Swapped out picture and weblog sites. Now we're cooking with gas!

Top of the morning gents,

No author ever had to put up with these bright
hyperactive little shitting machines. I'll never get a
page off as long as I got little Inukun monkeys
climbing all over my ass. Who'd a thunk that 2 little
Eskimo grandchildren would find my busted carcass more
fun than 6-Flags Theme Park?

Pied Piper my ass, I'm a bong man myself. Kids still
follow me outa the parking lots, malls and parks
wandering away from parents in droves.

Judas Goat or some shit. I don't kill children, I ship
'em out to the villages. That's worse.

Most of you bastards have extensive experience with
infants and toddlers: My hat is off to ye. I sure as
fuck don't, at least this fucking century.

Those of you that ever hatched any similarly appearing
turdlings in the last hunnert fucking years hear my
pleas for a return to isolation inside my arctic
computing station.

Babies are for real. Novel concept for a monster from
the vil.

My back is fucked from stooping to pick up hailing
babies. Part of our beloved mom's sufferings that we
all owe an infinite debt of gratitude to. So call yer
moms and tell 'em ye love 'em.

You too Sarge, the Goulsbie Conspiracy is real, just
ask Commander Craig. Old dude could fuck all our shit
up. Sober and honest cops scare me, good thing only
Craig is privvy to my dubiously professional shite.

When I phoned my dad for remedies to constant stress
headaches and extreme vulnerability to loud screeches
from 100 mph habitual quadrapedal micro-chimps in
diapers, he simply said, "Son, now you know why I
drink in the morning."


OK, finished my mile long list of chores, now I get to
indulge in writing, my absurd hobby perfectly suited
to upset most baked Alaskans, our blessed rural
rodentry impaired from mud, bugs, and drugs.

No shit, I'm betting 2 miles of to-do's, cursed duties
and wallet depleting grandpa obligations that most of
my diatribal dysentary and comment reeks of wet farts.
Abrasive, yes. The wet fart notion arises from my
crude sounds and gestures that sound like I got a
little water in the mouth piece.

Since I'm unwittingly accessing other people's emails,
I get to examine thoughts and opinions of many of our
neighbors.

Some respondents on the old blog set up weren't very
nice nor accurate in describing me. Foul, yes, but
lacking depth or tricky irony, I don't think so.

It's time I share with the world my most recent dozen
rolls of film I just got processed.

I disabled the now obsolete key_stroke_logger.exe
program so it's now safe to visit extremenortheskimo
again. Take a peek, I swapped out the abrasive
communications between all of us uniformed killers and
graying gunslingers with really fucking awesome photos
of my lysergic distorted existence on the wrong end of
the North American continent.

I got pics of all kind of shit, including you lot.
Hooah!

http://extremenortheskimo.blogspot.com

The abrasively intelligent discourse archive is stored
at

http://northof70lat.blogspot.com

Smile, yer on spastic spotlight.

Apologies around fer my ignorance. I ain't ignoring
ye, just got both arms squirming full of Eskimo babies
with diapers full of baby poop worth a small fortune
since I started paying for all the groceries, gas and
drugs.

I've smoked Labrador weed, haven't toked any Inupiaq
bud cuz the dope or diapers paradigm precludes much
fun and games with our mutual chemical brothers down
here.

For the record: No, I won't take any metro narc
contracts. So pound sand.

"I'd never hurt a friend" (Ronin).

The only job I'm gonna backdoor is near a missile
silo.

Provided I got 1D25's quick draw kid covering my 6.


I'll get my spook back on and into my party mode:
after I wash this stinky funny mustard outa my beard,
hair and clothes.

Wait, this stuff smells like diaper paint.

Karl. AKA stink man.

PS. Call yer mom's and thank 'em. This tending to baby
shit sucks poopy butt, but not nuvuk. If I was yer
mums, Ida pitched you into Unnuk Lake. This diaper
business sucks really fucking bad.

And to think you wayward sons are drifting further
into remote nowhereville and further away from the
lady that sniffed yer shit and didn't bust yer skull
with yer appa's nugger knocker.

I can detect yer Eskimo-ness can't I? Like reading tea
leaves, I can read your rural Alaskan futures by
reading asspaint spray and spatter marks.

Yer mums really shoulda kilt yer asses.