Everybody is a dumbass when they're stoned or drunk: even Quncy and the piglets.

Top of the morning gents,

Not sure where to start.

On one hand we got an ME that croaked her own life
support system for her cunt with a hot shot syringe
load full of cocaine. Undoubtably from melting her cat
piss in a plastic spoon, cuz the combustible
byproducts of polypropelene are most likely non-toxic.

This junky bitch ain't all that fucked up, she only
injects in one eye, not both: one labia not stereo,
hence only one fat lip. The extreme measures an addict
will go to conceal their needlepoint craftwerks and
HerpHepAIDS scab-ass artistry.

On the other hand, we got a drunk monkey fucker
employed as a policeman, arrested for DWI (driving
while inupiaq).

Matt Owens really got under my skin. The mistrial lit
my fuse and hearing about him prowling the slug trail
back alleys of Nome hunting for skanky Eskimo Pie
while out on bail, absolutely pissed me off.

Just like a couple of child gomers that were
terminated down in Bellingham, I think it's time for
SixKiller to snuff a few more child maggots, butt
bandits, and pustules in uniform.

Jesus fuck.

When I heard the news of a State Medical
Investigator's mysterious death, I immediately thought
of that maggot fuck that was stealing cocaine outa
evidence lockers replacing his needle erotic product
theft with laxatives, sugars, and foot powder.

Mere seconds later my mind was flooded with Bethel
city cops chewing and licking, gulping and burping
sperm offa each other like cum guzzling gutter sluts
wearing police uniforms and Bethel muni-badges.

Some squadroom meetings are best skipped, especially
those meetings when Capt. Wallace rags our shit up and
down and Chief Nolton bitch slaps our pussy mugs with
supervisory criticisms and red dome weather reports
rife with spit and bad breath as illustrative tools of
anger.

I sat in the back of the squadroom, next to Garroutte
and Squish, stunned in amazement that my supervisors
thought we needed a lecture discouraging us from
sexually abusing each other with our dentures and
saliva, and poop stained collapsible oosiks.

Wow.

Guess some rural Alaskans never learn that some
cop-to-cop behaviors were as wrong as two boys
fucking.

Joe looked nervous, Squish looked at the floor
embarrassed, and Waller was so pissed, he looked fit
to be tied.

Lorin Downing just sat there with his brown teeth just
grinning, like he knew we were naive to the finer
aspects of burping sperm, nobbing on the job, and
spooging in the rectums of bearded midget women.
Downing is a piece of work: the kind of faggot that
steps outa his shower to take a piss.

Odd lectures. Guess ya learn something new everyday.

I'd rather listen to Mack explain the pleasures of
'the pearl necklace', than listen to Wallace scold me
not to hump fellow men in uniform.

I had a numbing hangover to insulate me: this was all
a bad dream and it will all be gone as soon as I jerk
off and go back to sleep.

I wouldn't have considered this form of workplace
recreation had he not painted such a sloppy and
dripping detailed portrait for us.

No worries mates, I'm still queazy from Mack's
metaphoric rendition of how gook whores tease GI's:
they'll service ye, both Front and Rear. Mack also
enlightened me why yer ball bag is best described as
mudflaps: with all that prostitution business of
inserting and removing pearl necklaces going on behind
yer back.

Alaska is the Frontier State, where Alaska Piece
Officers will do ya: "front and rear."

Read onward Christian soldiers, just don't put it in
boys. Or Linda Kramer, unless yer gang banging and
double teaming side-by-side with Jake Rogers, or
eating 4-hour-old sloppy seconds behind Tom Peters.

Damn I'm nasty.

Birds of feather fuck together, just not on duty or in
uniform.

Karl.

---

Aug 30, 8:32 PM EDT

Police officer charged with drunken driving, weapons
misconduct

KETCHIKAN, Alaska (AP) -- A Ketchikan police officer
has been placed on administrative leave after he was
arrested and charged with driving under the influence
of alcohol and fourth-degree weapons misconduct while
off duty.

Jonathan Clouse, who was recently promoted to
detective, was arrested Friday after he backed his
pickup truck against a rock flower island on the South
Tongass Highway, blocking southbound traffic.

Clouse, 34, smelled of alcohol and appeared
intoxicated when he was approached by Alaska State
Trooper Mark Finses after he pulled into a nearby
driveway, according to a complaint filed in Ketchikan
District Court.

"He could not stand without bracing himself on the bed
of his pickup," Finses wrote in the complaint. "After
I told Clouse I was going to conduct this
investigation, Clouse stated that he had a gun and he
could kill me right now, but he wanted to give it to
me."

Finses told Clouse to leave the gun in his pocket, but
Clouse reached for it, the trooper wrote.

"I removed the gun from his hand and secured the 9mm
Kobrbaugh in my vehicle," Finses wrote.

The gun had a full magazine and one round in the
chamber, according to the trooper.

Clouse told Finses that he had consumed three beers at
a downtown bar in the previous two hours, according to
the complaint.

Clouse failed portions of a field sobriety test and
refused to complete part of it, Finses wrote. Clouse
was arrested and taken to troopers headquarters where
he took a breath test, which registered a
breath-alcohol concentration of .327, or slightly more
than four times the legal limit of .08.

Henry Keene, Clouse's attorney, entered a plea of
innocent to both charges for his client at an
arraignment hearing Monday before Ketchikan District
Court Judge Kevin Miller. The judge set an Oct. 14
jury trial and ordered Clouse to turn over any guns he
possesses to troopers.

Clouse joined the Ketchikan Police Department from the
San Bernardino, Calif., Police Department in March
2004. His probationary period is still in effect, said
Ketchikan Public Safety director Rich Leipfert.

---

Aug 30, 8:00 PM EDT

Autopsy: Medical examiner worker died after injecting
cocaine

ANCHORAGE, Alaska (AP) -- An autopsy found that a
medical examiner worker died after injecting herself
with cocaine.

Jessica Walker, 29, was found dead July 6 in the
garage of the state medical examiner's office.

The death is considered an accident, Anchorage police
said.

The autopsy performed by the Oregon State Police
medical examiner's office found the cause of death to
be "toxic effects of cocaine." Since Walker worked for
the Alaska state medical examiner, the office's Oregon
counterpart did the autopsy to ensure the
investigation's independence, police said.

Franc Fallico, Alaska's chief medical examiner, said
he asked for the autopsy to be kept "at arm's length"
from his office.

Walker worked her regular day shift that week and also
was on call through the night in case of emergencies.
The night of her death, she was called to pick up
bodies recovered from a plane crash and bring them to
the Medical Examiner's Office, according to police
Capt. Ross Plummer.

Walker did her work but at some point must have
injected herself with cocaine, Plummer said. It
appeared she was alone at the office, he said. She was
found by co-workers early the next morning.

Police don't know where she obtained the cocaine and
are not releasing information on how much was found in
her system, Plummer said.

Walker had a good reputation at work, where she was an
embalmer and autopsy assistant, Fallico said.

Our Alternatives To Oil Are Zero

Argumentative Lecture Against Green Alternative Fuel Sources

“Our Alternatives to Oil are Almost Nil”

It is foolish and wasteful to assume solar, bio-fuels, shale oil, and coal can ever replace the 3000% return oil pays back on energy invested.

EROEI = energy returned on energy invested.

Oil's EROEI is 30. Nothing even comes close to such a transportable and powerful little volume of energy in every gallon of petrol.

Few people realize how much energy is concentrated in even a small amount of oil or gas. A barrel of oil contains the energy-equivalent of almost 25,000 hours of human labor. A single gallon of gasoline contains the energy-equivalent of 500 hours of human labor. You try to push a 3-ton SUV one mile in one minute.

Solar Power

Solar power is incapable of meeting our urgent need for a new energy source that - like oil - is dense, affordable, and transportable.

For instance, it would take 4 Manhattan size city blocks of solar equipment to produce the amount of energy distributed by a single gas station in one day.

On a similar note, it would take close to 220,000 square miles of solar panels to power the global economy via solar power. You pick the country, we’ll be happy to level it entirely for solar power.

Wind Power

Wind is better than solar, but the essential problem - a lack of energy density - is still present. To illustrate, it takes all of California's 13,000 wind turbines to generate as much electricity as a single 555-megawatt natural gas fired power plant.

Hydrogen by Electrolysis

Unfortunately, solar and wind cannot be used as industrial-scale transportation fuels unless they are used to crack hydrogen from water via electrolysis. The electrolysis process is a simple one, but unfortunately it consumes 1.3 units of energy for every 1 unit of energy it produces. In other words, it results in a net loss of energy.

Wake up folks, you can't replace oil - which has a positive EROEI of about 30 - with alternative energy sources that all actually carry a negative EROEI.

Wave and Geothermal Power

While other alternative energy sources, such as wave and geothermal power, are fantastic sources of energy in and of themselves, they are incapable of replacing more than a fraction of our petroleum usage for the same reasons as solar and wind: they are nowhere near as energy dense as petroleum and they are inappropriate as transportation fuels.

Also, they are also limited by geography - wave power is only technically viable in coastal locations.

Only a handful of nations, such as Iceland, have access to enough geothermal power to make up for much of their petroleum consumption.

Hydrogen Fuel Cell Power

Hydrogen fuels cells aren't the answer either.

As of 2003, the average fuel cell costs close to $1,000,000. Unlike other alternatives, hydrogen fuel cells have shown little sign of coming down in price.

Even if the cost is lowered by 98%, placing the price at $20,000 per cell, hydrogen fuel cells will never power more than a handful of cars due to a worldwide shortage of platinum:

To further discredit those proclaiming Hydrogen will save us all and power our huge automobiles, we still lose from the get-go. If the hydrogen economy were anything other than a total red herring, such issues would eventually arise, as 80 percent of the world’s proven platinum reserves are located in that bastion of geopolitical stability, South Africa.

As mentioned previously, solar, wind, or nuclear energy can be used to "crack" hydrogen from water via a process known as electrolysis. The electrolysis process is a simple one, but unfortunately it consumes more energy than it produces, yielding again, another negative EROEI vs. Oil's positive return of 30:1.

Nuclear Power

Nukes may only serve as a temporary substitute.

Nuclear energy requires uranium - of which the US has enough to power existing reactors for 25-40 years. As with oil, the extraction of uranium follows a bell-curve. If a large-scale nuclear program was undertaken the supply of US domestically derived uranium would likely peak in under 15 years.

Even if such a program is undertaken, there is no guarantee the energy generated from nuclear sources would be any cheaper than energy generated from fossil fuels. Attempts by China and India to scale up their use of nuclear energy, for instance, have already caused uranium prices to skyrocket.

In regards to Bio-fuels, we lose again. Ethanol alcohol from agricultural endeavors requires massive amounts of petrochemicals; fertilizer, pesticides, and process machinery.

Bio-fuels such as Bio-diesel, ethanol, methanol etc. are great, but only in small doses. Bio-fuels are all grown with massive fossil fuel inputs (pesticides and fertilizers) and suffer from horribly low, sometimes negative, EROEI’s. The production of ethanol, for instance, requires six units of energy to produce just one. That means it consumes more energy than it produces and thus will only serve to compound our energy deficit.

In addition, there is the problem of where to grow the stuff, as we are rapidly running out of arable land on which to grow food, let alone fuel. This is no small problem as the amount of land it takes to grow even a small amount of bio-fuel is quite staggering. As journalist Lee Dye points out in a July 2004 article entitled "Old Policies Make Shift From Foreign Oil Tough:"

"Relying on corn for our future energy needs would devastate the nation's food production. It takes 11 acres to grow enough corn to fuel one automobile with ethanol for 10,000 miles, or about a year's driving.

According to industry analyst Pimentel “That's the amount of land needed to feed seven persons for the same period of time.”

“If we decided to power all of our automobiles with ethanol, we would need to cover 97 percent of our land with corn, he adds. “

Bio-diesel is considerably better than ethanol and offers the most potential as a petroleum substitute, but still only has an EROEI of 3 and doesn't compare to oil that has had an EROEI of about 30.

We've heard news of converting our landfills into power plants.

Thermal de-polymerization is an intriguing solution to our landfill problems, but since most of the feedstock (such as tires and turkey guts) requires high-grade oil to make in the first place, it is more "high-tech recycling" than it is a solution to a permanent oil shortage.

While the following analogy is certainly a bit disgusting, it should clearly illustrate why thermal de-polymerization won't do much to soften the coming collapse:

"Expecting thermal de-polymerization to help solve our long-term energy problems makes as much sense as expecting the consumption of our own feces to help solve a long-term famine."

In both cases, the energy-starved party is simply recycling a small portion of the energy they had previously consumed.

First, there is the problem of the technology's net energy - or more accurately, lack thereof. According to the company itself, the process has an efficiency of 85%. This means 100 units of energy go in, 85 come out. That's a negative EROEI of .85. You can't hope to replace or even supplement traditional oil's positive EROEI of 30 (or more) with a process that carries a negative EROEI.

Then there is the problem of production costs. According to a recent article in Fortune Magazine, a barrel of oil produced via the thermal de-polymerization process costs $80 to produce as of January 2005.

To put that figure in perspective, consider the fact that oil pulled out of the ground in Saudi Arabia costs less than $2.50 per barrel, while oil pulled out of the ground in Iraq costs only $1.00 per barrel.

(Close with quote from Cheney)

“None of the alternatives offer even 1/10th the energy we derive out of oil.”


End Lecture


Questions and Answers

Oil Politics and America's Eventual World Domination

Lecture on World Oil Production Decline and America’s Brilliant Tactic to Secure These Petroleum Reserves Through Diplomacy and Warfare.


A secret meeting between America’s energy company executives and Vice President Dick Cheney has been the stuff of speculation and sinister conspiracy theorists in the press. If any of these poorly educated press writers ever passed a physics, geology, or resource economics class, they’d already know what was discussed in these secret meetings, and why.

I remember a term from 2 of my professors. Both my physics professor Dr. Price and my anthropology professor Dr. Tarrant coined a term from the field of resource economics called “Peak Oil.”

This theory of peak production has exhibited itself frequently over the past few centuries. We saw how Britain’s coal mining first exceeded, then met their industrial needs, eventually declining and falling away. This same production curve was proven with their own domestic oil production. The extraction yields always follow a bell curve with domestic demand always increasing and exceeding it’s proven resources.


This bell yield curve above applies to all scarce resources, including oil.

As you can see, our proven reserve has declined since peaking in 50’s and 60’s indicating a notable decline in world oil production, yet we see an ever increasing demand for oil far exceeding all known reserves.

The most drastic increase in world demand started when America outsourced its industrial base to China in order to capture savings on part of the business equation; labor and capital. Labor costs in Asia have provided us consumer savings at any of your local Wal-Marts, but also have predictably lowered our own wages.

China is now the new big dog on the industrial block.

As our world oil reserves taper off and our world oil demand steadily increases we will meet a point in our graph where demand will outpace supply.

In late 1999, Dick Cheney stated:

“By some estimates, there will be an average of two-percent annual growth in global oil demand over the years ahead, along with, conservatively, a three-percent natural decline in production from existing reserves. That means by 2010 we will need on the order of an additional 50 million barrels a day.”

A report commissioned by Cheney and released in April 2001 was no less disturbing:

“The most significant difference between now and a decade ago is the extraordinarily rapid erosion of spare capacities at critical segments of energy chains. Today, shortfalls appear to be endemic. Among the most extraordinary of these losses of spare capacity is in the oil arena.”

If oil demand outpaces oil production by a mere 5%, you’ll see oil prices increase by 400%.

This is proven in recent history. Since the year 2000, oil demand exceeded oil production by only 2.5% and we all have witnessed market oil prices increase by 200%. When oil is $25 per barrel, you get gasoline prices around $1.25 gallon. When oil hit $50 per barrel you paid $2.50 per gallon.

Resource economics isn’t an impossible science to comprehend. Just watch the markets and compare it to human behavior.

We’ll never see $50 barrel oil ever again.

The era of cheap oil is passing. Our economy is based and developed on the theory of cheap oil and the US government has been aware of Peak Oil since at least 1977 and has been actively planning for this crisis for over 30 years.

Three decades of careful, plotting analysis has yielded a comprehensive, sophisticated, and multi-faceted plan in which military force will be used to secure and control the globe's energy resources. This plan is simplistically, but not altogether inaccurately - known as "Go to War to Get Oil."

This strategy was publicly announced in April 2001, when a report commissioned by Dick Cheney was released. According to the report, entitled Strategic Energy Policy Challenges For The 21st Century, the US is facing the biggest energy crisis in history and that the crisis requires "a reassessment of the role of energy in American foreign policy."

That's a diplomatic way of saying we are going to be fighting oil wars for a very long time.

James Woolsey, the former Director of the CIA, practically admitted as much at a recent conference on renewable energy:

“I fear we're going to be at war for decades, not years . . . Ultimately we will win it, but one major component of that war is oil.”

The war in Iraq, which has been 23 years in the making, is just the beginning of a worldwide war that "will not end in our lifetime." The reason our leaders from both parties politic are telling us the "war on terror will last 50 years" and that the US engagement in the Middle East is now a "generational commitment" is two-fold:

1. All the countries accused of harboring terrorists - Iraq, Iran, Syria, West Africa, and Saudi Arabia - also happen to harbor large oil reserves.

2. Within 40-50 years, even these countries will see their oil reserves almost entirely depleted. At that point, the "war on terror" will come to an end.

While the Middle East countries find themselves targets in the "war on terror", China, Russia, and Latin America find themselves targets in the recently declared and much more expansive "war on tyranny."

Whereas the "war on terror" is really a war for control of the world's oil reserves, this newly declared "war on tyranny" is really a war for control of the world's oil distribution and transportation chokepoints.

China and Russia have taken notice of these declarations and seem to be making preparations to defend themselves. Both China and Russia firmly believe we ‘stole’ Iraq’s oil potential out from underneath them. Hence the controversy over America cloaking our acquisition of cheap oil, veiled in our war on terror, followed with our war on tyranny.

China has also strengthened its ties to oil-rich Venezuela while engaging in an undeclared oil-war with long time rival and US ally Japan. China and Russia have already started colonizing the Sudan in a covert attempt to steal oil reserves we’ve already dubbed as ours.

This type of large-scale, long-term warfare will likely require a massive expansion of the military draft. It's probably not a coincidence that the director of the Selective Service recently gave a presentation to Congress in which he recommended the military draft be extended to both genders, ages 18-35.

The strategy - as distasteful as it may be - is characterized by a Machiavellian logic. Given the thermodynamic deficiencies of the alternatives to oil, the complexity of a large scale switch to these new sources of energy, and the wrenching economic and social effects of a declining energy supply, you can see why our leaders view force as the only viable way to deal with the coming crisis.

Of course, the US is not the only nation that needs affordable oil. Not by a long shot. France, Germany, Russia, and China all need it also. While these countries may not be able or willing to directly confront the US on the battlefield, they are more than willing to attack the US financially. The US may have the world's most deadly cluster bombs, but the EU has the world's most valuable currency, and intends to wield it as a strategic economic weapon to offset US firepower.

Ain’t no secrets in our government, just economic concepts beyond the grasp of our electorate constituencies.

Or put more simply, “the strength of a government lies directly in the ignorance of its voters.”

We all love big cars and trucks with V-8 motors, and our Presidents know this. I expect he and his cabinet will do a fine job keeping us Americans fat and happy with our huge cunts behind the wheel, and our numb skulls buried in Saudi sand.

It costs us $10 to pull a barrel out of Alaska. It only costs $1.00 to pull a barrel out of Iraq, and Iran etc.

The age of cheap oil is over, unless we get our hands on the proven reserves throughout the Middle East and Central Asia.

We ain’t fighting terrorists or tyrannical Muslim dictatorships. Our government is doing its job exceptionally well and acquiring the resources needed to continue living far beyond the living standards of the remaining 6 billion hungry people on this planet.

It’s either the US or China. Chinks don’t deserve to run the world.

We’re Americans, we’re worth it.

Calling all fuck-ups, losers, and child gomers: Come to Alaska, you'll blend in with all of us just fine.

Top of the morning gents,

The ass-fuck that killed his girlfriend right near Logan's driveway on Chena Hot springs Road passed away from chewing too many birth control pills and rusty crunchy tampons.

Remember that poop dick?

This was the guy that chopped up his girlfriend with an axe, then overdosed his shredded faggot ass with psycho whack job anti-homo anti-child gomer medications.

Bet you didn't know that there are medicines to cure sick fecus ejaculator baby pluggers did you?

There ain't. They just flee their hometowns and rapist parents, only to arrive here in rural Alaska.

Just like all of us.

The chinks and mongoloids chased the ice niggers off the Asian continent; dumping them on a backward developing penal colony we fondly call Alaska. Alaska is the last frontier and the final resting place for the refuse and dregs not clean enough to live outside.

Takes one to know one: and I'm looking around at each and every one of ye.

Yup, the world's worst killers and rapists; that's us, and damn proud of it.

Thinking of all of our collective criminal histories paints a grotesque picture of decently endowed and moderately intelligent artful dodgers. Birds of feather fuck together.

That's our lot in life mates. The uniforms and feigned illusion of municipal and musical talent still don't conceal the viciousness and cruelty we all possess.

What? Do you think anomalous cruelty like the miserable Heeb Inquisition yielding a lynched hippy from Nazareth and it's subsequent National Socialist Party (NAZI) are veins of condensed shit-headedness that only occur on yonder continent?

Everything good and evil is contained within all of us. If ye dispute this, raise yer hand and drop yer shorts. Then, without smirking, chuckling or busting a gut, declare to all of us ye ain't never raped a human being, dog or cat.

Fuck me in the goat ass. 'Struth mates: yer dick will shrink, yer nose will grow, and yer anes will astart aflexin'. Another liar's giveaway is displayed by yer chewing on yer warts like Mark Arneson, cracking yer knuckles like yours truly, or grimacing like the Sgt.

Yer existence here in Alaska is as correct and karmic as an Indun in a dumpster.

Why in fucking hell would y'all be so entertained with my 'fictional' tales of raping, robbing, and pitting cops against my drug-dealing competitors?

Cuz yer all peas in a pod, shot pellet turds in a lynched 'skimo, and fleeing lice in the hair of a rotting half a gas can. We're all living dead, cynically correct public safety scabs, raped yet not frozen.

Aside from highly illiterate African slime tribes, mirrors are also deadly scary for all of us mates.

Y'all wouldn't look so fucking awful if ye had the nads to look honestly in the mirror, clean yer smoky teeth and scrape the corpse crust from yer fangs and nails.

Wesley Allan Dodd can kiss my fucking ass and Ted Bundy is a pussy. The Green River Killer did more to educate mankind how a true mass murderer thinks by his descriptions of returning to his kills, snuggling and humping his corpses, and cutting trophies to sniff and lick later.

The reason my language is so familiar is I speak to the many reincarnated murderers that roam the world forever inside the stinking bloated bodies you guys call stud muffin bate.

Again: look deep in the mirror, then explain to all of us why you are perfectly happy and content to live in our blessed FAZ. It's ain't cuz you Can't Understand Normal Thinking (cunt), it's cuz ye do.

Analogous to your author on drugs, it takes one to catch one. The uniform merely indicates yer level of self-awareness is at such a high degree, you're now charged with the duties of protecting innocent children from assholes just like all of us in previous life forms.

You chaps are an honorable lot. You haven't forgotten how recent humans endeavored to evolve above African monkey fucking.

Some truly significant things had to occur before I could read and write to all of you rapists, murders, and cannibals.

My hair slowly fell away leaving seeping pores.

These pores, vacant from vacating hair follicles, began cooling and chilling me from the trace amounts of water, salt and waste products emitting from these millions of micro-pores.

This newly damp and constantly drying skin cooled me so much I could eventually cease my panting like a fucking dog, soon to be a habitually bipedal dog.

Once this lethal hominid stopped panting, I also discovered that chewing my cudd was disgusting and stinky, so I quit.

This left my mouth, trachea, and barking vocal chords free to rant, rave, mumble and chuckle at you sons of fucks that looked like balding noisy rats.

Losing my hair and cooling sans panting just outside of the Olduvai Gorge triggered a drastic increase in my language capabilities allowing me to yell at y'all to hurry up and flee that stinky nigger infested continent and boogie up north to snack some blond pussy.

Pert near a million fucking years later, I'm now insulting all of you killers with ancient truths not forgotten nor appreciated.

If there is a God, she's an Eskimo woman. Ice nigger moms always spoil their boys and bitch slap their daughters. Hence: the non-patriarchal, albeit matriarchal curse of menstruation, child squatting menopause, and living so fucking long.

Plus, She cursed all women with mitochondria cells that contain prehistoric strands of DNA providing my smarter doctor brothers with a road map all the way back to when my gasping and panting mouth was no longer needed for body cooling, thermal self-regulation and ambient temperature homeostasis, and when we all lived in the same shit caked caves.

The truth will set you free. Unless yer a woman, then the mitochondrial truth will forever curse you with shrill monkey screams and tirades, office politics akin to gorilla pussy, and big huge ovaries we wished we had swinging under yer fag pole in leather pouches doubled dutying as mud flaps.

Besides, every mother and female juror will attest: never trust any bitch that can piss and moan, and bleed for a whole fucking month, yet still not die.

The reason us husbands die long before our wives? Cuz we want to leap ahead to the next life form in a failed endeavor to advance beyond our simplest bitches used by all of our native in-laws and outlaws as rape attachments, semen fodder, aboriginal virus shuttles and native infection delivery systems.

Holy cow you lads are tough. Tough enough to be my only friends, and audience. David Craig just heard my recitation of this lecture. He concurs, yer tough. But not as tough as Larry Wallace.

You can call him if you disagree @ 360-432-9067.

Salazar's ghost is standing right behind me as I'm writing. He just slapped my back with a hoot and said, "Send that fucker!"

Next lecture: Krebs cycle, ATP, and how plankton saved all life on Earth.

Karl.

---

Article Published: Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Murder suspect dies in hospital

By CHRIS TALBOTT, Staff Writer

A man authorities believe killed his girlfriend in Two Rivers died late last week after a family member authorized doctors to take him off life support.

Jessie Dail, 22, died Thursday night shortly before 9 p.m., according to an Alaska State Trooper spokesman. His death ends the investigation into the murder of Sylvia Kitajima, 28, a woman believed to be involved with Dail.

Troopers found Dail unconscious from a drug overdose outside the back of his rental cabin after his landlord reported the killing. He never regained consciousness, but investigators believe evidence at the scene clearly points to Dail.

Dail used a hatchet to kill Kitajima, AST spokesman Greg Wilkinson said. Evidence of the attack was obvious.

"He really was our primary suspect in the investigation," Wilkinson said.

Dail's landlord, Judy Cooper, found Kitajima on the afternoon of Aug. 15 when she stopped by the Kanuti Road rental property to take Dail to work.

A Fairbanks Memorial Hospital spokeswoman confirmed Dail's death but would not release the name of the family member who authorized doctors to take him off life support.

Wilkinson said troopers found empty prescription bottles at the scene that once contained prescription medicines--Goedon for schizophrenia and depression, and the anti-convulsant Depakote. Dail was being treated for mental illness.

Kitajima was last seen alive around midnight on Aug. 15 and her body was found about 16 hours later.

Cooper said Dail and Kitajima were a couple. Cooper gave him the cabin rent-free in exchange for work around her bed and breakfast and dog yard. She said he had jumped parole in Virginia and was starting a new life.

Kitajima is survived by family in Southeast, including an adolescent daughter, her friends said.

Staff writer Marmian Grimes contributed to this report. Chris Talbott can be reached at 459-7575 or ctalbott@newsminer.com .

If I owned both Alaska and Hell, I'd live in Hell and rent out Alaska.

My wife and I deal with racism from both of our respective neighborhoods. Interracial marriages have been historically discouraged from both sides of the age-old ethnocentric skin game. When we lived in the Mat-Su Valley, it was my wife's turn to endure nasty comments from some extraordinarily violent hillbillies. She learned flattering terms of endearment, such as “Clooch,” “Salmon Cruncher,” “Squaw,” and “Ice Nigger.” Sometimes it's simply hearing a redneck saying the word “Native” in a disgusting tone, like it was a dirty word. It may seem like these brain-damaged folks are just having fun with her aboriginal ancestry and skin hue, but the underlying sentiment is clear: racial chastisement is a damn good method for reinforcing moronic separations of the races.

Don't think for a second that ignorance and racism lie strictly with these white folks. My wife frequently apologizes to me for racial slurs and xenophobic quips slung from her Eskimo friends and family. Just like the aforementioned brain-damaged folks in the Mat-Su Valley, Eskimos are equally capable of repeating archaic declarations of ignorance. Won't we ever tire of hearing Natives parrot the well-worn label, “half-breed?” As far as I can tell, the last of the pureblooded natives are enjoying muktuk in the Senior Center.

On our last trip to Anchorage, we were checking into our hotel room and after all the paperwork was completed, the cheerful clerk gave me only one key. I asked for two, one for myself, and another for my wife, the good-looking Native gal next to me. At that precise moment there was a dramatic shift from cheerfulness to disapproval. “She's with you?” she asked. I answered rather curtly that she was indeed with me and asked her if there was a problem. Her reply was, “There better not be any drinking.” It may be just company policy to screen customers who are intoxicated, but to screen customers on the basis of skin color and Siberian eye structure is a reoccurring stain on the trousers of the great state of Alaska. Come on, a few highly visible drunken Natives in the streets of Anchorage and Fairbanks doesn't mean my Eskimo wife will get hammered and destroy the hotel room.

OK, maybe we should be a little more understanding and examine the job this hotel clerk performs for all of us rural Alaskans. I'll bet it's really stressful when a village customer of any color shows up for check-in thoroughly plowed. This I understand. I dread meeting my rural neighbors in Anchorage or Fairbanks because my wife and I frequently get stuck chauffeuring carloads of loud and obnoxious village neighbors with money to burn, and bellies full of beer. I enjoy drunks, when I'm drunk. When sober, it's as stressful as being the driver for a really short bus.

Heck, just last summer, our North Slope Borough Mayor was arrested in Fairbanks for driving the wrong way down a one-way street, drunk at four a.m. I'll admit it, I've the done the same thing, and on numerous occasions. Only difference is, in my case, racism serves to my benefit. My blond hair seems to camouflage my reckless behavior. We can stop the legitimization of these asinine, racist assumptions by curbing our own goddamn behaviors. My own self-indulgent urge to shove my Nordic snout into a bucket of Alaskan Amber as soon as I get in town only further contributes to our greatly exaggerated, yet lousy reputation as hard-drinking rural Alaskans.

My wife's tragic, yet typical childhood taught her the hard way that her culture has yet to genetically adapt to liquor. Therefore, in the spirit of enlightened self-interest, she abstains from drinking alcoholic beverages. Ya see, it's simple, her liver is distinctly different from mine; her liver lacks key enzymes that quickly break down Finnish white wine (vodka) into its headache-rendering components. The late Dr. Jan Shackles once told me “regardless of prohibition, a Mongolian can't change its spot.” She further lectured that my liver is a “genetic archetype” passed down from my ancestors in Scandinavia. The drunken Finn jokes sound similar to drunken Irish jokes. Take my word for it, high tolerance ain't no blessing. I expect it don't matter if yer skin or hair is colored red or blond, other cultures judge us most by a few lousy examples they see sleeping on their sidewalks and begging for change in the streets.

A coupla dozen years ago, I sat with a journalist from Remote Alaska in the bar at the Captain Cook and watched a drunken elected official lecture the whole bar why white people are responsible for all the problems in rural Alaska. I never voted for the dame, but I was sure embarrassed. Ya see, I feel personally responsible for all my rural neighbors, and she was one of them. What was painfully obvious was that the rest of the crowd was laughing at her, not with her.

I see no remedy for the hatred of other cultures, or your own. Ain't no law against simply disliking other folks, or yourself. Gated communities discriminate on the basis of wealth, universities discriminate on the basis of intelligence and academic proficiency, yet this is completely legal. I'm guilty of memorizing and repeating multitudes of stupid limericks that cast other types of folks in less than flattering ways. I cracked up my Eskimo hunting comrades by converting cruel native jokes into white trash humor. Making fun of non-Scandinavian white folks is just as criminal as my wife reciting her favorite Athabascan dumpster-diver jokes. Aunt Rachel lectured that when I point a filthy finger at an odd colored person and recite nasty slogans about their ancestry, I'd see three fingers pointing back at me. Common sense in't common.

Quoting Dr. King, a man should be “judged by the content of character and not the color of his skin.” Until we all get this through our thick heads, it looks like we're condemned to a goddamned Arctic existence that Hobbs described as “nasty, brutish, and short.” No culture is better than any other; they all seem to work just as good as the next. As Voltaire eloquently penned over 300 years ago, “no culture has a monopoly on beauty and no religion has a monopoly on truth.” In recent long distance philosophical phone debates with David Craig, I've asserted that the soul has no skin color or man made cultural attributes. He responded by simply saying “That's fascinating.” Sure, and I could've been born bright.

In remote Alaska, it's funner'n heck to abuse Asians. I didn't use the term “Orientals;” in this era of Political Retentiveness, I've been advised, only rugs can be oriental. I've also been advised from numerous Asian cab drivers, restaurateurs, and retail clerks what it's like to be a minority in rural Alaska; it's disgusting. I won't lie to you, I've enjoyed the slogans and jokes designed to insult and injure Asians. In my grandfather's time, a lynching drew a profitable crowd for street peddlers and food vendors. I'll admit it, you've likely spotted the author cheering in the audience.

When our daughter started schooling in Seattle, her math skills tested two years behind her classmates. Her teacher told me, “She should be doing far better than she is, all my other Asian students test at the top of their class.” I almost unleashed a few manifold racist ramifications, but as a kid, I was frequently slapped for having a smart mouth. I now know when to keep it shut. Ya see, my generation views teachers from an entirely different perspective. Rule 1: they hit. Rule 2: they hit really hard. Life is too short; I didn't even have the guts to inform her that my daughter is an Eskimo.

I'm of the opinion that we can counter stereotypical notions about our blessed remote communities north of 70 degrees latitude, in both Alaska and Scandinavia, by simply behaving responsibly. (What'd I say? Common sense ain't common) About a hunnert years ago, whilst driving through Pike Place Market in Seattle, our daughter pointed at some roadside indigents and sidewalk inebriates and said, “look mom, Natives.” Call me a dumb ass, but I nearly busted a gut laughing. My wife's glare and subsequent stern lecture informing Sara Magnum that she was also a “Native” and that she should be broader minded, was more appropriate for me.

I promised my wife a hunnert times I wouldn't laugh when our daughter repeats my stupid off color jokes, and that I would really mean it when I scold her. Ya see, my wife is right you know. We ain't doing Alaska any good if we let our daughter grow up parroting bigoted humor like her thickheaded father.

Like my pretty wife said, it's our own lousy behavior that reinforces the nastiest beliefs about our respective cultures.


Karl Ewing and Bessie Tikik

Barrow, Alaska. North of 70 Lat.

---

Previously published.

http://www.anchoragepress.com/archives-2004/lettersvol13ed16.shtml

Weekly Viking Holiday: FETS Day. Meaning Fuck Everything, Tomorrow's Saturday.

Top of the morning gents,

Hysteria. What a good word.

The source of so much agony can be traced to a pair of
fat and stinking grapefruits the size of ovaries.

Now you understand why so many women are dying to get
their cunts scooped out with a sharpened spoon,
otherwise known as a hysterectomy.

Hence the root of the word: Hysteria.

See how language is amusing all by itself?

Lunar cycles match lunacy cycles at 13 revolutions per
year exactly matching the full moon, menstruation.

It's bad luck to ride a moon bike 13 times a year:
you'll end up with bruised mudflaps (male bags).

If a woman wants to become a man she must first have a
hysterectomy.

To complete this transformation, she'll then require
an add-a-dick-to-me.

Fuck I'm funny.


*Old man David Craig told me to put my money where my
mouth is: in the toilet.

I'm lying. He phrased it much better.

He's keenly aware of the dismal academic potential our
browner brained scralings are cursed with.

Instead of my mad typing, angry tirades and lunatic
ravings about our 25% quota output of dullard FAS
babies in our beloved FAZ, he told me to recruit,
adopt or kidnap some native children and infuse some
of my rapid cycle rate thought patterns into them.

He's right. Instead of making fun of poop shoot
sourced aboriginal retards and drooling Inuit dunce
craps, it'd probably be more productive to take a few
alter-native colored angels and do a Spock mind-meld
on their puny craniums.

Fuck. I hate native children. The rude speech
patterns, dull humor, and mean spirited sexuality
mixed with penile and skin color akin to fecus. For
our browner raced hominids, it's impossible to detect
shit on a First Nation Mongoloid's dick.

"Adduncy put his kookoo in my unnuk!" "I want the cops
to see this!" (Annie Cyr, KPD SR: anal rape
complainant, 1995).

Fuck! Who could pork an ancient skank in the ass? Only
Kenny and Annie's shit ass progeny. Runs in the
family. Culture too.

Both Mr. Craig and my fathers (Grampa and Paps)
believe that to reciprocate the favor of sending Sara
Magnum to Seattle for over a decade for tutoring,
private schooling, and equestrian training at my
parent's indoor horse arena, I should send my own ass
to Anchoragua to adopt and "Karlise" Sara's 2 little
girls.

You know something? I can't argue with smarter older
men.

So I won't, and I will.

My dad loves the idea of me typing like a madman every
morning with 2 little Eskimo girls in high chairs
sitting right next to me.

If I do this, my pops said I will repay him for
raising my little Eskimo girl. Weird huh?

He lectured me that we owe everything and nothing to
our parents for all their work. But if I'm feeling
indebted to him for educating Sara Magnum, I'll have
to repay the favor by reproducing his works of child
rearing benevolence and take over raising Sara's 2
little angels.

As in spending my golden rears of retirement with her
two girls.

I'm set for life: free medical, dental, and vision
benefits, plus free old fogey lodging or in-home elder
care: all paid for by the State of Alaska Pension
System. AND a monthly pension check for the rest of my
life.

So, I guess I have the time, resources and ability to
spend a few decades raising two little Eskimo girls so
smart as to obfusctate all traces of their retarded
lineage.

Do see my marching orders? I'll soon be tearing down
my computer laboratory here north of 70 lat and
assembling it next to 2 little Eskimo girls in high
chairs.

I'm gonna have to do something about my shit ass
language. I'd feel mighty ashamed if I witnessed
Sara's little girls calling niggers 'natives', or
calling natives 'niggers'.

What's an elitist snob from wealthy Vikings to do?

Pass on this culture to my grand kids, of course.

Make sense?

Keep you posted.


*One of our graying gunslingers sent me a slew of
killer 'out of office' automated responses to incoming
emails when yer dumb ass is on a drunk, scrawgging
some strange, or simply out in the parking lot burning
a number and taking an attitude adjustment break.

No, don't use any of these on for your office.
Governmental public sector employees lack imagination,
sense of humor, and 3 digit IQ's.

Stay in your current jobs, the private sector expects
results.

So do millionaire Scandinavians and little Eskimo
girls.


Karl.

---

Best Out of Office Auto Replies:

1: I am currently out at a job interview and will
reply to you if I fail to get the position. Be
prepared for my mood.

2: You are receiving this automatic notification
because I am out of the office. If I was in, chances
are you wouldn't have received anything at all.

3: I will be unable to delete all the unread,
worthless mails you send me until I return from
holiday on 4 April. Please be patient and your mail
will be deleted in the order it was received.

4: Thank you for your email. Your credit card has been
charged $5.99 for the first ten words and $1.99 for
each additional word in your message.

5: The e-mail server is unable to verify your server
connection and is unable to deliver this message.
Please restart your computer and try sending
again.'(The beauty of this is that when you return,
you can see how many in-duh-viduals did this over and
over).

6: Thank you for your message, which has been added to
a queuing system. You are currently in 352nd place,
and can expect to receive a reply in approximately 19
weeks.

7: I've run away to join a different circus.

8: I will be out of the office for the next 2 weeks
for medical reasons. When I return, please refer to me
as 'Margaret Hanson' instead of 'Karl Ewing'.

*Hooah! I liked the last one so much I made changes
that you coppers would bust a gut over.

New from Ronco. Alaskan Barbie Dolls for every shitty part of Anchoragua.

Top of the morning gents,

Ever try to distinguish one dull Alaskan bimbo from
another? Tough huh?

Stand 'em on their head and they're all sisters.

This is too funny. Only a real Alaskan could have
composed this. My hat is off to the anonymous author.

Alaskan women are such cunts, despite being so easy.

Read some of the 'accessories' available, these dolls
possess unique attributes similar to the bimbos living
there.

Coming soon: An AFN doll complete with shitty drawers,
retractable teeth and rife with infection.

Available pre-frozen, drunk, and pregnant with a
similarly colored retard that you can squeeze outa her
if you poor enough booze in her plastic broken mouth.

Fuck I'm funny.

Enjoy.

Karl.

---

Alaskan Barbies

*Hillside Barbie

This princess Barbie is only sold at Nordstrom.
She comes with an assortment of Kate Spade handbags,
your choice of a BMW convertible or Hummer H2 and a
longhaired foreign lapdog named Honey, and a
cookie-cutter dream house with a to-die-for view of
the inlet.

Also included are a Starbucks mug, credit card set,
and Alaska Airlines Gold MPV membership.

Available with or without tummy tuck, facelift, and
boob-job. Workaholic, shallow, cheating husband Ken
comes with a Porsche.

*Southside Barbie

This modern-day homemaker Barbie is available with a
Ford Explorer and matching Alaska Club workout
ensemble. She gets lost easily and has no full time
occupation. Comes with Percocet prescription and
Botox.

Traffic-jamming cell phone sold separately. Husband
Ken is into fishing, hunting, golfing, eating, and
lusting for other women.

Available at Costco.

*Spenard Barbie

This recently paroled Barbie comes with a 9mm handgun,
switchblade, '78 El Camino with dark tinted windows,
and a meth lab kit.

This model is available only after dark and can only
be purchased with cash - preferably small bills,
unless you're a cop, then we don't know what you're
talking about.

Boyfriend Ken is in jail.

Available at many pawnshops.


*Government Hill Barbie

This pale model comes dressed in her own Wrangler
jeans 2 sizes too small, a classic Metallica t-shirt
and a Tweety Bird tattoo on her shoulder.

She has a six-pack of Budweiser and a Hank Williams,
Jr. CD set. She can spit over a distance of 6 feet and
kick mullet-haired Ken's butt when she is
drunk.

Purchase her pickup truck separately and get a
Confederate flag bumper sticker absolutely free.
Boyfriend Ken is in treatment.

Available at Army Navy Surplus.

*Muldoon Barbie

This tobacco chewing, brassy-haired Barbie comes with
a pair of high-heeled sandals with one broken heel
from the time she chased Beer-Gut Ken out
of Government Hill Barbie's apartment. Her ensemble
includes low-rise acid-washed jeans, fake ingernails,
strawberry lipgloss and a see-through halter top.
Comes with Barbie's Dream Double Wide Trailer.
Available at Wal-Mart.


*Mountain View Barbie

Pregnant at purchase, this Barbie comes with a
stroller and bus pass.

Also included is a G.E.D. and a completely filled out
PFD form. Gangsta Ken and his '82 Caddy are optional.
Available at Value Village.

*Girdwood Barbie

This Barbie is made out of recycled plastic and tofu.
She has long straight brown hair, archless feet, hairy
armpits, no makeup and Birkenstocks with white socks.

She does not want or need a Ken doll, but if you
purchase the optional Subaru wagon, you will receive a
free rainbow flag sticker.

Available at REI.

*Downtown Barbie

This versatile doll can be easily converted from
Barbie to Ken by simply adding or removing snap-on
parts. Walks to work. Likes to "experiment", but will
never commit.

This model is being phased-out and is only available
from the manufacturer.

Someone oughta shut me up. Racist titles and labels aren't limited to only sports franchises. Huckleberry Finn would be proud of me.

Top of the morning gents,

Got an email from one of my dudes from my alma matre:
The Helsinki School of Economics. As you can guess, I
had quite an impression on these chaps.

Maybe not the best impression.

Karl.


---Timo Aristo wrote---

Goddanse Herer Uusi Suomen!

How is Alaska? Norsemen like you are fish out of water
when surrounded by Chukchi. You are so tall and
handsome compared to those kinds.

We enjoy your daily tales from 'north of 70 lat',
especially your caustic tongue. This tough guy words
amongst your colleagues is exceptionally sharp and
honest, not PC we hear on Yank TV and Radio.

Your tales of 'pickled babies' and 'shooting dogs'
were startling and unbelievable. Your face is hard to
read for lies. After sharing your daily news reports
and honest commentary in Alaska, we no longer dispute
your words.

I'd like to meet and drink with your safety
colleagues, all of them are invited to join us here in
Helsinki for celebrating. Will they share tales like
yours?

Speaking of very funny pickled babies, Paul Quinn,
Pete and myself added these beverage offerings at our
clubs. At both Kartanos and Grill Fish, these drinks
are best selling.

Notice we don't offer any drinks called "The Drunk
Finn" or "The Pickled Caviar Cruncher", that would not
be so funny as Chukchi face down in shit.

Your comrade,

Timo

---

Baby Eskimo recipe

2 oz Kahlua® coffee liqueur
8 oz milk
2 scoops vanilla ice cream

Leave ice-cream out for about 10 minutes. Add
ingredients in order, stir with chopstick (butter
knife or spoon works too).

Consume immediately and often. Nice and light, great
for following heavy drinking.

Serve in: Collins Glass

---

Eskimo Joe recipe

1/4 part Bailey's® Irish cream
1/4 part green creme de menthe
1/4 part cinnamon schnapps
1/4 part milk

Add the bailey's irish cream, and then layer the milk,
creme de menthe and cinnamon schnapps.

---

Eskimo Slugger recipe

1 1/2 oz Bailey's® Irish cream
1 oz Absolut® vodka
1/2 oz Rumple Minze® peppermint liqueur

Pour all three ingredients into a cocktail shaker
half-filled with ice cubes. Shake well. Strain into a
small old-fashioned or rocks glass, and serve.

---

Eskimo Joe's Drink recipe

1/2 pineapple
1 lemon
1 green apple
1 orange
1 handful ice
500 ml raspberry yogurt
3 oz orange juice
8 oz Malibu® coconut rum

Add rum, fruits, ice, juice, and yoghurt to a blender.
Ensure the orange is peeled and seedless. Cut seeds
out of apple.

Blend for 1 minute and you're ready for a stong
alcoholic eskimo.

Grimm Fairy Tales? Shit no, grim Alaskan tales that ain't fiction, nor funny.

Top of the morning gents,

I'm chuckling at myself, and the nicknames I've
collected over the years.

A ways back, some funny fucker with gray eyes
triggered my name to change from Karl to Gil. First
assumed to be derivative of Gilligan's Island or some
shit, not a famous serial child rapist in Kotzebue.

I kinda liked earning a nom de diarhea plume identical
to Gil Hall, my neighbor that fucked a lot of little
boys. Mr. Hall also got indicted on a slew of charges
related to his closet hobby of taking core samples
from live specimens yielding single digit ring counts.


Only a faggot with 2 gonads could possibly be crueler
than Hitler, who also preferred stank over tang and
ate pistols and dicks. Suicide by food poisoning. Both
Hitler and Hall could've eaten a bad weenie.

After my shift: graveyard shift mates, I headed
upstairs to snag a ride from Mack or Eunice. They had
some killer pictures they wanted to show me.

Here was Gil Hall's teeth and brains, Gil Hall's burnt
mouth, and Gil Hall's fragmented and distorted face
with bugged eyes and black hole for a mouth. Both Mack
and old man Eunice watched me with anticipation, like
I was gonna puke or some shit.

I almost did.

Goes to show you: wrapping yer head with towels and
biting down hard on a 357 will suppress pert near a
hunnert percent of the report. All the sound and
energy compressed within that child gomer skull and
Muslim all cotton head dress brain container proved
quieter than a wet fart.

Can you tell I like happy endings?

Call me Gil. Gil from Kotzebue, if you know what I
mean. What a guy, what a nickname. A town famous for
gaped babies cursed with brown potential.

My nicknames heretofore have devolved to Oochuk Boy,
Karlukmun, and Negro. Blessed ain't I?

Most grim Alaskan tales that are best described as
moments of no hope. Just plain wrong onall levels
with morons at the helm. Much like this computer
laboratory north of 70 lat.

Karl.

"Car 54 where are you?" "10-4, roger dodger, 10-80, KRJ, Out front." "616-K7." "Is Karl on duty?" "4" "Send him out, request assistance-code Ginley."

Top of the morning gents,

"10-80, enroute to KRJ."

I can recall that excited feeling whenever Waller or
Garroutte would radio for help extricating a prisoner
from the patrol car.

Bobby Richards, Jim Ginley, and a few hundred
screaming 'skimo bitches seemed to be good cooperative
prisoners, until Joe or Jeff pulled the patrol car up
to the front of the jail for processing. That's when
the fights start.

Folks are so cool until they see the front gates to
the 'house of pain', then they soil their diapers and
irritate my eardrums, knuckles and nuts.

Shoot, sometimes their antics also irritated my
goddamn back cuz we had to push, pull or drag our
flailing clients like malfunctioning Jap rice burners
from the rear of the patrol car and into the booking
room for paperwork, COR (conditions of release)
verification, or kneel and bob on the Intoximeter
3000.

Nobody can refuse to submit to a chemical analysis if
they believe yours truly guarantees an extraordinarily
violent and concussive flying, flailing, and falling
down the old jail corridor that has no video camera.
My knuckles ache when I recall such delicious
violence. Gives me hard nipples and drippy dick too.

Aside from my duties covering the VPSO position in
Kiana, I don't think we ever lost any cuff monkeys,
nor shackle jack offs.

Tough regs mates. From the time a prisoner has been
cuffed to the time the court documtents and release
from custody papers are signed by the judge,
magistrate, or jailer, we're responsible for our
custodial customers.

Even if they escape.

Oh sure we can add additional escape charges, but for
every victim injured or killed during an escape or
while the escaped convicts are on the lamb, the city
and state are on the hook for all damages. Sucks, huh?

After serving a stack of summons and warrants in
Kiana, one sneaky fucker ditched me for a cigarette or
toke. They'd all been served but I waited cuffing my
brood of brown violators until Kosloff and Nay landed
and loaded up King Erlich's court requested special
guests.

For about 20 minutes, I thought I'd lost one. Until he
emerged red eyed and baked, chinked and chiefed.

Scared me shitless.

No search parties nor bloodhounds, just a fresh baked
Kianamute baked like a clam and now happy to fly to
Kotzebue for free meals and jail accommodations far
classier than the dismal grovel he shit, pissed and
puked in.

Flights to Kotzebue to serve a few weeks is a fucking
vacation where a rural rodent can fatten up and get
some good deep and sober sleep.

Some of my transport 10-80 village clients were booked
in looking like holy fuck returning back home to the
village after 2-8 weeks in our college dorm hooscow
looking handsome and healthy.

On their day to TSI (turn self in) on schedule or by
warrant, my fall and winter book-in customers were
true and accurate examples of what a baggie of mashed
up assholes looks like. A combination of foul BO,
seeping stink teeth, and a face akin to a gaped
starfish and poopy butt.

I ain't fucking kidding, just ask any of the folks you
see listed on this am cop talk newsletter, they'll be
happy to remind you that some humans taste and smell a
'hole' lot worse than others.

At this precise moment, most of you mates are likely
having a PTSD public service flashback of some mighty
odiferous and gag-worthy customers you've all had to
blow, hump and compress, hoist, gurney and transport.

Shoot, take another gander back at Medic One's
synopsis from just 2 years ago of lugging mountain
climbing accident meat piles down the pass; shoes,
clothing and faulty climbing equipment in a separate
seeping duffel bag.

I ain't fucking kidding. After a few weeks or months
of good food, showers and hair cuts, and plenty of
rest, our newly free Eskimo brethren can justifiably
qualify as healthy, wealthy, and wise. Limp in. Leap
out. Even the clothes they're wearing on their free
flight back home are pressed and cleaned.

You older guys might remember when I was schooling at
UAF, and flying back home to Kotzebue on weekends,
breaks, and vacations. During these visits I was the
894 4-plex janitor. I did quick and dirty clean ups
between tenants. Scandinavian Jewish tune-ups that are
little more than a thorough vacuuming, kitchen and
bathroom wipe down, window Windex and half-day airing
out.

One summer night, one of our tenants had a major blow
out, booze binge and brawl.

Me bunnik nudged me the same instant the building
shuddered from the breaking and collapsing of a sofa
with 2 drunk monkeys slugging skulls on top.

I phoned Edith at 3353 with a brief complaint of
minors consuming alcohol, a couple of highly likely
COR (conditions of release) and probation/parole
violators, and of course the full combat fist fight.

Downing and that Spanish/Mexican drug dude, working
rotating patrols under the FTO tutelage of Lorin,
responded and were quick to arrest the easy meat
refusing to cease their battery despite coppers
yelling and performing their KPD 18-hour Wonder Bra
duties: lift and separate.

With those two cuffed and in separate patrol cars,
Lorin and Spicola did a line up and ID check yielding
a simple majority score: violators 6, "free to go" 5.

Can you tell I really love packing the jail? Gives
Ward a fucking migraine, ulcer, and nicotine runs
simultaneously producing a chorus of amusing body
sounds of Gumby gaining weight and Ward losing it.

One of the aboriginal combatants arrested was the
younger brother of Peggy Brown (sour pussy). This fuck
was able to kick apart the plexi-glass partition and
flee the KPD patrol car.

I swear. I never intended on giving Lt. Columbo a
fucking migraine, ulcer and nicotine runs. The escape
from custody was just bonus amusement, fuck ye. Who
could have known that a drunken moron would choose to
add escape charges to a minor VOCR charge?

For the rest of grave yard shift and on til pert near
lunchtime the next day, KPD's finest (and worst) were
on red alert and aggressively on the lookout for the
aforementioned Nigerian candidate with his arms cuffed
behind his back.

Mr. Sours was recaptured and booked with no
casualties: aside from the gastric discomfort I caused
our beloved Lt. Columbo. Sorry mate.

I don’t get ulcers I give ‘em. Besides, where’s a cop
when you need one?

Have gun will travel. Plus counterfeit ID equipment I
ought not sell to the gooks.

What’s in your wallet?

Karl.

Fed dollars, fed fisting. Galena and Eilson will soon look like gaped starfish (punked out rectal penis holsters).

Top of the morning gents,

Federal assist = Federal fist.

The winds are blowing hard mates. The ebb and flow of
the physical forces of greed and fear makes a rural
rodent shit bricks.

The ebb and flow of federal monies sure yank us remote
motherfuckers around sure as a Gumby tug job, reach
around, and jerk off.

The changes in rural Alaska bypass mail contracts are
now much different than they were when Chey Yuk,
Nasruk Nay, and myself were pitching freight for old
man Dale Walters at Ryan Air just 16 years ago.

Three Alaskan dumb asses that have all had numerous
firearms experiences since then: Chey was shot 7 times
by Ethan Cooley, whereupon Ethan booked uptown only to
be surrounded by coppers, tried a death by cop to no
avail, the screeched a rifle round under his chin and
out the toppa his head.

Aside from Chey Yuk's infamy, Nasruk and I have also
failed badly at staying under the radar and out of the
spotlight.

Near the end of that sloppy and rainy summer of ’89,
we were all laid off when Ryan Air lost a plane just
outside of Nome, Alaska.

Thanks to a hangover that could kill small children,
Higman and I were too sick to ride jump seat to Nome
with Kermit. Ryan Air flew one of its Cessna 402 twins
down to Nome for scheduled service, but Kermit
accidentally hit Saw tooth Mountain, minimizing his
total mass retention splatter pattern while 2 sick
boozehounds back at 321 2nd Ave Kotzebue were
performing chemical warfare on their hangovers: coffee
and bong hits, Alka (holic) Seltzer and cold amber
beers, tea and toke.

Drug abuse changes the fate of all rural Alaskans.
This one time, drugs saved my life.

Our hangovers died at the same instant Kermit did.
That trip to Nome for some nasty native sodomy and
gonorrhea debauchery was a trip best cancelled: just
like the life span of a fellow party animal and pilot,
Kermit.

Wherever possible, rural Alaska bypass mail is no
longer shipped by air, all bypass mail will be trucked
from Anchorage to Fairbanks, Dead Horse and Prudhoe
Bay. Then flown by small craft to Barrow and all the
other village destinations solely by airlines that
offer passenger seats underneath their cargo nets.

Tough new laws eh? Replace most airfreight routes with
long haul truckers, and then deliver the remaining
airfreight routes in planes that also carry
passengers.

Life’s a bitch, for an oriental bootlegger. This sucks
gook dick worse than flossing with hemp rope.

Cost containment, revenue enhancement.

Do you like the BRAC commission's reaction to their
base closure list? Politics, meaning fear and greed
are the sole reason to the painful 'flow' when the Fed
dollar tit dries up and falls off like a baby’s dry
rotten umbilical cord. As of this September, there'll
no longer be any ass to suck for money, just a salty
aftertaste mixed with pieces of corn and old white man
turd.

Kulis, Eilson, and Galena will shriek with much
shrill, but nobody can undermine this fair yet painful
process created by Congress to reduce the role of
politics in deciding which bases to close.

I'm already examining this eventuality for
opportunities to harvest, like poor children in Galena
I can sell to the sand niggers for butt pussy, houses
in North Pole that will require arson jobs to prevent
foreclosure, and janitorial contracts to bury all my
detractors when I clean up all the garbage, shit and
misery left behind each and every base they will
close.

Besides being extraordinarily messy, the military is
cold hearted and don't give a shit about bulldozing
their old bases.

Visualize Kotzebue Air Force Base, that's Galena and
Eilson's plight. All those buildings are destined for
the dump, just like our old landfill just beyond Mike
Kramer's DWI (driving while inupiaq) training pool,
Unnuk Lake.

Anchorage Mayor Begich's uterus is tickled pink. The
Anchorage Airport has waited patiently for Kulis to
pack up and fuck off, that land Kulis sits on is
likely the most expensive real estate in the entire
state. Anchorage’s Christmas in July and the present
is a Ted Stevens International Airport that can now
double its size with cheap and minimal dollars and
niggardly sense.

Now, can you smell which way the winds are blowing?

Fairbanks and Galena better devise a plan: they may
have lost their bases and buildings, but they'll both
gain empty parking lots bigger than the parasitic
communities surrounding them. More like parking lots
with massive garbage dump landfills directly under
them.

Federal fisting, huh? Nope, Alaskan’s with butt cheek
catcher’s mitts waiting for Uncle Sam’s ‘hole’ arm
with a certain Wessonality.

If yer gonna bend over for a fistful of fed dollars,
it’s gonna hurt like fuck when Uncle Sam yanks his
fist back out whilst pulling yer financial heart out
too.


Karl.

Damn Logan case is still floating around the Internet. What's a poor drug agent to do?

Top of the morning gents,

As stated previously, I like doing Internet searches
on all yer uniformed asses just to see what sort of
information on this gang of killers is available.

For fun, I did a search on yours truly. Your author on
drugs.

Fuck. That Logan case is still floating around the
Internet like a dry turd that won't flush down the
toilet.

This case started so fucking long ago, I remember
consulting you coppers for strategic and logistical
advice on how we can go about ensnaring the mad Doctor
Logan.

You men are fucking champs. I would've fucked up this
investigation had not Columbo, Nay, Waller, and Squish
lectured and counciled me on local option law, federal
regulations, and pertinent firearms and drug law
precedence.

Under tough questioning from Sgt. Wahl, DA Mattern,
and Trooper Main, I think I lied well enough to
convince them that I had no outside help and hadn't
revealed anything about this case to anybody. They
fear you guys: they believe you bastards are a rogue
star chamber with this agent your puppet on a string.

They also queried me for hours about my work history
working with Nolton and Nay on the Capone case in
Kotzebue, my work with Tyler, Bleicher, and Bowman at
Mat-Su Narcotics, and the GHB date-rape drug case I
did at UAF with Trooper Nay, UAF police, Fbx police,
and Statewide Drug Enforcement. Since the NDA's
(non-disclosure agreements) I signed in 1998-2001 were
still in effect I simply never mentioned my narc work
in Scandinavia, Russia and the Baltics.

Fuck, confession ain't good for shit, especially the
soul. I could see anger and frustration with the older
farts when I answered questions honestly about my
criminal involvement and cooperation with my targets.

When Mattern and Wahl pulled up legal histories on all
my previous undercover drug cases, they were greatly
angered by repeated claims from the defendants that I
was the 'Kingpin' or 'Ringleader' in our criminal
exploits.

Sure. Like I induced these wise guys to commit crimes
they would not have normally committed had I not
penetrated, assisted and perfected their criminal
operations prior to my rapid disassembly of their
illegal business models.

Of course I colluded with the defendants in cost
containment and revenue enhancement. I even coached
the afformentioned dumbasses on improving their
marijuana growing techniques and output, LSD and
cocaine smuggling from Seattle, and the use of frozen
fish, meat and muktuk as a ruse to contain small
packets of powdered and papered drugs. Shoot, I even
offered the use of my frequent dog kennel shipments as
a means to smuggle fortified freight.

Freelance agent my ass. I've never been able to
investigate, penetrate, and terminate any drug
smuggling operations without the help, guidance, and
oversight of you lot: my dirty dozen.

Even when I worked narc jobs in Eastern Europe and
Russia I had oversight from at least one of you at any
time. The only times I wasn't in direct contact with
you coppers was when I was in jail, hence the periods
I was out of contact, I was also out of luck and
freedom.

You lads are the only reason I'm alive today.

And I thank each and every one of you.

Westlake and Octuck were right, every community and
village loves their drug dealers and bootleggers, yet
absolutely despise the operative torpedo that
disintegrated their illicit supply chain and sales
outlets.

Take a read.

Again, heartfelt thanks to you invisible coppers.

Karl. (the supposed clandestine dummy mastermind)

---

Alaska: Professor brought to ground over bootlegging
alcohol and marijuana

Why would a nationally known economist earning roughly
$100,000 a year working as a tenured professor and
consultant decide to start bootlegging Alcohol and
Marijuana into rural villages?

Former University of Alaska Fairbanks professor and
ex-Fairbanks North Star Borough Assemblyman Bob
Logan's defense attorney Bill Satterberg could only
speculate he did it for the excitement.

"He's kind of into the extreme stuff," Satterberg said
during Logan's final sentencing hearing at Rabinowitz
Courthouse Friday morning--hearings also took place
Tuesday and Thursday. "Here's somebody that has lived
on the edge, is a loner and basically got enamored
with that concept. Basically it was the flying through
the Arctic, sneaking through passes in his Super Cub,
coming in below the radar."

It's an assessment of Logan that Superior Court Judge
Charles Pengilly agreed with when handing down a
combined one-year sentence for two cases involving
bootlegging Alcohol to Barrow and selling Marijuana to
an undercover drug investigator in Fairbanks in
September 2003. That Marijuana, prosecutors said, was
also intended for rural villages.

"I have extensive experience in dealing with charges
like this," said Pengilly, who has been a judge in
Fairbanks for more than 14 years. "I have never been
called upon to sentence anybody that's a nationally
recognized economist with a PhD."

With that, Pengilly said Logan "has really
extraordinary rehabilitation potential."

Logan admitted to flying 60 750-milliliter bottles of
Alcohol into Barrow that he sold for more than $4,500
to an undercover investigator. The day of his arrest,
he sold 4 ounces of Marijuana to the same investigator
in the parking lot at Pike's Landing.

Alaska State Trooper investigator Karl Main testified
at the hearing Thursday not only about the events
surrounding Logan's arrest, but also about the effects
Alcohol has in rural Alaska. He has fished dead
children out of rivers because the parents were too
drunk to watch them and has had to deal with a person
who shot someone after handling a shotgun while
intoxicated.

Logan gave a statement that lasted over 20 minutes
during the hearing Friday morning. He said he takes
responsibility for his actions and apologized to the
residents of Barrow for supplying the city with
illegal booze.

Logan also asked that he be made an example, and asked
the state to not only prosecute him but to go after
others who continue bringing Alcohol into villages.

His defense attorney, Satterberg, singled out the
informant in the case against Logan, Barrow resident
Karl Ewing. Satterberg suggested Ewing turned on his
former teacher and friend of more than six years after
accepting three cases of liquor in Barrow and not
paying Logan for them.

Months into the investigation, Ewing asked
investigators to pay him for his cooperation.

Investigators said Ewing was paid $5,000.

"The evidence is clear that Mr. Ewing has been in the
business of selling Alcohol in Barrow, has been in the
business of selling drugs" and said he's still in the
business of selling Alcohol, Satterberg said. "Mr.
Ewing, however, needs to be, I think, exposed."

Logan--who said he resigned from his job as a tenured
economics professor last spring while the University
of Alaska Fairbanks was investigating him--spoke
emphatically during his statement while explaining it
was Ewing who supplied him with the knowledge to grow
Marijuana in his home and that Logan was a good pupil.


Main said it isn't possible to learn how to grow such
high-quality Marijuana with just a few months of
experience. The drug investigator said the Marijuana
Logan sold him was some of the best he's ever seen.
"He knew what he was doing," Main said Thursday.
Assistant District Attorney Scott Mattern argued that
Logan was trying to displace the blame.

"You can blame Mr. Ewing all you want, but Mr. Ewing's
supply came from Mr. Logan," Mattern said.

Logan had tried to get the case dismissed, saying his
accomplice had supplied him with the means for the
bootlegging scheme.

When the entrapment claims didn't stick, Logan agreed
to hand over his truck and Super Cub PA18 to the state
during a plea deal in August in exchange for a
nine-month sentencing cap in the Barrow case.

The deal reduced the Fairbanks case from five counts
of fourth-degree misconduct involving a controlled
substance to one count accusing Logan of growing,
processing, delivering and selling marijuana.

Logan faced a total of 10 counts in the Barrow case:
Four counts of fourth-degree misconduct involving a
controlled substance, four counts of selling Alcohol
without a license, one count of selling Alcohol in a
village where it is highly regulated and one count of
importing alcohol.

The Marijuana charges were dropped and the rest of the
charges were consolidated into one that accused him of
illegally selling alcoholic beverages imported into a
damp village.

Besides the year in jail, Pengilly accepted Logan's
suggestion and set a condition that Logan use his
expertise to submit a paper researching the economic
implications that fetal Alcohol syndrome has on rural
villages for his 60 hours of community service.

Before Logan's lengthy testimony, Mattern argued that
Logan was not thinking about the implications of his
actions while he was committing the crimes.

"Mr. Logan was worried more about his money and how
much he could make so he could afford another trip to
the Philippines than the consequences of what he was
doing," Mattern said.

Logan admitted to spreadsheets found at his house
after his arrest detailing profits he expected to get
from the bootlegging venture.

"I'm an economist, I'm interested in crunching
numbers," he said while testifying on his behalf
Thursday.

But Mattern suggested Logan was only looking at it as
a business venture.

"People who wrote letters on his behalf said he's not
a violent offender but his offense leads directly to
violence in the villages and that's where it was
headed and he knew that's where it was headed,"
Mattern said.

Eat shit and die? Nope, just hatch turds equal to 3.7 Selawikmutes, or 2.5 Kivalina units.

Top of the morning gents,

Alas, another day in Alaska.

When I'm in my village zone, I myself also feel
inferior to my urban counterparts. I don't know what
it is about a subsistence lifestyle that doesn't
equate with more civilized working class proletariats
dwelling in Anchoragua, JewNo or Shitbanks.

On my visits to our big cities, I'll listen to
braggarts and blowhards telling their tales of permit
hunting, sport fishing, and trophy kills.

Hogwash and dysentery butt spray: not one of our big
city wiggers shoot, kill and butcher anywhere close to
the amount of game foods we freeze, eat and shit.
Fuck, my subsistence turds are bigger than most of
you.

The other day I told the good Doctor Carroll that I
never use toilet paper. Yup, he winced with detectable
startle, then asked me why I don't.

I proceeded to describe in detail my dietary intake of
fish, game meats, catch foods, rice, bread, and
vitamins and that I hatch more lumber weight than my
own birth weight of a skoatch over 10 pounds. I 'go
native' in plethora ways.

I also went on explain that on my Amish/Snigger diet
north of 70 lat I hatch truly solid and dry timber; no
runs, no drips, no errors. We're talking Viking brown
trout that never leave skid marks, cakeage, nor crust.

He chuckled at my predictably amusing and humorous
terminology and then told me that humans aren't born
with a toilet paper dispenser stapled to their
backside. He also stated that most prehistoric humans
didn't require performing daily crap-smears and reach
around fecal finger paintings modern humans now
require.

What's the next step after I've completed my exercise
in nativity? Continue backwards in time and
civilization and proceed to 'go prehistoric' dudes.

What the fuck? Seems to be the only natural
progression, I mean regression further back in time
and space.

My development traces a historic line in reverse,
deteriorating past agrarian death chron harvester and
goat plugger, diving headlong into super primitive
hunting and gathering, raping and pillaging north of
70 lat.

The good Doctor proceeded to compliment me on my
remarkable fitness and strength and that he's pleased
to see me bunnik and I riding our mountain bikes all
over hell and back. He also flattered me by telling me
that even his younger patients are showing evermore
obesity and sloth.

I confided with him my secret: lots of drug abuse and
frequent beatings. This he thought disconcerting and
asked me if I was still taking my Ritalin twice a day.

"You know Karl, I prescribed you an amphetamine based
ADHD medication to help you curb your poor impulse
control, hyperactive lunacy, and keep you alive and
out of jail."

"Are you still having trouble resisting your nefarious
scheming, clever stunts and pranks, and high risk
behavior?"

I replied that I skip some days when I'm feeling
really hopped up and cycling at a rate similar to a
British motorcar stoked with a Paxton supercharger.

The truth nonetheless, but not the answer he wanted to
hear.

I rather enjoy my incomplete bi-polar disorder. I feel
I'm all manic and no depression, which makes me simply
'polar' dudes, much like my geographical and cultural
handicap. Get happy? Shit no, get hyper.

Dr. Carroll smiled and frowned simultaneously and
proceeded to ask me about my lineage and if they all
died with as many broken bones, burn scars and brain
trauma derivative of sustained beatings. Which of
course, they did.

I confided that my poor behavioral control has landed
me in prison more often than I've admitted heretofore.
I'm still afraid to chatter on about my various
incarcerations down yonder and overseas.

How does a lad reveal to anybody the cruelties and
horrid physical graffiti a non-indigenous inmate
effectively drinks off his mind?

I don't. And neither shall you.

My fear is that I'd lose my phantom gang of pals I
haven't seen in decades yet provide me the company I
so desperately desire. Ya see, in Alaska I'm quite
lonely and fear the loss of affection from my mates
that I served with.

The solution? We'll all simply understand yet not
speak of these things. Something we can keep between
just us: that which still causeth anguish, yet shant
be spoke.

Continue sending me hard-hitting responses and tough
love encouragement: I'll keep typing like a mad man
about topics only you killers understand.

I don't ask for much from you soldiers, just your ears
and hearts.

Violence only begets violence. Violence also gives me
hard nipples and a drippy dick, so some habits I shant
cease.

You boys stay nasty.

Karl.

Miscellaneous ramblings. Our bike ride to Ira's cabin out near the point: a cultural, chemical and biological blender party.

Top of the morning gents,

Sucks to be sick.

Apart from acronyms like PTSD or ADHD, I’m suffering
something awful from a simple bacterium or a virus of
terrestrially dubious origin.

Whatever, I got a doozy of a dose of that all too
familiar rural village crud. You know the kind that
kills small village children but leaves full honey
buckets standing?

They say that joggers don’t ever get sick; I’ll put a
high mileage bicycle rider in the same herd of turds.

Sure.

Don’t believe it for a fucking second: joggers don’t
jog in sick remote villages north of 70 lat. They also
don’t take long bike rides out of town and party with
elderly Eskimos, dwelling in shitty little cabins.

We are in the middle of our 66 days without a sunset,
so bicameral and hyperactive Finns endeavor to get
lost: culturally and geographically, and also
chemically and existentially.

The other day me and my Siberian Mrs. loaded our
backpacks with party favors and pedaled our mountain
bikes way the fuck out of town to Ira’s little shack:
a subsistence shack a couple miles east of Barrow,
past the cluster of cabins and the old airport and
near the point.

Ira’s little beach cabin was surrounded by a couple of
4-wheelers with a small enclave of Alaskimos out front
stirring a bonfire, tipping pink cap and charring
their bowls.

Bunnik and I parked our bikes, said our salutary
‘Suvat’ and obligatory ‘Not much’, concluding with the
‘Who got immoos ‘n booques?’ to the villagers out
front. They all nodded toward the shack with the
raised eyebrows and red chinked eyeballs. Ya see,
these guys were taking shots of pink cap so they shant
open their gobs near an open fire lest they might
explode; go native dudes.

Me bunnik and I pounded on Ira’s door entering
simultaneously as we heard an anonymous ‘Come in.’

As expected, the house was filled with dozens more
natives packed tighter than a classroom full of
compressed gooks after downing just one Manhattan
Project Martini, but we were able to reach around the
room and shake sticky hands with in-laws and long lost
‘funny uncles.’ Me and Bunnik offered our greetings
and party favors to old man Ira, a troll of a scraling
with silver beard and hair, and broken glasses.

His exclamatory “Adiga” signaled the arrival of their
long awaited arctic mobile Finnish bar service. I
opened 2 bottles of whiskey: a Jim Beam and an R&R
took a belt from both and passed them around in
opposite directions, in traditional Eskimo fashion.

Note: If you’ve never gotten hamfucked with Ukpeagvik
scralings in a one light bulb cabin, perched on the
tip of Pt. Barrow, then you’re whiter than your
Finnish brother.

Shit I’m cursed. We all remember Kivalina Camp’s
(south tent city) most vile butt camping squatter,
Danny Burnor. 18 fucking years and 9 countries later:
I’m still biking, hiking, or stowing away to some
circumpolar honey bucket shack to do criminal things
to my body and unethical things to the local cultures
and economies.

I’m now cornered and trapped on the furthest north
point in Alaska. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide,
hell, time to stop running: might as well go crazy and
unleash my Viking lungs and liver on a small Eskimo
community that smells an awful lot like Ukpeagvik
spittle.

A few of you have had a hepatitis and pneumonia loaded
native sneeze a ton of heavy sputum in yer fucking
face. Inmate snot locker discharge may taste great and
be less filling, but I ain’t fucking native and I
ain’t accustomed to sucking snot outa my baby's lungs
and snout.

But, in direct contradiction to my multi-vitamin
philosophy, I will take mucho monster iron lung pulls
off soggy hooters packed with Willie Nelson’s hybrid
alfalfa/pine chron, even if it’s been nigger-lipped by
two dozen toothless fucking river rat Selawikmutes.

I'll have to play my Inupiaq phat chief crew Little
Feat's "Don't Bogart That Joint My Friend." I've never
had fat doobage pass by me without a little TB spit or
HerpHepAIDS snot on it. On Eskimo Territory, passing
bottles and joints is pert near close to sharing
needles and second hand Inuit pussy. Party till you
die mates.

Did I ever tell you I’m a dumb ass? Trust me, I am.

Back to my adventure to where the wild natives roam.

The two bottles of whiskey didn’t quite make it around
the room back to me so I had to punch Riley Kuwonna in
his bony arm to cajole him outa 2 more pink cap jet
fuel Indun killers.

Using my Leatherman I carefully removed the metal flow
restrictor from the bottle, plugged my nose, and
quaffed back pert near a cup of jet fuel, thereby
fueled up and ready to race with my Eskimo mates for
Team Bacardi.

This round, the bottles made 3 complete revolutions:
it’s hard to drink greedier’n a Front Street Fuck when
yer chugging solvents distilled from diabetic heroin:
cane sugar.

151 still kicks my ass, possibly more so since our
last visit on Christmas. I’m quite a bit lighter this
season: no more North Slope Metro Transit Service, so
this ScandiNegro White Devil bikes more than ever with
longer hair, bleached and mud soaked.

If I regress back to my more primitive personae, I can
cope with Alaskan villagers without breaking necks,
stomping neighbors, and sitting in the back of an NS
cop car. With increased alcohol consumption levered
against magnitudes more organic (carbon based)
bio-fiber and vegetation incineration, a hyperactive
puke will give ulcers, but not get them.

Ultra high protein diets based on skanky and gamy ass
caribou, puke flavored salmon and sheefish, and lots
of high speed mountain biking: that’s my recipe for
successful living in an arctic ghetto inhabited by
scraling party animal descendants of gooks.

Compared to other places I’ve pissed and shit in, my
castle and research laboratory on North Star Street
north of 70 lat is best described as pert near
perfect.

I think I’m turning Japanese.

You boys have a good weekend, I’m gonna recover from
my flu-cold sickness, but likely not my illnesses on
too many other levels. My sunny days north of 70 lat.
are numbered, I gotta get healthy so I can expose
myself to evermore alien geography, culture and
biology.

Have backpack full of cane sugar bio-fuel; will
travel. Travel correspondence posted daily. Fiction
mates.

Karl.

Thoughts only understood by a few good men.

Top of the morning gents,

Not sure if I oughta celebrate or mourn.

Remember when the Echardts were busted for
distributing mondo meth here in Barrow? The teachers
that were indicted along with their amphetamine
subcontractor retailer, Mr. Thibideau.

Mr. Thibideau was also indicted on numerous MICS
felonies related to their crystal meth operation:
Bunnik sat on the grand jury.

Yesterday the whole town was gossiping incessantly
about some 'hit' that 'went down' in Barrow a few
blocks from my place. Do you smell bullshit too?

Ain't too many professionals that can create the
illusion of a suicide when the victim is found with a
Stevens 12 gauge in his hands and mouth.

Mr. Thibideau sorted his legal papers, phoned a buddy,
then ate 2 simultaneous charges from the business end
of a double barrel 12 gauge. Fuck, little chance of
surviving that kind of ear and skull shattering
explosion, just ask Edward Wayne Henry: welcome
graffiti artistry.

We've been clean up crew on a lot of suicides: some
weirder'n shit.

*Russell White/Nelson dude perplexed me even after
many discussions with Columbo.

Another weird suicide was when F1 Monson phoned me at
home on my day off and told me get in uniform cuz a
unit would be out front to pick me up in 20 minutes.

Sgt. Waller picked me up and drove me to the Fire Hall
where we met Fire Chief Monson. I asked Jeff what was
going on and he just shrugged and said we're working
for Ron that afternoon: orders from the Chief.

Who am I to bitch? It was all overtime pay.

(Gayle Rawlston always called me a Scandinavian Jew
and 'Monger' for overtime. That trailer dwelling
Christian dullard was dead to rights.)

Ron donned his F1 Fire Chiefs coat and said it's time
to go. Waller drove the patrol car, and I drove Monson
in the old Medic 1 ambulance van to June Nelson's
house. On the way, Monson explained to me that he had
a drug overdose on his hands, but he wanted an extra
set of eyes to take a look around then offer my views
as to whether we had an accidental overdose, or
suicide.

Am I the only guy that has a Ph.D. in black market
pharmacology, illegal drug manufacture and harvest,
and a resume with 10 years professional drug dealing
in the Pacific Northwest prior to my employment at the
Kotzebue Police Department and the Alaska State
Troopers?

Aren't all of us white niggers fleeing to Alaska
running from lives of crime? Alaska is where all of us
Seattle suburban punks flee to after we've "worn out
our welcome with random precision" (R. Waters-Pink
Floyd).

Come on. You don't believe all wiggers back home are
like us do you? Shit no, we're the dregs of Hitler's
wet dream of a cream of a hetero-sapien crop. We have
no other place to run and hide; Alaska is our own
penile colony, resource colony and private Idaho.

Sgt. Waller, F1 Monson and I walked into June Nelson's
house where I saw June lying asleep on her sofa, sort
of. After a nod from Ron, I snooped about the place
wearing the thinking cap of a 'prisky': an old slang
term from Mountlake Terrace denoting a hard-core
prescription drug abuser.

Mrs. Nelson had a small bookshelf like a shelved
nightstand with an impressive number of prescription
pill containers with very few listing June Nelson as
the patient.

Most pill bottles were labeled with local names of
people we know and love. Local folks that were
trading, selling or simply giving June an impressive
artillery of pain killers, sedatives, muscle
relaxants, including empty containers of Adderol and
Ritalin: amphetamine based meds for hyperactive
children (generic drug name is methylphenidate-a
cleaner pharmaceutical grade of methamphetamine).

1. Drug addicts tend to hide and conceal their stash.

2. Suicide scenes can occasionally have a shrine of
sorts; a special cabinet or shelf full of uniquely
depressing and morbid personal items.

The autopsy confirmed she died of complications
related to poor health (obesity, lung congestion from
50 years tobacco use), old age, and complications from
decades of alcohol and drug abuse.

The old gal may have chewed a lethal bucket of pills
intentionally; she functioned well and concealed her
opiate and non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug abuse.
The booze abuse was just plain dangerous atop her gut
full of pills daily.

We loaded the old gal onto a gurney, rolled her out
front to the Medic 1 ambulance van and loaded her up.

Sgt. Waller returned to his regular police duties,
while Ron and I delivered the dearly departed June
Nelson to MMC for drainage, radiator flush and fluid
replacement.

Despite my leaning towards suicide, the history of
chronic alcohol and drug abuse had obviously stripped
her tissues of an elasticity, vigor, and life. Even if
she did intentionally chew and crunch down a lethal
dose of really good drugs, the tag on heel specified
she was well past her pull date.

Extra note: the death scene was corrupted beyond
belief.

The reason we found no liquor bottles at the her death
scene is cuz her in-laws and outlaws came by and
picked her bones clean of her booze, loose cash, and
goodies we'll never know about. So native.

DA Bennedetto had neither the nads nor meat to go
after the family for such criminal robbery of Mrs.
Nelson. It was only after their pilphery, they phoned
in to report the death of their aunt, grandma, and
mum. Some of you remember seeing Captain Wallace rant
and rave, storm and stomp, and cuss and smoke with
attitude when Benedetto pussed out. I rather enjoyed
Larry's foul mouth and ripe attitude.

But not as much as the rank humor I miss bullshitting
with you guys in the squadroom, dispatch, and at the
KPD offsite bar somewhere in the 400 block.

Birds of feather fuck together, or some shit.

Right mates.


Karl.