Monday, October 03, 2005

Next reincarNation, I'm ordering new ears and hands.

Top of the morning gents,

I'm being careful. For once.

The last time I cut my self a real doozy while butchering caribou for my tunnik punniktuk (blue eyed Jew dried meat) I couldn't type nor play my old acoustic guitar fer shit.

When will I learn that every hole in the ground ain't my ass and don't require constant wiping? Fuck me running.

I can count the number of times I've injured myself on one hand: cuz I amputated the other one.

Kidding. I can count the number of times I hurt myself on two hands, two feet. And my fly open.

I ain't too good at Blackjack without my dick airing the in the breeze.

When communicating with Edmonds, Lynnwood and Mountlake Terrace Police, I gained free lodging by merely displaying how a fucking retarded witch (White Bitch) counts 21 years of illegal insobriety.

Did you know pepper mace feels like fire on yer dick? It do.

I really got to save my hands, ears too.

I just wish I could cut fish and meat with my dick utilizing it beyond causing re-injury to a wound that will likely never heal.

Me bunnik's burned her hands and arms fetching loaves of bread outa the oven, I've delivered chemical burns to my hands whilst stirring meat and caustic spicy brine sauce. No shit, both ovens and industrial strength marinade seasonings will fry yer shit.

Despite eating and drinking to a state of staotopighea (med term for fat butt) and lordosis I was able to slice up buckets of gamy meat without adding any vampire blood to the batch.

Your safe, I got over that AIDS thing years ago. Hooah!

I can afford to binge bourbon and purge toxic brain cell memory banks and gain a few pounds too. I've dropped from pert near 300 pounds down to 15 stone 5.

218 = 15.5 X 14 14 pounds per British Stone ye stinking wet fanny fart (cunt fart).

My penchant for debauchery and butchery ain't nothing new. Me and Charlie (bun's wlk bro) cut up shit loads of dead animals in our time. He and I cut up millions of fish at the Whitney Foods building: side-by-side with David and Clifford Melton, David and Danny Burnor.

Charlie and I also butchered up a piles of caribou in front of Kenny and Annie's house on Front Street faster than a spic with a Mexican speed wrench. Be careful around tall farm boys, they'll have ye disassembled, digested with bovine and swine fodder and churned into pig shit and cow pies decades before grand jury empanelment, if ever.

Good ol' Charlie Tikik, an Eskimo version of Mr. Fling Poo Chinaman Sumo motherfucker that can shoot perty fucking good despite congenital Siberian eye structure with chemical enhancements compliments of your author on drugs creating an appearance of a fat chief laughing through chinked eyes.

This sumo chub fuck could drop wolves at a full out run from a wobbling airplane driven be crooked man. Gene Starkweather and Charlie drilled hundreds of high speed wolves and varmints: Gene piloting between trees, Charlie discharging thunderous cannon fire from the side of the plane.

How cool is that?

Way cool is the word.

The only savage fauna I ever smoked were hiding under houses, chained out front, or cornered into playing 'chase the bullet' with a blond haired arctic Muslim motherfucker whose political opinions are buried in time far to the right of Adolph and Hannibal.

I never got to shoot any fleeing wolf at top speed. I only got to shoot lotsa fox bounding around at the end of my chain mail on 3 limbs. I had to learn to shoot, and I mean everything the hard way, cuz I got my parka shredded when I tried to strip the hide off a comatose, yet very alive and kicking fox. Them fuckers shriek like small minority humans on a popcicle stick.

Me and Mike Kramer set pert near 2 dozen traps all around Kotzebue K-Mart (city dump). I then proceeded to empty all the dead dogs me and Joe and BlackBird shot in the kennels behind the old jail no longer hungry for Gayle's kitchen leftovers.

Columbo also called me in for overtime to lug out a stack of frozen dogs inside the old fire hall across from the Sgt's secret pussy stash on third avenue. I think I lugged a half dozen from the kennels, a bit more inside the old fire hall.

I always knew when it was time for Sgt. to git a nut and offload a million of his closest relatives inside cranky old lady cooter biscuit, she always called me at KPD to curse me, scold me and then drunkenly ask me to send the cops over for a fermented pheromone cologne spray discharge and ripe rank booty call.

When you remember that old bag, you'll bust a gut fer sure. She was real perty, almost as perty as Edith.

Way to go boss, come a load and drive it home, count the rings and take a core sample.

Most of the dogs never made it inside the fencing around the dump. If yer wondering why so many dozens of dogs were mysteriously found outside the dump, it was cuz me and Kramer used those piles of dead dogs as fox, wolf and bear bate for our traps. Kewl huh?

We placed dead dogs all around the dump as air fresheners and flavor cell attractants. Fuck we trapped, shot and killed a lot of fur animals. Mike showed me how to strip the hide off in reverse by slashing around the mouth and using the lips to peel hundreds of gorgeous fox and wolf hides off warm bloody flinchers allowing us to tan the skin from the inside out.

After the skin is salted and Boraxed, dried, scraped and softened, we simply turned the bitch inside out again yielding fucking awesome fox and wolf hides.

We left all the fur on most of the dogs.

On my late night winter shifts at KPD I sometimes got radio checks on the citizen's band (CB) radio from Wallace way upriver or Mack, Blanchard or Jewell lost in their own front yards.

Sometimes I got radio communications from coworkers asking where the on-duty cops were before they drunkenly drove home.

Ken Jewell was a clever soldier. He and I worked out a secret code that wouldn't seem interesting amidst all the other clandestine police, fire, FAA, AST and medic chatter on primary and back channels. The only noise you'd ever hear on the tactical channel was yours truly selling drugs to local wholesalers and good village citizens of interest.

Officer Jewell wouldn't ever phone from the off-site merc bar somewhere in the 400 block, he'd just radio check me. If the cops were 10-8 and in-service road bound, I'd reply with professional certainty that there was considerable distortion risk and inevitable interception between his location and mine in Central Dispatch.

If you guys were in the jail drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes with me or upstairs in the squad room, my reply was "10-2 loud and clear." Then Ken would bid farewell to his drinking compatriots in uniform and covertly and discreetly drive home VERY drunk.

He who controls communication, controls thought.

One dark and stormy fucking night Kramer radioed me and asked when I was off duty 10-100. I replied I came in at 2000 hours working that dumb ass rotating shift overlapping and doubling staff for violent teeth loosening Fridays and Saturday nights when we filled the jail beyond capacity just to give Gumby and Ward heart attacks, ulcers and the runs.

He replied that he'd pick me up at 400 hours.

He drove me home so I could boot and jacket up, grab some guns and ammo, then drive his Toyota Forerunner out on the ice up the coast a bit further past Ivik.

When Kramer stopped the truck, I couldn't believe my eyes.

Illuminated in front of us was a huge circular section of ice about a hunnert yards across completely free of snow with dozens of caribou heads sticking above the frozen ocean.

No shit it was spooky.

Sometime back, a whole section of ice broke and sank under the weight of a herd of caribou. I bet none were able to climb out cuz many caribou had only their front hooves up on the edge of the ice propping their heads above the water. Water now frozen 4 inches thick locking in caribou frozen in time.

Imagine: pre-washed and frozen lunch meat just waiting for us to axe and chainsaw as much food as we wanted?

Which is what we did. We left the truck on the thicker snow covered ice and tested our way to inspect our lunch box fodder.

We smacked and hacked around the tastiest corpses for ourselves. We sawed off all the heads and legs to compress and compact them then loaded them in the back of Mike's truck. We must've packed in almost 8 frozen abdomens nice and tight. All without a single drop of blood anywhere.

So kewl.

While Mikey was chopping and chain sawing to free our bounty of aboriginal grubbage, I stayed far away and clear for obvious reasons relevant to hunting easy meat with a man named Kramer.

I left my 300 mag rifle in the truck but lugged a holstered 44 stainless: you know that big Hollywood sissy gun I bought from Joe? That long barrel monster now archived in my pops collection, once served it's purpose scaring the living shit outa my simpleton hunting, trapping but not raping partner.

I yelled, "Holy Shit, one of 'ems alive!"

Then I proceeded to cycle off a few magnum rounds into the head of a frozen and antlered steer barely above the ground level frozen ice.

Kramer spun around in time to trip over his arctic meat treat and fall on his keaster while I detonated ear shattering and echoing gun fire removing most of the frozen horns and bones flush level with the sea ice. MagSafes and Hydroshock ammunition were all I had in Pim's last care package, so that's what I loaded. Their performances in frozen beings were explosive.

Dumbass ain't I?

I was bored and completely surrounded by darkness and severe nut crunching cold. So like a good bitch Eskimo I made lots of noise and histrionic upset. Meaning I destroyed that quiet desolate moment north of 70 lat and a few miles out on the sea ice by unleashing skull disintegrating and ear shattering explosions.

I also gave Kramer a heart attack and record level pucker factor, in the pitch dark and 30 below cold. Despite a killer northern lights show overhead it would've been a bitch walking home alone.

What am I saying? I'm just like all you maggots: homeless everywhere South of circumpolar Eskimo Territory.

Now you understand my most recent 'pusri unnuk' slang shingle: cuz that's what Super Dad newly dubbed me.

Eskimo nicknames usually depict horrible violence, this new one simply means 'nigger shit.' If I'm gonna sling nicknames, I gotta take 'em as they come too.

These days and 2 decades later my hearing is failing quickly. Like your deaf grandparents, I too crank the TV louder'n shit and demand people speak clearly and loudly to me.

Sara used to complain that she could hear my twangy Hindu shit music (Ravi Shankar) all the way down the road from her bus stop on the Parks Highway mile 71 in Willow. A life full of far too much gunfire kills more than lunch and nemesis detractor trespassers.

In my old age, I've noticed that I now fail to hear women and children at all. There lies my secret to the smile on my face and the bounce in my step. As my senses fail and my IQ drops steadily towards two digits, I'm finding peace and happiness here north of 70 lat.

Since my hands are hammered and my hearing is fucked, I now no longer require hearing protection and gloves.

Ye can't rape the willing, ye can't kill the dead. Cheers mates, I'm saving my last brain cell for my next binge, this last one lasted over 30 years.

Fuck all, right mates.



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