Tuesday, September 20, 2005

TB followed human migration across the Bering Sea, not a stowaway inside bible toting disease laden evangelical missionaries.

Top of the morning gents,

I must apologize for skipping yesterday's submittal.

Instead of mad typing with coffee and bong hits, tea
and toke, I spent my morning engaged in philosophical
debate with our beloved David Craig discussing
infection routes of Alaska's peoples and plagues.

We also beat the shit out the issue of indigenous
complacency and fatal acceptance that all of Alaska's
lethal viruses piggybacked within catholic sputum and
protestant snot spray and micro penis drainage.

It gives me great pleasure to beat up on lunatic
epistemologies and bizarre cults we now call popular
religion. But in light of current genetic and
geographic mapping of pre-contact and post-contact
killer diseases, we may have been hasty to blame
everything sick and evil on Alaska's sick and evil
religiously psychopath and darky children splitting
missionaries. This one time may not be the case.

Viruses and bacterium can be genetically mapped and
discriminated by genomes unique and adaptable.

We now can also discern migration routes, disease
carrier trails of devastation and relative ages of

Alaska's very own strain of TB is insidious, tough and
chronic; much like our unique strains of Matanuska
Thunder Fuck hybrid alfalfa pine chron.

Alaska's very own TB also fails to match the DNA of TB
viruses currently devastating reservations and inner
city slums us healthy folks call 'Jim Towns',
'ghettos', 'Indun Territory', and 'San Francisco', but
is identical to the strain destroying my blessed
neighborhood (Browerville) aptly titled by my Eskimo
drinking, hunting, and raping pals as "NiggerVille."

Alaska's very own TB originated from Mongolia and
Siberia, just like my wife. Extraordinary cultures,
races and diseases thrive and incubate on the Asian
continent and are spread by fleeing humans smart
enough to get the hell outa Dodge and far away from
tiny ricey dick toting chinks, dinks, slopes and

Just like us pale and blue eyed Viking motherfuckers,
you owe a debt of gratitude to the Chinese and
Mongoloids for populating North America and Alaska
with sturdy, short and brown natives.

I have the sneaking feeling, America's natives will
re-write their history to suggest they migrated from
somewhere else, not China, and absorbed the few pale
humans previously here. The oldest fossilized remains
in America are of a man similar to the Inu on the tip
of Japan: a blend of Irish, Viking and Asians.

Before the industrial revolution brought about by
smelting bronze, boats made a civilization superior.
If we lower sea levels by 400 feet, we'll find Chinese
junks off the west coast and Finn/Mick archeological
remains in Iceland, Greenland, China and Canada.

The purest race of people in the world are found in
Iceland, a bastard blend of Vikings and their Irish
slaves. If you blend in some gook DNA you'll recreate
modern native Americans.

Another interesting spanner to throw into the werks is
the drastically varying immune systems possessed by
varying ancestries. Ya see, us Northern European fair
skinned fairies are the survivors of the Great Black
Plague subsequently immune to HIV AIDS and America's
continental TB, but we're sitting dead ducks when
infected with Alaska's unique and deadly strain of
Siberian TB.

Weird huh?

As you all know, I'm immersed in mud, bugs, and drugs
and exposed daily to plethora colds, flu bugs,
herpetic cold sores and pneumonia every time my pretty
Eskimo wife and I 'go visit', party and take smoke
breaks with our kinfolk, neighbors and criminally
native drug buddies. Yet I get sick only once every
two years.

The magnitude of diseases that level my scrawny ass
bed ridden are just like one of my all time 10 best
hangovers: illnesses that can kill small children.

Every human knows what the withdrawal symptoms of
ethanol consumption and indulgence are: sick ass
puking ill hangovers. Mostly from mixing grape and
grains or failing to follow the Viking Drinking
Mantra: Beer first, then whiskey: anus risky. Whiskey
first, then beer: anus clear.

When yer drinking with fair skinned blue eyed Jews,
yer drinking to your health, not runny shits and vomit
caked toilet seats, beard, bed and hair. But if yer a
fucking Imiqtuq, yer gonna need to wash yer mouth and
anes, hands fists and feet. Hence why my Siberian wife
frequently scolds me for 'drinking native.'

Besides, she gets grossed out when my clothes smell
like a Ballot buttfucker or my breath smells like a
long dead Selawikmute shrunken head Inukun.

Some of you have heard that old 1961 country western
song from Carl Perkins, "Some niggers never die, they
just smell that way."

That's me mates, after I spend the evening drinking
and smoking with Super Dad from Unalakleet (aka Sarin
Gas), or with Rielly Kuwonna, Martin and Jack
Oktollik, and Mack Rock; all from Jabbertown, Pt.
Dope. If I drink at a matched pace with me hunting,
killing and raping Mongoloid motherfucker pals, I
stink worse than a dead Indun, aromatic and disgusting
as decomposing African slime.

Enough colorful descriptions how badly all humans can
reek, leak, and fumigate with mere liquid farts that
announce the news of our health with a bonus weather
report. Every human is free to get sick and die but
caring for all of us is tricky.

We have a responsibility to take care of ourselves, so
we don't become another evangelical missionary
spreading disease laden sperm and spit to our blessed
neighbors, friends, and pals from darker mothers.

Caring for the world is a burden.

Such a burden that our languages contains ancient
descriptions of the difficulty caring for all of our
blessed hominids evolved from highly modified monkey
platforms. Doctors without borders is best described
as a Herculean Endeavor. Thus deserving honorable
mention in today's cop talk newsletter.

I don't think I have the gonads, nor the upper body
strength to care for all humans.

But I'll try.

You killers in uniform know more about infection and
injury than most mortals. Yet none of ye will ever
find one another in heaven. Miracle workers never get
a break cuz yer all earthbound misfits creating heaven
on Earth by mending the broken, curing the ill, and
isolating retarded humans that can't resist temptation
via prison or banishment.

Such folks we aptly call 'ghetto mod' need
identification so they can live amongst their own kind
in jail and enjoy same sex orgies of evil and disease
every day for the rest of their lives.

America has outgrown its purpose as a penal colony.
Now we have the largest percentage of our population
behind bars, more than any other country in the world:
more than Russia, China or North Korea.

We need another shit hole to send our convicts to.
Hey, how about Africa? Now that's hell.

Why do we heal the sick, but banish those that can't
resist Evil? It's our nature to improve our DNA and
bad breath with every generation.

Unless you live in Kotzebue, Bethel or Barrow.

Carry on gents. And cover yer mouth when you cough.
Outlawing spitting on sidewalks drastically lowered TB
rates in the lesser 48. By containing quarantined
queer folks inside California oughta keep our children
safe from sick pedo-homos banished to the Gay Area, I
mean Bay Area.

I’ve got no idea how in hell am I gonna protect my
grandkids from my Eskimo neighbors though.

Life is always right or wrong, black or white, sick or
pregnant; or both. Contemporary notions of including
the gray areas simply suggest we provide gay areas. We
do, it's called incarceration, soon to require free
air fare to another continent: Africa.

Go native, fuck off and die.



Historic disease
Public health doctor chronicles devastating legacy of
tuberculosis among Native Alaskans

Anchorage Daily News

Published: September 20, 2005
Last Modified: September 20, 2005 at 06:11 AM

Almost 60 years ago, doctors visited a village in
Interior Alaska and stopped to help a man worried
about his ailing boy.

The doctor told him that his son's tuberculosis was
too advanced and he would die. The father begged for
help. Five of his children had already died of the
respiratory disease, and he couldn't spare another.

"Must we all die of the TB?" he asked.

And from this short story, Dr. Robert Fortuine wrote
an entire book with a similar title: "Must We All Die:
Alaska's Enduring Struggle with Tuberculosis."

The long-time public health doctor writes about a
state he's called home for much of the past 40 years
and about an epidemic that's been around for much
longer than that.

Though steeped in years of medical training, Fortuine
spent his early college years studying German
literature and classical Greek. Mixing both interests,
he has spent the last couple of decades writing
Alaska's medical history. In the late 1980s, he
published "Chills and Fever: Health and Disease in the
Early History of Alaska" -- a book that continues to
attract interest.

" 'Chills and Fever' still sells," said Rachel
Epstein, the University of Alaska Anchorage Campus
Bookstore's special events coordinator. "It's a
classic. I don't say that loosely."

Throughout his medical career, Fortuine was a
commissioned officer in the U.S. Public Health
Service. He directed the Bethel hospital and later the
Alaska Native Medical Center in Anchorage; he went to
Switzerland to serve as the liaison between the
federal government and the World Health Organization.
He finished back in Alaska taking care of patients and
teaching medical students.

Now in retirement, Fortuine has been publishing books.
Calling himself a "compulsive bibliographer," he's
compiled multiple books listing sources for Alaska
medical history. He's finishing a chronicle of the
Public Health Service's work in this state, written
primarily for people who have done that kind of work.

"Must We All Die" serves another function. He wrote
that for all Alaskans, he said, hoping they won't
forget what he calls a neglected part of Alaska

Dr. Beth Funk, who directs the state's tuberculosis
program today, said she was impressed by Fortuine's
attention to detail.

"I knew that when he was going to be taking this on,
that this would just be a treasure as far as
preserving information about TB that is probably going
to be lost over time," she said.

Fortuine said his book replaces long-cherished ideas
with reality.

"One of the striking -- braver, shall we say -- theses
of the book is that TB was here before the white man
came," he said, backing up his statement with studies.

"I'm saying that tuberculosis existed in Alaska before
the advent of the first European explorers, and that
it was probably carried over the Bering Land Bridge.
So it's much older than we thought."

He spends the rest of the book using words and old
photographs to illustrate Alaska's struggle with what
he calls an "epidemic in slow-motion." Alaska went
from isolating patients in tents to sending them to
sanatoriums scattered throughout the region to
treating them with drugs that finally helped save
people's lives.

With these changes came a plummeting death rate.
Before 1950, the infectious disease killed 200 to 300
Alaskans every year, according to Fortuine's book. In
1932, for example, the mortality rate for Alaska
Natives soared to 986 TB-related deaths for every
100,000 people. The national rate reported just two
years earlier was just 71 deaths per 100,000.

Tuberculosis in Alaska looks much different today. In
recent years, Alaska reported one of the highest TB
rates in the country, but "high" today means 43 total
cases reported in 2004, and about one to two deaths
every year, Funk said.

Fortuine explained his book, and the research that
went into it, during an interview.

Q. Why were you interested in publishing this book?

A. I always have had a problem -- because of my narrow
focus in life, perhaps -- but a problem with the fact
that histories of Alaska are about the salmon industry
and about the gold mines and the gold rushes,
politics, about oil ... but virtually nothing about
these devastating epidemics. Not just tuberculosis,
but the 1918-19 flu epidemic ... And these things are
just glossed over, as if they didn't exist.

Q. What do you hope people walk away with after
reading this book?

A. Well, I'd like to have people appreciate what a
part this disease played not only in Alaska history
but particularly in the lives of Native people. That
many Natives of today even have horrible, grim
memories of this, of these years in the hospital and
how everyone's family was affected by this. ....

I don't think that most Alaskans appreciate this.
First of all, most Alaskans nowadays have very little
dealings with the Native population. ... They see the
bad side of things. They have no idea what village
life is like or what village tradition is like. Or
what the life of these people has been, even though
they may now live in Anchorage. I think this is a bit
of Alaskan history that has been terribly neglected.

First of all, it's something we should be proud of,
how we dealt with it. And secondly, it's something we
should know more about to realize the extent of this
vast human tragedy, which by the efforts of many
people has now become at least manageable -- a ghost
of its former self but still an important problem.

Q. From 1900 to present-day Alaska, there's been quite
a shift in the tuberculosis problem and how it was
treated. Can you explain that?

A. By 1900, TB was most everywhere in the Native
population. There are just all kinds of references to
it, and so many are in the book. And it was pretty
well uncontrolled because there was no treatment

So people ... were just spreading it to others and it
was thought that about 25 percent or more of people
had tuberculosis. Probably as many as 10 percent had
active disease that could be fatal, and many times
was, because there was literally no treatment, not
even sanatorium treatment at that time.

So the only thing that was done in the earliest years
was an attempt to isolate people by having them stay
in tents away from other people. Or in a few villages,
they were able to construct cabins for tubercular
families, again away from the rest of the population,
just to cut down on spread. But that didn't help the
people living in the cabins ... who were living with
their own germs and dying from them.

Q. Throughout the century, TB patients went from no
treatment available to being sent to sanatoriums to
taking a long regimen of drugs once they became
available in the late 1940s and '50s. What was it like
for patients staying at tuberculosis wards when you
directed the Alaska Native Medical Center in the

A. Basically at that point, late in the season so to
speak, people were very restless. They knew they
weren't going to die of TB. See, in the '40s, people
wouldn't go to the hospital because the patients never
came home. They died. Or many of them did. And so it
was difficult to persuade them to go to the hospital.

(Then) the drugs came in ... everybody got well pretty
much, and they usually went home in a half to a third
of the time. And so people were glad to go and get it
over with and come back cured, you see.

By the 1970s, TB was already kind of passe, and people
were reluctant to go to the hospital at all, and they
were very restless in the hospital. And they were
usually only there because of complications of some
sort -- you know, they needed surgery or they had
resistant organisms or they had such severe disease
that they had to be hospitalized.

And so there was a lot of bad behavior, shall we say.
People smuggled in alcohol and they got drunk and they
would go out on pass and not come back. And some
people ran away in their pajamas. And there (were)
some fights that broke out on the ward. And it was
kind of unpleasant, really.

Q. What is the most interesting thing you learned
through doing this research?

A. I was very impressed with how the people of the
territory, back in the '40s and '50s particularly,
really got together and solved the problem, or at
least they did a remarkable job. ...

What's often been overlooked, I think, is the
volunteerism. ... I was just very impressed with how
people did work together, and one other extraordinary
example of this ... is in 1946. Gov. (Ernest) Gruening
called a special session of the legislature ... to
deal with two problems post-war ... one was certain
veterans benefits that they were dealing with, and the
other was tuberculosis. And that legislature
appropriated $250,000 for TB, which seems like a
paltry amount by today's standards, but that was
one-tenth of the entire territorial budget. ...

There was just this can-do attitude all over in
dealing with the TB epidemic. And of course there were
disagreements and there was pettiness and there was
political cross-purposes and all the usual sort of
stuff. But all in all, it was a rather extraordinary
time when people from all walks of life and all kinds
of agencies -- and the private sector and the state
sector and the territorial and the federal -- all
worked together and accomplished a great thing. And a
thing that benefited everybody but particularly the
Native population.

I frankly would like to see a little more of that in
today's world. When you see the partisan bickering
that goes on now in our legislative sessions and the
priorities that people have for spending money, I
think we could do a lot better. We should use this an
example maybe of how we should be running Alaska.

Q. Do you consider Alaska's fight with tuberculosis
over the last 100 years a success story?

A. Yes, up to a point it was one of the great public
health triumphs of modern times. ... But it also
demonstrates very clearly what has happened over and
over again in the history of public health throughout
the world, and that is: we get complacent. Suddenly we
think we've solved it, so we move all our health funds
into some other area. We tackle a new problem and
neglect the old problem.

And TB is the kind of thing -- it's a very resourceful
disease -- and it has many ways to do you in. It
reactivates, which is one of the big problems. ... The
organism, rather, becomes resistant to the drugs. The
whole area of AIDS has complicated the story. The
whole influx of new patients from overseas has caused
new problems in Alaska, particularly from southern

So basically, we reached a peak around 1970 or so when
we thought, 'Gee, well, we solved that problem. Let's
go onto something else.' And the funds began to dry
up, the staffing disappeared, there wasn't the
follow-up of old patients that had been treated in the
'50s and '60s. And sure enough, it started coming

Q. Do you think more funding needs to be available to
continuing fighting TB? (Note: According to Dr. Beth
Funk, Alaska's annual budget to fight TB is just under
a million dollars in federal and state funds.)

A. I would think so, yes. ... Most of these people who
are involved in TB control are not dedicated to TB
alone. They're lab people who do a lot of other lab
work. They're public health nurses who have a variety
of other responsibilities. They're the doctors
themselves ... who have many other responsibilities.
One of the big difficulties, always, is coordination
-- to keep people on message and keep people focused
on bringing it all together, and I think that's what
often fails in bureaucracy. There are too many people
involved. And there have to be.

(TB is) an expensive disease still, even though the
numbers are a lot smaller than they used to be. It's a
disease that isn't going to go away easily, because
there's no immunization for it that's really
effective. And there's no royal road to treatment.
It's a long-standing treatment that takes nine months
or more, and much longer in selected cases.

And it's just something that doesn't roll over and die
for you. It's something you have to work at and always
be aware that it's there and that it's going to come
back if you don't keep the heat on.

Daily News reporter Ann Potempa can be reached at
257-4581 or apotempa@adn.com.


Dr. Robert Fortuine will speak about his new book,
"Must We All Die: Alaska's Enduring Struggle with
Tuberculosis," at a book-signing event from 6 to 8
p.m. Oct. 26 at the University of Alaska Anchorage
Campus Bookstore, 2905 Providence Drive.


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