Ye can't rape the willing. Ye can't kill the dead. My Eskimo brethren are fucking bulletproof.

Top of the morning gents,

What doesn't kill you, merely makes you stronger. Or
some shit misconstrued to include ideas and input from
my wife, Mack Rock, and Super Dad from Unalakleet.

Pulling this submittal outa my ass was a bitch. I
almost let it fester a bit longer, but the brown ring
around my forearm is less irritating than the stick I
carried around up my ass.

Besides, my blessed Eskimo wife kept asking me about
this damn article and prodded me to wrap it up, ship
it out, and publish the damn thing.

When I first arrived in Kotzebue as a plea bargain
with a King County Superior Court Judge, I duked it
out with 3 drunken natives questioning my fitness for
duty in such a cold and dark, desolate and violent
village.

Ya see, much to the chagrin of the darkies here in
Barrow, Kotzebue is the largest Eskimo community in
the world. Barrow may be larger in total population,
but our demographics break down like this: 40% Eskimo,
40% European tribes, 20% Samoan, Philipino, with a
sprinkling of Thai and Laos folks pulling their
weight, and then some.

After a night of drinking with Higman, Newberry, and
some ass bandit from the Schaeffer clan, Gilbert the
ass licking queer, I'd had my fill of beer, bourbon
and puny fag talk and felt a brisk walk home in frosty
temps near zero would clear my head and settle my
stomach.

Besides, I'd had enough conversation in the company of
3 short little homosexuals and the walk from Gilberts
oil soaked residence to 321 Second Avenue wasn't too
far, even for a violent kid from the Killing Fields of
The Pacific Northwest.

I strolled down a snow drifted Front Street past Kenny
and Annie's and down towards the Nulugbolt Hotel FAS
breeding hostel and brown brain cell burial ground.

As I walked past the hotel entrance and behind
Hanson's Dry Goods Trading Post, 3 fucked up scralings
intercepted me and proceeded to call me shit ass names
like Nulaami, Nigger, and White Trash: names I had no
clue that were intended to injure me.

These nigger-lipped terms of endearment failed to
upset me, but the knuckle sandwich on my eyebrow sure
as shit did. I recoiled, put up my guard only to be
greeted by a stinking head of hair head butting its
way toward my gut.

I had this guy bent over and in a headlock, then
preceded to suffocate him and wail the living piss
outa his ear and mouth with chops that wet my hands
with blood.

His buddy came staggering around for a piece of me,
but I was able to shove his drunk and suffocating pal
into him giving me a few seconds to gain balance and
get my bearings.

Drunk monkey #2 tripped and fell on his wheezing buddy
with the bloody ear hole on the ground, got back on
his feet and staggered a circuitous path towards me
with his dukes up and talking afro smack.

He didn't land any punches worth a shit, aside from a
lip splitter bleeding from inside my mouth. I tangled
him up, got another good arm lock around his neck and
proceeded to slug him in the nose and mouth over and
over keeping an eye on drunken monkey #3, who just
leaned against Hanson's back building smoking a
cigarette.

Monkey #2 took a beating and kept spitting. He kept
trying to punch me in the groin while I kept his head
cranked hard to one side so I could knee him and kick
him in his ugly brown face. A face nobody could make
any uglier, yet I would recognize years later as Eli
Williams.

Since I cranked his head so hard to one side as to
expose it to my good right hook and knee punts, when
he went limp I was satisfied I'd killed and let him
drop.

Monkey #1 staggered to his feet and tried to meander
his way towards me. Impatient with retarded
bio-mechanics of lesser humans, I walked directly to
him and punched him in the Adam's Apple then punted
him in the gonad bag, whereupon he layed down like a
good and dead Indun.

Wheezing and coughing, bleeding from my eye, mouth and
hands and pert near ready to puke up my belly full of
Budweiser and Beam, I gestured to the smoking monkey
#3 and said, "Okay, yer turn."

This is the funny part. He just stood there smoking
his cigarette, looked around at the two Williams
brothers laying in the snow, then said, "We're cool."

So I staggered home and iced my face and hands.

To this day, I can't place his face with a name except
Edwin Malcom or some Nelson turdbite, I think.

So, what makes Eskimos so violent and tough?

If I threaten to pound the shit outa any Inupiaq,
they'll laugh.

If I carry out my threat, all I do is hurt myself.

If I threaten to buttfuck a native man in front of his
kids and wife, they just shrug and state they already
been there and done that, even the kids.

When I do get truly mean and nasty and perform prison
violence and debauchery rape on any Eskimo, they won't
cry, scream, or yell 'uncle.' Even splitting a lad up
the middle like a cedar shingle with a Sorrel boot up
the groin hole, they just drop to the ground and play
dead.

Every exercise in pain, torture or sexual violence
towards my blessed native brethren is similar to
playing handball against a curtain or fucking fat
white cunts on a water bed, exercises in redundant
futility.

What makes Eskimos so tough? Threats of rape,
beatings, or murder are greeted with 'no big, ain't
nothing new.'

A few nights ago, a good buddy of mine, Mack Rock
popped in for a few bong rips, iced tea and
conversation. We discussed this very issue.

He stated that every Eskimo is abused out of love and
to train their children to endure all things awful and
painful. He went on to explain that all those bloody
games of endurance at the Eskimo Olympics hurt more
than getting fucked by yer poppa, uncle or older
brothers. After a childhood filled with so many
character building, yet rectum and heartbreaking
aboriginal practices, ya got one tough, mean and
violent Inupiaq citizen.

Excessive childhood abuse, neglect and trauma makes
damn good hunters and warriors and even better prison
inmates.

All my pals here north of 70 lat are tougher'n shit.
They're also horribly cruel to their progeny.

When Reggie Joule declared in court that child abuse
and neglect is a cultural archetype, I shit my pants.

Now that I'm old and scarred to shit, I see his
perverse logic. There ain't nothing I can do to
intimidate, scare, or hurt an Eskimo, it's already
been done.

I've doled out far too many beatings, whippings, and
rapes, yet still couldn't put a dent in any of my
brown subhuman combatant's self-esteem or life span.

They've been there and done that long before I swapped
my diapers for Alaskan residency.

I'm here to attest: Eskimos are tough. Ye can't kill
the dead ye can't rape the willing.

Never say 'uncle' and especially, never say die, cuz
all of us north of 70 lat already smell that way.

Birds of feather fuck together. I'm no good anywhere
else. My religious reformation and subsequent cultural
adjustments are irreversible.


*What did the Eskimo kid yell when he had his first
orgasm?

Ease up dad, yer crushing my smokes.


Karl.