Friday, April 08, 2005

A fool learns from his own mistakes. I learn from yours.

Top of the morning gents,

The Mrs. and I sat and chatted last night.

I made an exceptional pot of tea, Twinings and
Constant Comment, toasted some hard wheat Finnish
bread with real butter, and served up bowls of
reindeer soup.

Ain't that a collision of retarded Northern European
cultures; British, Irish, Finnish. The only native
contribution to our daily intellectual discourse and
evening chat was the pretty gal I had for dinner
company.

We chatted at length about the houses we've window
shopped, and how she's fascinated with Southern
Hospitality, yet annoyed with poor manners from
Seattle folks.

She don't want to move anywhere near the Pacific
Northwest, it's full of violent assholes just like her
husband. She's thinking South of the Mason-Dixon
line.

Now I'm intrigued.

I asked how far South was she thinking; Portland or
New Orleans. She said "New Orleans."

She went on to explain that she's growing weary of
reservation retards and the icky white niggers from
Washington State that've moved in to 'save them.'

At times, I grow tired of the culture of dumbness so
prevalent in Alaska, but I have a daily am cop talk
newsletter as an outlet. The Mrs. has me.

Since the goddamned kids are finally gone, we have
time to type, chat, sew, bake, and brine. Life
doesn't begin until the fucking kids move out, and the
goddamned dog dies.

That's us mates. I finally get undivided attention
from my best friend, my wife. She'll quickly remind
me that in this town full of ignorant ice niggers, I'm
her only friend. Smart gal.

I pity most of you lads, it ain't a secret that we'll
read yer divorces within months after yer kids move
out. That's a shame.

Guess it supports my choice of audience to write to,
all you chaps are men, not life support systems for
cunts.

Generation ago, women used to be as smart as me, and
understood men. Not anymore.

In the last 30 years, women have been encouraged to
resist family devotion. Like it's a sin to curb yer
femininity and individuality (bitchy women thinking
with their dicks) for the benefit of yer children, and
husband.

I'm perplexed, cuz my wife understands men far better
than she tolerates "whiny whiny cunts."

All you rapists had to halt yer random victim biscuit
splitting, car racing, wrenching and tuning both
violins and carbs, and devote all yer minds and
masculinity for the benefit of yer kids.

Like my wife, I know and understand you guys. And I
still forgive you.

Some of you quantifiably qualify to be labeled
serial rapists. Some of you are also serial killers.
Hey what the fuck? Takes one to know one.

Despite spawning heaps of bastard children, most of
you have done right by yer wives; all of them.

Even if they haven't done right by you.

Ya ain't selling yer ass short if you devote yourself
to your family, even if yer fucking wives won't.

Raising families is all about financing mini-vans,
infant seats, and skinny women's cigarettes (bitch
cigs). You're no longer allowed to roam around and
rape little Native girls, take bong hits with Karl and
Cully, hang out in the grow room, and drink dark beer.

Now here's the kewl part. After you kick yer retarded
kids out and take yer wives to the dump, you can come
up here and do everything you gave up, all over again.

No shit. Lots of hunting and fishing, beach combing,
and pilfering treasures. When you show up, you'll be
greeted with a cold one and a smoke, and a loaded
rifle too.

Some of you may know me. My most enjoyable pastime
is sitting with all you chaps at the dinner table and
talking over theories, concepts, insights, and good
honest tales of raping and killing.

None of yer wives or children should ever come near
me. My kind of evil genius really pisses off dummer
cunts, but evokes uncontrollable laughter and sexual
excitement in educated gals. I really like rubbing
salt into non-healing wounds of ignorance, and
infection.

Since we'll never again sit together at a physical
table to bullshit, drink, and talk man shit, I've
recruited all of you to sit here with us, a forum that
forgives and understands male behavior, hence the sign
at the door, no cunts allowed.

Ya best not let any of yer wives read my shit.
They'll cut yer dick off, if they haven't already.

Octuck, Westlake, Columbo, Larson, Callahan, Roger
Potter, Cully, are all current members at this table.
We'd be honored if the rest of ya would grab a brew
from the fridge and pull up a chair.

Sitting for hours and listening to your own troubled
tales of healing and growing are what we're dying to
hear. Cuz the sad truth, we're all a little bit lonely
for the company we used to have over a hunnert years ago.

If I drag you back in time say T (current time) minus
2 fucking decades or so, we'll see a crowd of men
sitting around a table chatting about 318 V-8's, mixer
boards, Gibson guitars, and what Karl's got under a
stadium lamp. The address ain't relevant (5708 180th
Lynnwood) but the company is.

Most those boys are dead now. I sure miss their jokes
and stories, yours too.

We're all still sitting at the table, waiting for the
rest of you to hurry up and grow yer kids, then come
back and tell us about it. We've already shared our
tales of teaching our kids, we want to hear yours too.

On my last mission to the Barrow Senior Center, I sat
and chatted with some nameless old gals about my
muktuk missions to Kotzebue and how these bags of
giant sheefish are paybacks in return.

Those old gals are smart, yet obsolete, they know what
I'm doing.

I told these old gals about shooting near the barge
north of Tent City, checking net and finding over 50
big salmon at Danny Burnor's party shack at Kivilina
Camp, and drinking in public houses all over
Scandinavia.

Not a peep, and completely fixed focus on each and
every syllable describing you lot. I sat and shared
all of you lads with all of those old gals, and they
thoroughly enjoyed your company.

After telling these old Eskimo gals about broadying
around 7-lakes, blowing up lockers at the Lynnwood
YMCA, and shooting stray dogs out of 6Killer's kitchen
window with a fully suppressed machine pistol, I had
myself surrounded by a fully attended dining table, in
the card room of an old folks home for dying
Siberians.

Ya see, these old gals are also as smart as me. They
understand men like y'all and love hearing from ye.
God bless 'em.

The best friends a lonesome man can have is elder
Eskimo women. They smoke at my pace, and fondly
remember you soldiers if I remind them of when you
were alive and kicking.

I don't know. Maybe that's what heaven is. A bunch
of kind old men drinking, talking and learning without
resentful dependants nearby, thus why men die before
their wives; they want to.

You see empty chairs at yer table. Not me, just long
lost partners in crime wishing we could hear their
stories.

The next time yer kids and dumber wives are bitching
about family life, or bitching just to bitch, I want
you to set them straight.

Slam the dinner table loudly, just to startle them.
Then explain how much you had to give up to be the
best dads in the fucking world.

I ain't kidding. They need to know now, not after
I've pitched dirt on yer face and whizzed good bourbon
on yer grave.

Right as the crescendo of mommy and brat whining
elevates beyond the hearing capabilities of mammals
swinging dick meat and heavy ball bags, punch the
dinner table and scare 'em shitless.

Then proceed to list the inventory of masculine deeds
that you've put on hold, but for only a few years
more.

Remember life begins AFTER the fucking kids die, and
the goddamned dog moves out. Or some shit like that.

Look them in the eye and remind them how easy it is to
kill an entire family. Especially if you call yer buddies
Dean and Karl to fly in and bag them up and torch 'em.

Fear from an upset father yields weeks of love and
affection. Devotion by fear of death...sounds a bit
old Testament don't it?

It ain't. I'm repeating advice I got from my sweet
golden Eskimo girls at the Barrow Senior Center.

These old gals told me that I'm a servant to my wife,
and likewise she is to me. That's what's meant by
devotion to family.

Since all our children will eventually leave us, I was
advised to marry my best friend, cuz that's all we'll
have for company later in life.

One really ancient gal told me that a man's peer group
will shrink from his youthful pals to just his wife.
Whereas our wives’ peer group will expand as she ages.


Motto: try to keep in touch with fellow soldiers,
cops, and criminals as long as possible. If any of
you fly up to party with me, I'm supposed to bring you
to the Senior Center so they all can meet you.

They already know who you've raped and killed, and
they adore you anyway.

They agreed that the skanky bitches you spooged and
strangled had it coming and busted a gut at the bimbo
trap door all men oughta install in their bachelor pads,
instead of marrying rude bitches.

Even dying Siberians know when a whiny bitch is asking
for an axe handle, and so does the Mrs.

I like advice from murderous old Eskimo women. If you
listen carefully, you'll discover they're nothing like
your wives.

They're an awful lot like us.

When it was time for me to leave I detected a few
tears and heartbreak, mine.

As I stepped out into the cold and started walking
back home, I felt really crappy because my stories of
you lot will die shortly with them.

Something really good just happened back there.

And it's all my fault.


Karl.

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