment, go carts, and loud cars from Cosmo’s
junkyard. I also detailed how my beloved sister
accidentally spilt fingernail polish remover all over
my face and eyes.

Hold yer tears, and yer dicks, I ain’t done.

My eye doctor winced and grimaced with my tales of
diseased village prisoner infected nuvuk rich loogies
compliments of KPD, and didn’t believe me that
Troopers Dial and Nay intentionally spray VPSO retards
with pepper mace.

My vomit inducing conclusion included the honey
buckets o’ poop soup and ass paint swill we hauled
from every fucking house the Mrs. and I ever bought.
Every fucking house on native territory, that is.

He sat there and looked at me, then did another quick
examination to eliminate his doubt he missed
something. That’s when I really unleashed a doozy
tale.

I proceeded to tell him how many times I took slugs,
punches, and kicks to my eyes, and my balls.

Ya see, this guy is my doctor and can never reveal any
part of our communications to anyone, so I felt
comfortable sharing tales of beatings over yonder on
continental soil, and on Saami/Russo shit stained
dirt.

We discussed the analogy between getting arrested in
Estonia and Russia, and the theory of the process of
elimination. Contrary to advice and council of an
encryption pal of mine named Roman Serry, I didn’t
stay out of the back seat of foreign police cars.

These foul smelling coppers didn’t speak good English,
but I did hear good Russian, provided they enunciated
their verbal commands to strip and march through the
snow with tasty slugs to the face with filthy gloves
and groinular boot jobs.

Whilst sitting in my cell, I longed for the intake
treatments I spoiled my indigenous counterparts in the
NANA region with. Alas, this is not America. The
tall non-native felon from Alaska has the right to
stay conscious, the right to eat shit slop and moldy
bread.

I can also expect a fair trial, albeit at the pearly
gates, which subsequently required I die and go to
heaven. Sorry, ain't happening. Also, a lot of
non-English speaking inmates endeavored to facilitate
their own arrival at this mythical place.

Out of a packed one-room cell full of miserably filthy
and smelly inmates, 3 reduced the pain and swelling of
their abused feet by putting their scant body weight
load on their necks. Must’ve been some of those
goddamned Christians.

No shit, these sufferable bitches hanged themselves.
Weeping and praying, and with the assistance of their
fellow comrades, these poor souls lynched themselves,
right in front of us.

Life is a funny thing, and choosing your own finality
is seldom your own decision.

You’ll find far more atheists in prison, than in a fox
hole.

“Life is so precious” my teary eyed optometrist told
me. I responded by stating, “What doesn’t kill us
only makes us stronger.”

I’m still waiting for the strong part.

I’ll let you know when it kicks in.

As always boys, stay nasty. Keep your powder dry and
yer dick hard, and the world will continue to turn.


Karl.