Saturday, August 20, 2005

If you scrape and sniff yer nad crust, you'll discover we're all Alaskimos.

Top of the morning gents,

Dead meat is still meat.

Eat shit and die, cuz if yer an Alaskan you've been
there and done that and have the T-shirt emblazoned
with "Drugs saved my life."

I discovered something about us smelly arctic scralings:
seems we did have dinosaurs eating and shitting all
over Alaska long before we saw humans ‘crawling out of
dirty holes’ (C. Squire,J. Andersen-YES).

We Alaskans embrace death. Death serves us in plethora
ways. Just like the dinosaurs, us Alaskan bipedal
hominids that snort, smoke, or inject hillbilly
cocaine will also become fossils with lungs full of
dirt.

We play with death as children by hunting and fishing,
fighting and fucking. We smoke and snort death for
recreational reasons, but play with death for
'creational reasons' by forcing our dicks into death
every time we drag a bottle of cheap whiskey behind
our 3-wheeler and snag salmon cruncher biscuit or
maggot infested clooch snatch.

If yer an Alaskan with a penchant for foul smelling
food that tastes like ass, you’ll love the sex offered
in rural Alaska, it tastes and smells just like my
rendered blubber and aged Mikiaq.

We Alaskans also have distinct tastes in drugs. We
quaff down gallons of home-brew that tastes like warm
piss and smells like farts or we’ll shotgun cans of
Lysol and AquaNet hairspray that smell and taste like
gasoline mixed with Tang. We smoke green bud that
smells like the sphincter glands of a skunk, and we
snort piles of biker speed and ratfuck meth that’s
best described by it’s ghetto parlance: “cat piss
diesel.”

We Alaskans are funny fuckers too. We fuck our
children, our sisters, and our nieces. But, unlike
African American nomenclature, we don’t fuck our
mothers very often cuz incest pork still smells better
than our former birth ports. Kitty litter boxes don't
give Alaskans a boner, but tastes pretty good.

If your last name is Hawley, we fuck our dog teams
too. Farmers down yonder wear rubber boots as a
harness to park the rear legs of their sheep in. Up
here, we simply tie our dogs ass to nose thus allowing
Kivilina pooch screwers monogamous sexual
relationships with a whole team of canine butt pussy.

It don’t matter if it’s caribou, moose, or husky
cheeks you prefer to eat or hump, it’s all pink inside
yet smells better’n the food I got stashed in my
freezer.

I have dreams of previous lives: lives from other
felons with fairer skin. But everyday I awake to
longer hair and a darker soul.

In the Post Office last Thursday, I overheard 3 white
women complaining how my neighbors cornered and
corralled a herd of Beluga whales, chased them onto
the beach, then shot and butchered every single one of
them.

Good days and bad days North of 70 lat are merely how
you look at them.

To a fat pear-shaped Caucasoid lesbian, the death of
20-30 white whales constitutes a truly bad day:
something to P&M (piss and moan) over. To my Siberian
wife and I, it means lots of tasty freight grub to
ship out to me blessed mates that enjoy my muktuk and
musings.

In the mind of an Alaskan killer, the cunt if always
half full: a good freezer is a full freezer. The only
time an Eskimo equates goodness with emptiness, is
witnessing lefty liberal lesbians running amok wincing
painfully from chronic deficiencies of larger gonads,
lower voices, and community sexual membership. White
dikes and their cats unknowingly cordon themselves off
to their own reservation free of subsistence beauty,
arctic isolation and enhanced intimacy, yet chronic
loneliness, from too little rape.

Ya might speculate that rural Alaska changes a person.
Nope, we’re all pretty much fucked up before we come
here. Even amongst killers and rapists, misery enjoys
company. Water seeks its own level and birds of
feather fuck together, hence my current zip code and
latitude.

Some humans refuse to accept all aspects of humanity:
good and evil. Introspection ain’t honesty, it’s
excessive flattery at the most masturbatory level. In
our mind's eye we see only beauty. From the outside,
the Eskimo world sees neither a porn star nor a poet:
just a violent and sick fuck like yours truly, jerking
off to nonsensical mutterings and musings.

Living so far north, I’ve got nowhere else to go.


Karl.

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