Sunday, May 15, 2005

Irish Calories + Mud, Bugs, and Drugs = Crooked Man & Bent Bike

Top of the morning gents,

You remember the concept of GIGO, garbage in-garbage out. Since my output is this stuff, shit for brains; literal and abundant crap, imagine what my inputs must be. If we examined the cluster fuck varieties of subsistence food I shove down my pie hole, you’d understand why they call me “Stink Man.”

I start my day with strong coffee; cream and sugar. Meaning I take my morning constitution tough with any kind of village red can coffee I can get my angry dick skinning hands on, lots of powdered or boxed milk like Gossner’s nuclear fallout boxed liquid milk I never have to refrigerate, and sugar, honey or molasses of any color.

Arctic Coast Trading Post scrapes my large intestines with a fork and charges me cruel and unusual prices approximately 5 times what y’all pay down south in yonder Washington Territory (state and DC). Despite regressing back again to my rural chimpanzee days and devolving back in time and latitude into this stinky arctic monkey fucker, I’m still worth it. Fuck ye.

Here at the native senior center we got 2 choices; dope or diapers. Good coffee is cheaper’n dope.

I chose to return to this blessed FAZ (fetal alcohol zone) out here at the end of the Arctic Slope. It was a voluntary decision to trade inevitable incarceration in Scandinavia for banishment to rural Alaska. Ain’t nobody’s fault but mine. I always expected an isolated existence on a penile colony where I'm free to rape the willing and kill the dead. Amen.

Life is hell. Without suffering, we lack consciousness.

Hard living is good living. Don’t believe me? Let me cite one of my own quotes that got aired on a television show set in Alaska.

“One must be from time to time in its pain alone. As Karl Ewing says: ‘Without pain one cannot develop consciousness.’ Let us become conscious, Goodnight Cicely.” (Northern Exposure)

We may possess remarkably complex CPU’s; our brains, but yer central nervous systems from yer brain stem to yer dick ain’t out of the woods just yet. Binary, reptilian, and Precambrian; pain and pleasure. Hence despite our aboriginal six senses, our dual indulgences and excesses in both directions, like drunken retards bitching cuz we get ungodly hangovers and really sore dicks.

It ain’t yer fault, we still possess anthropological archetypes like Reptilian brain drug receptor sites; a reward system for accepting and adopting the amphibian and mammalian upgrades. Are you still with me?

Black eye or a blowjob; you’ll still get hard nipples regardless; ain’t no greener pastures and we’re all just about as happy as we’ve decided we’re gonna be. Fuck all.

My batch of brined and dried caribou jerky I killed here north of 70 lat is pert near done. The drying completes in phases according to turd size and turd thickness, so I bagged all the smaller crispy bits and pitched ‘em in the freezer.

I ought not play with such caustic foods cuz my fingers are roached to hell, dry and stinging from handling trays of dangerously spicy chunks of tunnik punniktuk that look an awful lot like dog do. The Mrs. griped that my stump gropers were scratchy and cracked; not sexy.

I can’t bitch. I paid dearly to arrive here north of 70 lat. Rejoicing hardship and suffering takes remarkable finesse within an extraordinarily narrow context of understanding, else my lectures would irritate your uterus and your attitude; nonsense.

Since last night, Friday May 13, 2005 is actually hour 30 of 4 months with no sunset, my high-speed whiskey fueled bike ride last night required eye protection in the form of thick French Vuarnet sunglasses. No shit. 3-20 feet of rotting snow and ice reflecting ozone free sunrays directly into yer baked eyes will certainly fuck yer shit up and punch yer lights out. Snow blindness always feels like bright sand, ain’t no dark escape.

Matter of fact, snow blindness is always bright and painful, eyes open or closed, drunk or sober.

Last night, me and Mrs. rallied our bikes all over hell and back and took pictures of family and friends cutting up fresh killed and bleeding whale grubbage slabs. Sort of like Christmas, we decorate our arctic grottos with bright red blood. Eskimos fucking invented the tradition of the red carpet treatment. I’m lying, credit goes to Nordic tribes.

Sharing is cultural, so I shared dangerous levels of cheap whiskey in the RV (random victim) method. We raced through fresh mud and snow, visited with Siberian folks and made ‘em chug shitty booze with me. With fiends like me, you’ll certainly need an enema. Fuck all.

I was strapped with more plastic torpedoes (fifths) than a sand nigger homo-cide bomber. Bombs and liquor work much the same. The wreckage we leave behind us is directly proportional to the amount of Irish calories we forced down their throats and penis holsters.

You can tell if I partied in yer house; yer dog is pregnant, there’s a spoon in yer toilet, and yer whole family needs diapers for a fucking week. Unlike vampires, Vikings don’t need permission to enter your domicile, or your loved one’s body cavities. Count yer blessings I chose to exist as far North as I could. I could’ve chosen to live in your happy fucking town down yonder south of 60.

An evening of hard drinking and hard mountain bike riding along the beaches of the Arctic Ocean does a soul some good. It also gives a rapist a goddamn appetite.

Against smart advice to eat a good meal before you head out on the town for drinks, I figured the Mrs. and I could afford to skip a meal. Ever piss on an electric fence or put your finger in an electric socket? If I richen my twin SU carbs and burn at an operating air/fuel ratio beyond 14.7 to 1, nitro methane will leave considerable upper cylinder fouling and at high rpm’s can scuff your cylinders walls.

This morning I awoke on the wrong end of the North American Continent in my own bed with minimal skull clamps, zero bitter spit in my beard, nor food in my sinuses. Bonus dudes, us heroes of a thousand faces never die, he’s just smelling foul, bruised and muddier’n shit.

Jesus fuck I’m a hurting unit. You should see my kitchen this morning. Goddamn native crap all over. Someone ate an entire box of Sailor Boy Pilot Crackers, a whole tub of rancid soft spread and seal oil, two tins of smoked salmon, and chugged down 4 boxes of Gossner’s boxed village milk. I even got some hacked up reindeer bones in my trash, scattered vitamins all over the floor, and someone totally trashed my mountain bike.

Head injuries and multiple personality disorder clusters may be similar to amnesia clusters, largely caused by the abuse of my liver, my mountain bike, and an entire Eskimo village; inducing far too much blood into our alcohol systems causing the appearance of so many baked Alaskan frontiersmen with chinked eyes and special children.

I think I’m turning Japanese. The guy in the mirror used to be well groomed and handsome, not an unkempt bruised and sun burned pale alien with a dumb wool hat, dumb rubber boots and a broken mountain bike.

Go ahead, I dare ya. Just try arresting me for a DWO (driving while oriental), rallying and jumping my bike whilst burning excessive amounts of ethane ain’t a crime, it’s meta-physical graffiti. Both the Mrs. and I have wiped out and used our faces and hands for brakes. Fuck, we’ve bit it numerous times. Pain is the rush of life.

You uniformed felons haven’t sniffed me in a while. With my foul mouth I can stink up a patrol car in mere seconds; it's my nature; poor hygiene and poor diet too.

Rotsa ruck, I now look and smell like those mystical people you see at the bus stops repeatedly yelling, “Hey dad, I’m in jail.” “I like it in jail.” “Hey dad, I’m in jail.”

Speaking of ‘mystical people’ and my dismal rural appearance, Franky Empfield frequently chimed affection for his best friends with kind words like, “You might be stupid, but yer still ugly.”

While chewing on his warts, Arneson gesticulated in concurrence, “Touch me I’m sick, the impetigo on my dick ain’t contagious, it gives me traction in the bucket.”

Their favorite redneck truck stop song had a retarded chorus, “You get on my nerves, you fuckin’ dick.”

No worries mates, I never knew any such characters after my last stroke, or most recent head injury.

As per the concerns of my Siberian Mrs. and some little kid named Red whom I seem to recall from pert near 40 year old photo archives, even if I do eventually go completely native, I’ll continue to de-compose amusing crap at a mad rate.

Subsistence grubs and poisons in, complex and stupid shit out.

Shit fer yer brain, and in yer eye.

Cheers mates. I smell like I wiped out in a garbage dump, swam in Unnuk Lake and my helmet is smashed. Who the hell is gonna pay for the repairs to my bike?

I need some fucking aspirin.


Karl.

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