Ya Best Kill Yourself After 66 Days of Total Darkness
Top of the morning gentlemen,
This article may be a few days stale, but oh so applicable.
I made a mistake, imagine that. I assumed incorrectly that most folks lynch themselves, or eat a pistol during the darkest months of the winter. Well soldiers, I've been enlightened with the statistically dense article enclosed below.
I stand corrected; seems suicide pegs the throttle during the springtime; like right now. Size 13 boot in a size 15 mouth? No prob dudes.
For good reason, since my arrival in Alaska, I’ve loathed the spring months, absolutely hate them. Bright fucking weather, way too much sun; all painful if yer experiencing overwhelming agitation and violent mood swings.
My springtime recollections find us in Willow, Dutch Harbor, and Kotzebue. Most of my Kotzebue springtime recollections consisted of either site prep for one of many remodel projects (711, 676, 369 etc), or graveyard shift at KPD, regardless, I have to eat shit. Spring semesters at UAF were no better. If you were Neanderthal, we wouldn’t be reading this moronic drivel. We’d be waking up right about now, hungry as fuck, meaner’n shit.
Even with superb supervision and caring coworkers, I had a hard time separating myself from smelly and abusive prisoner behaviors. Shit rubs off on us, aggravating our seasonal impatience with fellow humans. It don't matter how you look at it, 40-50 hours a week in the company and care of incarcerated father rapers and institutionalized baby pluggers will have manifold ramifications on your fucking mood. Are we in agreement soldiers?
Existence at my retarded level, can serve as karmic lessons, even to dumbasses. We live in a dichotomous world where our personal zone blurs with the agonizingly frustrating behavior of violence and suicide, as displayed by our fellow Eskimos. Basic philosophy paints a simplistic picture of dualism. The point of friction between a man's mental health and the insanity murderously exhibited in our neighborhood.
"I am, it is." This is a codependent view of how us self-actualized dim fucks shield our internal checks and balances from our occupationally external insanity. Remember soldiers, the reason yer unique; your personality has evolved, a perfectly healthy reaction to a very unhealthy environment.
As men, we don't suffer the monthly bipolar roller coaster women endure. No shit soldiers, we don't have menstrual cycles. Kidding aside, men simply don't ramp up ops for ovulation, nor do we roller coaster downward as ovum expire and detach. Average female has 13 detachment funerals annually, or every 28 days, sort of a lunar calendar that we celebrate by shoving thumb sized Q-tips up our parts. Lunatic, yet refreshing.
Being the wonderful dad I am, I knew that most village gals have their periods during the same week. Either by habit, or due to the seething stress expressed by a sister or femCo-worker, menstruation arrives with its symptomatic backaches and gut quease. A rural phenomenon called "menstrual synchronicity." Gets nightmarish, don't it? Now imagine finding empty feminine hygiene shelves. Whole town is on the rag you dumb shit.
Us men don't have such cycles, emotional or physical. Despite the rest of the household shrieking for aspirin and hot baths, you men are expected to be patient, understanding, and not drink too awful much. When I ask my father difficult questions about my mom or my sisters odd monthly sufferings; he'll pause, contemplate great thoughts, then lecture me the benefits of drinking in the morning.
You folks that have 'gone native' years ago, beware of the Equinox. You gents didn't simply 'get used to' seasonal insanity; you have been absorbed by it. I can remember sitting with Columbo at MMC awaiting medication for springtime migraines. I also recall how fucking heavy June Nelson's bloated corpse was. Simile action here dudes; obnoxious native woman, rude manners, closet alky and pill junky, dies of an overdose, next of kin steal her liquor, leave the dumb ass white cops to haul the bloated and chemically baked Alaskan lard butt to MMC to Shopvac out her poisonous innards. Imagine a volunteer scenario, with the dimmest fucks getting ‘volunteered.’ At the direction of F1 Monson and Columbo, Waller and I lugged that 250-pound sack of maggots outa her house, over to MMC for ritualistic processing.
My back hurts when I reminisce, or wax fondly of some duties that normals might think of, as ghastly over exertion. Chunky old beast must've had 80 lbs of pills in her gob. I'm glad she killed her own ass with illegal drugs, would've pissed me off if she hanged herself. You know how pleasant I become when I’m ordered to lift and hold poopbacked selflynchees so that Waller could climb up and cut her down. Thank god she didn’t do the losers leap off a bucket or wobbly chair, busting the puke seal on that over sized yap would've put holes in Waller, supersonic capsules and pills have been known to pierce bulletproof vests. Dudes, that’s a powerful puke.
Queasy, huh? Put yourself in Joe Garroutte’s place. This same week, I dispatched him to the shack behind Evak’s. Some drunken girls were wailing to the author that some Henry fuck is “feeling high”, has a revolver and talking suicide. As K7 squawks 23, he adds nonchalantly, “shots fired.”
Did I remind you gents that God loves us? In a plethora of divine tests and challenges, Joe is tasked to perform CPR on a subject with two large .357 ID (inside diameter) ventilation holes in his head. Kop7 relayed to central dispatch that these holes defeated his efforts breathe life into the lungs of this MASF (magnum altered skull fuck). Any eavesdropping muke with a scanner likely ejaculated, or heaved on himself, Joe7 had a real knack for broadcasting butt gushing descriptions of mouth to mouth spit swapping with leaking dead people.
Enough strolling down murderous memory lane. Gentlemen, as you were.
Karl.
This article may be a few days stale, but oh so applicable.
I made a mistake, imagine that. I assumed incorrectly that most folks lynch themselves, or eat a pistol during the darkest months of the winter. Well soldiers, I've been enlightened with the statistically dense article enclosed below.
I stand corrected; seems suicide pegs the throttle during the springtime; like right now. Size 13 boot in a size 15 mouth? No prob dudes.
For good reason, since my arrival in Alaska, I’ve loathed the spring months, absolutely hate them. Bright fucking weather, way too much sun; all painful if yer experiencing overwhelming agitation and violent mood swings.
My springtime recollections find us in Willow, Dutch Harbor, and Kotzebue. Most of my Kotzebue springtime recollections consisted of either site prep for one of many remodel projects (711, 676, 369 etc), or graveyard shift at KPD, regardless, I have to eat shit. Spring semesters at UAF were no better. If you were Neanderthal, we wouldn’t be reading this moronic drivel. We’d be waking up right about now, hungry as fuck, meaner’n shit.
Even with superb supervision and caring coworkers, I had a hard time separating myself from smelly and abusive prisoner behaviors. Shit rubs off on us, aggravating our seasonal impatience with fellow humans. It don't matter how you look at it, 40-50 hours a week in the company and care of incarcerated father rapers and institutionalized baby pluggers will have manifold ramifications on your fucking mood. Are we in agreement soldiers?
Existence at my retarded level, can serve as karmic lessons, even to dumbasses. We live in a dichotomous world where our personal zone blurs with the agonizingly frustrating behavior of violence and suicide, as displayed by our fellow Eskimos. Basic philosophy paints a simplistic picture of dualism. The point of friction between a man's mental health and the insanity murderously exhibited in our neighborhood.
"I am, it is." This is a codependent view of how us self-actualized dim fucks shield our internal checks and balances from our occupationally external insanity. Remember soldiers, the reason yer unique; your personality has evolved, a perfectly healthy reaction to a very unhealthy environment.
As men, we don't suffer the monthly bipolar roller coaster women endure. No shit soldiers, we don't have menstrual cycles. Kidding aside, men simply don't ramp up ops for ovulation, nor do we roller coaster downward as ovum expire and detach. Average female has 13 detachment funerals annually, or every 28 days, sort of a lunar calendar that we celebrate by shoving thumb sized Q-tips up our parts. Lunatic, yet refreshing.
Being the wonderful dad I am, I knew that most village gals have their periods during the same week. Either by habit, or due to the seething stress expressed by a sister or femCo-worker, menstruation arrives with its symptomatic backaches and gut quease. A rural phenomenon called "menstrual synchronicity." Gets nightmarish, don't it? Now imagine finding empty feminine hygiene shelves. Whole town is on the rag you dumb shit.
Us men don't have such cycles, emotional or physical. Despite the rest of the household shrieking for aspirin and hot baths, you men are expected to be patient, understanding, and not drink too awful much. When I ask my father difficult questions about my mom or my sisters odd monthly sufferings; he'll pause, contemplate great thoughts, then lecture me the benefits of drinking in the morning.
You folks that have 'gone native' years ago, beware of the Equinox. You gents didn't simply 'get used to' seasonal insanity; you have been absorbed by it. I can remember sitting with Columbo at MMC awaiting medication for springtime migraines. I also recall how fucking heavy June Nelson's bloated corpse was. Simile action here dudes; obnoxious native woman, rude manners, closet alky and pill junky, dies of an overdose, next of kin steal her liquor, leave the dumb ass white cops to haul the bloated and chemically baked Alaskan lard butt to MMC to Shopvac out her poisonous innards. Imagine a volunteer scenario, with the dimmest fucks getting ‘volunteered.’ At the direction of F1 Monson and Columbo, Waller and I lugged that 250-pound sack of maggots outa her house, over to MMC for ritualistic processing.
My back hurts when I reminisce, or wax fondly of some duties that normals might think of, as ghastly over exertion. Chunky old beast must've had 80 lbs of pills in her gob. I'm glad she killed her own ass with illegal drugs, would've pissed me off if she hanged herself. You know how pleasant I become when I’m ordered to lift and hold poopbacked selflynchees so that Waller could climb up and cut her down. Thank god she didn’t do the losers leap off a bucket or wobbly chair, busting the puke seal on that over sized yap would've put holes in Waller, supersonic capsules and pills have been known to pierce bulletproof vests. Dudes, that’s a powerful puke.
Queasy, huh? Put yourself in Joe Garroutte’s place. This same week, I dispatched him to the shack behind Evak’s. Some drunken girls were wailing to the author that some Henry fuck is “feeling high”, has a revolver and talking suicide. As K7 squawks 23, he adds nonchalantly, “shots fired.”
Did I remind you gents that God loves us? In a plethora of divine tests and challenges, Joe is tasked to perform CPR on a subject with two large .357 ID (inside diameter) ventilation holes in his head. Kop7 relayed to central dispatch that these holes defeated his efforts breathe life into the lungs of this MASF (magnum altered skull fuck). Any eavesdropping muke with a scanner likely ejaculated, or heaved on himself, Joe7 had a real knack for broadcasting butt gushing descriptions of mouth to mouth spit swapping with leaking dead people.
Enough strolling down murderous memory lane. Gentlemen, as you were.
Karl.
posted by Alaska: Local And State News. at 10:14 AM
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