Saturday, August 20, 2005

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.

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