I tend not to let the little things bother me, so don't let my rancid rhetorical shit bother you neither.

Top of the morning gents,

Glad to be above ground sucking hooch, not dirt. Some
days I forget the miracles bestowed upon us.

Me and the Mrs. rallied last night.

We snatched Deadly Sarin Gas from his hotel, strapped
on our seatbelts, and loaded up some Seattle Charlie
Daniels. Led Zep for you non-Finns with patience,
light loafers and short legs.

Meaning I drove like my old jerk self: the unmedicated
self toking on a number and grooving on the radio;
chinked above safe speeds.

Yup, I gave up the Ritalin the day we boarded Alaska
Airlines and bid Barrow farewell. I'm now balanced
with a natural blend of 17 herbs and spices, with
multivitamin ambers for dick rinse.

In simple lay terms, I returned to my manic self, sans
depression. Us hypers only get rage angry or mad
happy, hence this convulsive text muke spew: knuckles
or goose bumps.

Something magical and omnipotent-and addicting about
cycling sonic 24/7. Wish I could bottle up this
genetic component and share it with you, but I'd have
to reverse time and modify the A4 allele on every
single DNA molecule in yer anes.

Yup, I'd have to slap yer momma's WIDE LOAD ass and
douche yer mitochondrial soul kitchen with a few
million of my closest relatives, thus excluding anal
and oral sex between me and yer mum.

Ain't happening. God made us exactly the way we are
for good fucking reason. We'd abeen dead from the git
go if we all looked identically Swedish like the Sgt,
identically French like RichiE or identically Siberian
like 6Killer. We'd surely be dead if we were all
identical Niffs like Bull Hensley too.

Get it? Our disgusting differences in appearance,
build, butt stench and immunity saved our diversely
ugly skins.

The reason I'm delicately touching these thoughts
versus smashing the living shit outa yer inherent
sensitivities is cuz an old drug buddy shook my hand,
hugged me and acknowledged lingering sadness and guilt
about the day we drank big old Bull Hensley into his
grave. Even I can learn a lot from a dummy.

Bubba from Kotzebue sorted me out of a crowded native
bar, did a double take at me and bunnik, then plowed a
swath from his beer to mine. That big old sumo fuck
bastard was smiling from deaf ear to deaf ear (we're
both old now) and shoved 30 brown tard midgets aside
and hugged both bun and I simultaneously. He then gave
me the nod and said he sure missed Bull.

That was a day I broke a little bit more for the
better and accepted fractional responsibility for
every and all my drinking, smoking, hunting and raping
partners.

Me and Bubba, Albert Monroe, Pete and Billy Lambert
and some other stray pussy drank a case of pink cap,
packed our beeks with a half oz of Capone blow
simmering down with bong rips of some Cullik chronic
cured way down south in the basement of a Ballard
house packed full with PA gear stolen outa the
basement of the Eskimo Building and the Rec Center.

Life is contradictory. Y'all hire me for the weirdest
fucking narc jobs; yet I'm a drug dealer by trade.
Y'all hire me for communications in Central Dipatch;
yet I'm a goddamn congenital liar. Y'all hire me to
protect private property and bodily pubic safety; yet
I'm one violently domestic rat thief.

I guess it makes sense. But I ought'nt've pillaged so
many fucking buildings with so many mysterious
janitorial keys and window jims, and a school district
Fixed Assets Inventory Manifest. MicroDot and Capones:
why steal when I can embezzle entire inventories
without implicating myself aside from a fictional
diatribe that's as accurate as my memory isn't
impaired.

Oh, pink cap = jersey number 151 racing for team
Bacardi. The blow was bought on credit. Bull's credit,
and never paid for. Pity, cuz Bull died that night
while I floated home. Nothing's free.

This morning, I'm glad to be alive. Unless I did
actually die bare naked and burned gonads suffering in
inhuman detainment and un-American snow, and you guys
ain't got the guts to tell we're all croakers and I'm
too stupid to know.

Bullshitting about Bull with Bubba. Like that?

Me and a crew of natives stood out in the snow behind
GasLight last night and achieved one fine chemically
agreeable singularity.

We may've been a bunch of accomplished rapists, be we
ain't tough fucking native hoodlums, just agitated
hominids forever jumpy as Fiver the Rabbit in
Watership Down. We all sort of silenced our spastic
terrestrial fidgeting and gazed at the moon rising
above the mountains behind Eagle River. Real baked.

I don't know what all them other baked alaskan natives
were thinking between puffs of pine spice, but I was
dumbfounded why I'm forever locked in a bitter/sweet
world filled with the finest and the worst humans on
the fucking Earth. Present company included. As
wonderful each and every one of ye is, y'all is a
bunch of cruel buttfuckers too.

What? No argument? My money is on yer soul tag that
lists you lads at birth as violent, smelly, handsome
sexual predators.

I can't comprehend a lot of things all you uniformed
felons and graying gunslingers take for granted. I'm
smarter than most from congenital and selective
pruning and chemical enhancements, but at the expense
of any prayer of keepng friends and loved ones close
by while I hurt myself today.

No mercy. Nobody. Fuck I have a hard time keeping
friends.

That brings us to you lot. Why do you put up with my
overwhelming cruelty and pathetic skills of empathy
equal to glass chards.

I sure like hurting people when I'm cycling rapid-fire
within my fatter language centers while selfishly
sidestepping damaged frontal lobes of responsible
consequences. I don't care, cuz I can't.

These fictional tales of completely fabricated
horse-puckey and shit ass poor character development
are absorbed and synthesized daily by Squish and
Columbo and they have learned to interpret this
digital text matrix as 3 dimensionally colorful
images. Rest of ye too I imagine.

As long as all of ye continue being ye, you can count
on me being me. Piece of shit ain't I?

We're doing the very best we can. This you've deduced
by my ignoring yer inumerable shittiest aspects and
desparately ennunciating your attributes wonderful and
benevolent. Look in the mirror dickheads, this is hard
work.

Word: I ain't full of shit, I merely overlook yer
poopy butt breath, binge drinking habits, poor taste
in pussy and the nicotine stains on yer fingers. Your
all handsome soldiers in my mind despite yer Eskimo
skulls, Nordic dicks and ice nigger lips too.

None of us need reminding of our failed redemptions,
revoked memberships with the human race, and complete
failures at re-inventing ourselves for the better.

We're getting older, but ain't none of us getting
better.

I won't be sucking dirt for while, so stick around and
set a spell. My village is yer village; have a drink
on me.

Besides, I desparately need the company.

Nothing good stands alone.


Karl.