Tuesday, December 20, 2005

I count my blessings daily. I'm surrounded by murderous bastards just like all of ye. Keep the phone calls coming mates. I got wood.

Top of the morning gents,

My oh my. I feel really good.

Nope, no chron tokes (coffee and bong hits), I chatted
with Sore Throat yesterday, Sarin Gas the day before,
and today I smoked up a stack of calling cards yacking
with Squish, Sore Throat, Columbo and Commander Craig.

Ain't that a diverse brood of bastards? Yes sir.

Medic One phoned in with well wishes and warm regards,
then we proceeded to share tales of great
accomplishments, long lost brain cells, and rejoiced
in our similar personalities indicative of our
asshole-ness.

Yup. Our Asshole-ness. Meaning we gotta go it alone be
it my narc jobs or medic 1's solo ascent of Denali,
with or without our last brain cell, fuck all.

A short dicked dwarf curmudgeon that runs a micro arms
dealership out of a shitty shack next to the old OTZ
Phone Co is upset I volunteer for non-paid narc jobs
rototilling bootlegger ops, drug houses and any other
filthy domicile I so choose to fuck up.

Where does this Kneal and Bob dick smoker get off? I
fear alcoholics, but not short gray haired faggots
that use little boys as a penis holster. I'm sure he's
reading this blog too, but I won't let gapers and
starfish fart hammers off the hook without a dose of
karmic medicine he so deserves. Come on, any stub dick
that can spooge inside any of the Hailstoner clan must
lack a sense of smell. And taste. I hear tossed salad
covers the taste of foul fish drippings.

As far as my ordered targets from the Chief or you
guys, my handlers: nothing gets in my way, not even
the United States Constitution. Just ask Dr. Logan how
smart his #1 pupil is: one standard deviation below
that smart ass genius from Elaudio, Dutch West Indies;
my brilliance ain't even close. I'm only clever and
cunning. Far cry from true geniuses like you honorable
gents in public service.

Remember, I'm the fuck up and dumbshit. Knowing this
makes me smarter than most.

Here's why I like fucking over drug dealers. Okay
besides the notion that it takes one to know one...

Ya see, poverty doesn't bring about drug abuse, drug
abuse begets poverty. If I clip drug use in my native
neighborhoods, you'll see a fuck load more old clothes
and soiled diapers in the dumpster, not worn by rural
Alaskan kids needlessly suffering from a dismally poor
choice of parents.

Columbo's timing of scheduled raids on the my places
of business right before PFD season meant that the
only good Christmas in Kotzebue was 1992. Carlos
Lederer was in place (up Hall/Ciringione ass) and
locked and loaded, Columbo and Nay are like my
childhood swim coaches and symphony conductors: smart
and lethal and their orders are to be followed, sir.

How can any colored minority kid grow up healthy,
wealthy and wise if his Indun/Ice nigger momma keeps
drinking, smoking, and snorting his swimming pool
fees, private music lessons and Sylvan Learning Center
tutorial expenses.

Ya see the choice our blessed brown brethren make?
Dope, not diapers. Hence why poor kids smell awful and
why my parents won't let any "dirty poor" folks in
their Volvos or on their farms: no health, wealth, nor
wisdom. Just shit poor folks whose parents were also
poor.

That's why I chose this crew of killers. Each and
every one of you know what public service means:
police, fire, medic, child advocacy and literacy
angels.

See?

Ya think I pick and choose the motherfuckers I write
to? Nope, we're drawn together by common interests.
Birds of feather fuck together, everyone of you chose
me. Amen?

I may be smart, but my idiot savant lies in my ability
to out write all you bastards, and be fucking arrogant
about too.

David Craig and I chat at a level slightly askew from
you lads: more existential Christian theory busting a
gut laughing about Catholic children and their really
big rectums. Wait, ain't Roy Mendenhall a Catholic?

Well shoot, then his childhood rapes and gapes are
just part of his religious and cultural upbringing.
Catholic and native: now that's a big twink.

How can a loose goose Niff Fluffer ever feel like a
real man equal to you lads when the poor half breed is
cursed with a lifetime of memories serving his step dad
as little girl butt pussy? Hence the resentment of you
guys that avoided boy rumping and tasting your
brother's pussy on your dad's dick.

A good Catholic need not make a Christian and may the
Catholic Church be buried face down in the dirt so all
them child buggers can see which direction they're
heading and follow all the other child gomers plaguing
rural Alaska.

Hey Ramboy54, all the people you told to visit this
site now have a key stroke logger on their machines
allowing me to read emails from Maniilaq all the way
to the ASRC server. I owe you a thanks for letting me
read half the NANA region's emails from child porn
jerkers, chicken chokers and wanna-be not so brown
bitch cunts.

With the increased traffic to my blogsite my bank
deposits from Google AdSense, Internet PayPal and
FastClick are huge. All you readers not addressed in
this daily am cop talk newsletter have made me a tidy
sum with your visits and clicking on my links. I get
one cent for each visit, a nickel for every link
visit. With 1-5,000 visits daily, my weekly take pays
for all my green beers and green tokes.

Remember. Ass, gas, or grass. Nobody rides for free.
You get to writhe in confusing aboriginal anger while
I pull yer strings, tell tales from your childhoods
and rag on the parents that buggered you.

You may get pissed, but my readers in Scandinavia
absolutely love "Chukchi Humor." And why not, if I
don't break out in tears, I'm gonna bust a gut and
cackle at whole classrooms filled with busted butts.
That's what you get when you name an elementary school
after an alcoholic drug addict that committed suicide
by OD. I carried her to the trunk of the patrol car
that you all saw backed up to the crematorium.

I got a chance to BS with deadly Sarin Gas too. He
shared with me great tales of hunting and shooting
from the boat he bought from me. Mr. Deadly Sarin Gas
bagged a few more walrus, seal and caribou so I
emplored with, "Details Biach!"

Sarin launched the boat from right in front of NAPA,
opened the throttle a full twist racing down near
Hollywood, the site where all those gay black and
white native documentaries are filmed cuz Barrow and
Kotz are such ghetto mod shitholes.

From a ways offshore, Sarin leveled his 243 on the
eyes and balls of a bull moose, rocked with the wave's
ebb and flow timing his trigger finger to auto-cycle
the instance his sites were a few inches above the
shoulders dropping the bullet directly into the
caribou's engine room.

Rumor has it, that the big walrus posted on our
blogsite was smoked, blasted and butchered by the
infamous deadly Sarin Gas.

God bless the last of a dying breed. Sarin is by far
the largest donor of whole seals sent to Helen
Kagoona, Agent Octuck, Tess, Ella and Sara Evak. 90%
of the caribou I brine soak and dry also comes from
Mr. Deadly. So if you've snacked on any of my caribou
corpse steaks or tunnik punniktuk: tip yer hat to the
Gas Man.

Only dead grubbage and munchies be in his wake.

Anchoragua is only good for cheap drugs and native
bars while Shitbanks is full of easy Indun whore
drunks, Barrow is blessed with one murderous
motherfucker from Unalakleet. I ain't kidding, when
you see Mr. Deadly Sarin Gas pulling 2 sleds towards
my front porch, you'll see me and my bunnik grinning
from ear to ear.

Or in my case: ear to deaf ear. All those years
shooting with Six Killer, Blanchard, Mack and my RA
unit in Willow pert near fucked my ears FUBAR.

But since I never owned a gun, touched a gun, nor
fired a gun the fictional aspect of our daily am cop
talk is meaningless and all bullshit to those
inquiring brown minds reading my blogsite with panties
abunched and puny brains astressed. Oh yeah, I also
never worked for any police departments and never
engaged in unsanctioned misdemeanants nor felonious
nefarious scheming, so fuck you.

My Viking grandfather once noted that Americans are
constantly seeking approval. Numb nut grabby abby
motherfuckers won't be gettin' none here. I'm married
to an Eskimo, got an Eskimo daughter and 2 Eskimo
grandchildren, it's time I call a Spade a Spade, or so
the commander scolded.

He's taken shit from resentful little brown people for
over 45 years; his wife too, bless her heart. He said
the ignorant racist hatred of us tall Europeans with
bigger dicks put up with only gets worse as we age, so
don't hold yer breath thinking Native love extends
beyond black eyes, hickeys, and sore butts. You likely
don't want any.

Aside from you lot, there are a few blessed angels
here on Earth also. My heart fills with warmth
recalling her rave reviews of my jerked meats.

"I didn't know our food tasted so awful, thank you
Karl." "All of David's buddies are angels." "Tell
Bunny I love you guys."

Which I do every day. Roight mates?

Aunt Rachel claims I'm a blessing to her. She's wrong:
she and David are blessings to all of us and none of
us will fucking forget it. Ya hear me?

David enjoys my $50.00 philosophical phone debates,
but not as much as I do. I learn more than he teaches.

That spook located me 22 hours after I re-entered the
US with a cheesy bogus passport I made in Inari,
Finland. He also deduced why I was out of reach for
such an extended period of time (some misunderstanding
about parallel importation or some shit).

For the record: all my passport/ID machines were
donated to the Ilisagvik College For the Retarded, so
don't ask me for any phony ID, ask the Sgt, he's
working the WANT division (western Alaska narc
taskforce), he'll punch you up a phony ID.

Damn I'm proud to be of your acquaintances. You guys are
angels AND assholes, bless your hearts.

For our readers legion and anonymous, it's time you
too stopped letting yer funny uncles doink yer babies.

Hell, if you want to eliminate further phone calls to
Ruthless Apgar, start loving yer kids instead of
injuring them.

They're natives, not dogs.

If any of you want to volunteer in ridding yer
communities of white trash king pin drug dealers,
contact KPD at 907-442-3351, the District Attorney's
Office at 907-442-3396 or your's truly at
1-800-eat-shit.

Anybody can become a spook, spy, narc or undercover
agent, ye just gotta step up to the bat and sprout
larger gonads and buy drugs or jugs for the Sgt or
Lt. Columbo.

As the years go by, you'll likely never figure out
who all these concealed identities are, we're your
neighbors that serve and protect yer sorry thankless
infected asses.

Save a windshield from poop, eat a foul smelling pussy
attached to your local bird cart.

Ick that's nasty, but not as nasty as Roy's new
T-shirt.

L8TR B8TR's

Karl.

PS. If you don't want to read about this crap on the
Internet, don't let it happen to your community's
children. Amen?

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