Older the goat, the longer the horn.

Top of the morning gents,

Dope or diapers.

Remember that dopeheaded coloquialism?

Well, now I'm discovering why my stress level tweaks for varietal reasons both here in Los Anchorage and way up north at my beloved quarter million dollar duplex.

I can't drag and drop Mr. Wobbly all over hell and back, especially if the kids are 'round. Neither Sara Magnum nor her dueling subsistence chitlens ought not see me tugging and pulling on the fat bat, nor dispensing meds with the extra large throat gaper.

Smart infants and children will NEVER let me git my tit-fill. Ain't no peace with Children. Ain't no piece neither, goddamn it.

I can't even shock them sawed off 'Skimos into catatonic silence any longer. I'll have to come up with an even more offensive and abrasive request than, "You kids shut the hell up, I'm going upstairs to fuck yer grandma!"

Nope. Now they repeat this to their mommy, thus why gramps is always the bad guy, and why he takes his drugs with coffee in the morning.

"Hi, my name is Ewel Gibbons, ever eat a pine tree?" "I have, most parts are edible." (Grape Nuts Spokesman and Naturalist-1976)

That's me, 'cept I eat shit. And lots of it. If any of you've been the only swinging dick in a crowd of cunning little runts or running little cunts, ye best put up, shut up and simply enjoy the discomforting fem-psyche group-think, the ever arousing view AND the aroma.

Beats sniffing farts and bong water in the back seat of an old Dodge Dart or 66 Ford Econoline van with yer drug buddies anyday. Amen?

What my erectile curious mind wants to know is, did anybody ever eat a sperm whale without kneepads, with better teeth than Linda Lovelace and her theatric massage and pecker snot paintable clitoral misplacement pert near a foot below her esophagus.

Since Cully and Bill Pace worked at gimp shacks wheeling and wiping mini-limbed droolers for a living, I got to experiment in all kinds of killer cereal non-consensual sex. As we say in the incest livestock porn industry, I've earned my red badge of courage. I can be macho.

I'm not sure you should be laughing. I seen some of the animals and minorities yer dicks have gaped, so fuck ye.

Ain't too erotic: an image of a gimp choking down a John Holmes Salami Breakfast Sausage? Now I'm chuckling. Or more perverse, my villagic-enquiring mind wants to know how much meat can a disfigured girl with a scarred up face pack in her mouth.

Some day I'll tell ye. Now that's avant-garde creep show sex.

Akin to 'how much wood can a woodchuck chuck' analogy by watching handicapped midgets spaz on a baseball bat is mighty arousing, but watching trolls swing on and bite off more than they can chew is down right hilarious.

Like I tell Squish, the reason I like fucking midgets is cuz my dick looks so fucking huge sticking out the backa their stumpy ass cheeks.

But if you've got a hunkerin' fer some chubby-chubby gimp splitting, phone my secret admirer and stalker bitch at Mikunda Cottrell.

You didn't know that I have a secret admirer did ye?

I do. And I attract scores of 'em.

My bunnik is amazed at how psycho white bitches are. Maybe is just me, but I get targeted by aggressive cunts lacking color, tact or intellectual prowess and vaginally unemployed. It don't matter if I'm in line at the airport, hotel or downtown doing business with my rather pretty wife right fucking next to me.

These bitches ain't even good looking enough for me to take the bag off my head and barely worth fucking with Blanchard's dick. I ain't kidding, put on a sport coat and yer seriously psycho-bitch bait leaving white trash slug tracks all over yer shit.

Combat sex. Gimp Sex. Miss it. Not.

Okay. Maybe.

I'm married. Meaning I get to make grown men chuckle with outlandish tales that never happened with characters and readers that never existed. My editor in chief has her way with me, so long as the little ones are at daycare or chemically chained to the ceiling.

I was never there. I didn't do it. This is my story and I'm sticking to it.

I miss being retired. I sure wish I was 60 again.

Karluk.

My new mantra oughta go like this "tit-fill or poopy butt chores."

---

Men in Their Fifties Score High on Satisfaction Scale

By the time the 50s come along the children have flown the
nest, enabling men to enjoy quality time with their
partner in and out of bed. It used to be that reaching his
half-century made a man feel old, but not any more.

Today's fifty-something still has a twinkle in his eye and
a more enjoyable sex life than a man in his 30s and 40s, a
survey has revealed.

In fact he even rates himself with the next generation,
claiming satisfaction almost equal to a 20-year-old.

Experts who questioned more than 1,000 volunteers found
that while their sex drive has reduced with age, the
50-pluses enjoy themselves more than men in their 40s and
a lot more than the least satisfied age group, men in
their 30s.

The researchers suggested that fifty-somethings may be
more comfortable with their sex lives because they no
longer have to worry about the pressures of building a
career or looking after young children and can concentrate
on having fun.

James Bond Factor

The study conducted by researchers in Norway and the US
could soften the blow of reaching 50 and provide hope for
millions of men who look forward with dread to "middle
age."

It could be the James Bond factor, with Pierce Brosnan at
52 only just retired from Hollywood's sexiest role. Then
there's Richard Gere at 55 and Mel Gibson, Kevin Costner
and Bruce Willis, all 50 and still playing ladies' men.

The results showed a very strong correlation between men
getting older and reduced sexual functioning, but not
between age and sexual satisfaction.

"Our results show that although men experience more
problems and less sexual function as they get older, it
doesn't necessarily follow that they are less satisfied
with their sex lives," said Professor Sophie Fossa,
co-author of the report.

Sex Life Satisfaction Stats

A team of researchers from universities in Norway and the
Harvard Medical School in the US conducted an anonymous
postal questionnaire of 1,185 Norwegian men.

They were asked to rate their satisfaction with various
aspects of their sex life from zero to four, with four
representing no problems.

The results, published in the current-issue of the British
Journal of Urology, were surprising.

Men in their 20s recorded an average satisfaction level of
2.79. The second highest was among fifty-somethings, who
scored a satisfaction rating of 2.77.

Men in their 30s reached 2.55 while men in their 40s
averaged 2.72.

After the age of 59, overall satisfaction fell
significantly to 2.46 for men in their 60s and 2.14 for
those in their 70s.

'Innate Confidence' in 50-Somethings

The researchers said that various reasons may explain the
findings relating to sexual satisfaction in different age
groups.

For many men, their 20s is a period of sexual
experimentation with a new partner or partners. But those
in their 30s may find themselves coping with the twin
pressures of starting a family and building a career.

By the time the 50s come along the children have flown the
nest, enabling men to enjoy quality time with their
partner in and out of bed.

Patti Birch, a sex and relationship therapist, said: "By
this age the children have left home and you have more
money to spend. At the same time you have reached the peak
of your career and if you need to get drugs like Viagra,
they are available. Also, at that age men are more expert
at knowing what they like sexually and much better than
younger men who are still learning sexual expertise. There
is an innate confidence in a man who's reached his 50s."

In Rural Alaska, we simply put a Mr.Yuk sticker on all them shitty little sober people.

Top of the morning gents,

Sleeping sober blows.

Last few days I've been waking up in the morning thick
as a brick. So rusty is my skull and sore is me busted
knuckles my typewriter is sluggish as a lunatic on the
grass.

I could've been born bright.

We may be ugly, but at least smarter'n me: I'm stupid
cuz I still rotate back and forth between Anchoragua
and Barrow like a fucking glutton for pain. I might
think my village neighbors call me Mr. Tibbs, but
God's honest truth: they'll always call me Stink Man
or Oochuk boy.

We earn nicknames wherever we shit and piss. Paul
Quinn incessantly called me a cheap git, and an
'American fuck-off cunt', but his ilk don't exist
stateside. In Barrow, I gotta take flack as it comes;
even Sarin Gas calling me 'Groidals' or yelling in my
answering machine "Dude, where's yer drinks? Come on,
hook a nigger up."

Business is business, and an ancient part of every
aboriginal culture. In China, ye gotta learn
children's and wive's names, and in order. 'Guanchee'
is the phonetic sounding practice Weishang lectured
me. None of you graying gunslingers and uniformed
felons ever knew I had any lab partners besides Our
Man Chermaine and Captain Jay Gardner, but I did.

Weishang was obviously from China, Joaquin Trybom was
from Sweden, and Roman Serry from Russia. Like every
lab partner and presentation project group, these lads
from foreign soil are all far smarter than I. But
again, I prefer to be the dumbest ass in all my teams.
Anything else is intolerable and forever a piss off.

Which is why I've chosen to abuse all of you sons of
birches. As long as the 'tall white guy' is the
dumbest guy, we've set the bar pretty fucking high.
Amen?

I know my IQ. I'm proud to trail all ye bastards.

Didn't know that did you? I merely have a good memory
yet completely lack a sense of imagination beyond our
collective nightmares. Like I bemoaned before, I
aren't as smart as you fuckers, just surpassed you in
compensatory skills, selective pruning and chemical
enhancements.

Full of shit? I doubt it. You want to meet some smart
folks, sit with any of the folks listed above.

If I didn't have all you soldiers to pilfer and rob
horrid experiences from you'd be jerking off to porn
instead of reading rough essay sketches from yer
author on drugs with you bastards as leading
characters. Fuck ye.

When you weren't looking I did the Spock mind meld on
yer asses. Hence the shitty outlook due to the
permanent memories harder to hatch than fossilized
irritants never becoming pearls. If none of ye ever
set foot in dangerous parts Alaskan, you'd never
understand a fucking word I write.

All of ye have lassoed some seriously ugly biscuit,
all of ye have tagged and branded some seriously
gorgeous whiskered trim too. Like all boys, you'll be
the last one to know yer dead, but first one to know
the corner pocket, dank face nuzzle in the dark and
whiskey dick filling station really should be the
angel you married.

Don't listen to me, my zip code is a fucking village
too. I had to kiss a LOT of toads before I found my
princess. Okay, I'm lying: I kissed and licked a lot
of princesses too, sucking so many vertical Mons
Venusian's mindless, her heads legion caved in. It’s
poor taste to kiss and tell, but harvesting organs is
now deemed good taste.

Us men simply need to keep a finger on the continually
evolving modern culture. Not fuck it. Besides, aside
from your soul mate, best friend angelic and exclusive
lover, all them other bitches are ugly fucking
sisters. Just gotta stand ‘em on their head.

Don’t believe me?

Next time a mean fuck throwing grunt cunt hits on you,
look at your wedding ring, then your kids and
grandkids, then pick the bitch up and turn her over
with a foul panty snatch and discard with 0.0 degree
of difficulty (and taste) thus refreshing yer memory
and nostrils why you’re a married stud and not a sick
and dying single maggot we’ll forever assume a faggot.

Yup, from orchestra dork to village idiot. I sure can
pull a Charley. Only difference, my abilities ebb and
flow and I occasionally beat Algernon through the
'shortcuts' behind the old hospital and to house 711
before the bad guys catch me wiring up at Nay's Office
or sneaking disguised in and out the back of the
courthouse.

Sneaking about on controlled buys, controlled deliveries,
and reverse stings north of the arctic circle ain't all
that difficult when ye got the divine trio of killers
(Wallace, Eunice and Columbo) covering my back. Shit,
looking back, we ain't got too many villages left to raid.

Itchy trigger fingers are a blessed thing when warming
fat barreled revolvers. Much as I applaud Svobodny's
appointment as Head of Alaska's Cold Case Files and
Unsolved Mysteries, I'm still more apt to back a team
of top notch spooks and narcs only if top management and
logistics is composed of Sgt, Squish and Columbo.

Only at this point in time would I pity rural Alaska's
bootleggers, drug runners and drug dealers. Poor fuckers
don't stand a gaped goat's ass's chance in Edmonds.

As angels possessing bullet ridden wings, ye may be
akin to the squirrel with the broken back, soldiers
keep fighting like yo-yo gimp karate and do the fish,
spin circles, shrieking the instant we're
disintegrated, only to reappear north of 70 lat back
home, at camp or hiking north again.

Upon arrival in every village, every known relative
will give me an immediate sit-rep rife with gossip:
Who's got booqs. Who's got jugs. And who's wife we
can't mount and groan cuz Super Dad's got his dick in
her anes hammering farts and washing sewer utilitors
with foaming rabid pecker snot.

Why do I got a spoon in my toilet and my dog's
pregnant? And who spooged my porridge and gaped my
goat?

More likely it was one of us, ye villagers of ill
repute.

Within cinco minutos from deplaning back home in the
vil, every neighbor will make contact via phone,
finger gesture or smoke signal. Lloyd-man, my dude and
neighbor across the street usually sends up a welcome
plume with three short dashes.

The dashes are diagonal piles of powdered ivory and
baleen sanding dust.

If you buy that, I'm gonna pound ye. Barrow didn't
just wrap up a summit on powdered bone and tusk
inhalation abuse. I'm fucking WAY too sober and
missing the other edge of the double-edged sword.

Tobacco and intoxicating grogs may put a soldier to
sleep, yet a very troubling sleep, awaking agitated
yet alive and full of energy. Playing Grandpa to a
pair of Eskimo grandkids pretty much kills my party
scene. Dope or diapers.

Wonderful distractions these little runt Inukuns make.
Always yelling "appa" and "poppa" and even yelling
"momma" at me is stressful, but far safer than
inhaling whole smoke signals and washing down pine
scented saw dust with a bottle of bootleg whiskey
between 2 armed drunks racing on snow machines, yet
not even almost as fun.

I truly love gazing at the Sleeping Lady and Denali on
clear days here South of 60, but my heart yearns
almost as much as my addictions plethora to again
hike, fuck and hunt north of 70 lat.

If I can't make you think, then at least I'll fucking
make you feel.


"Sir, are you feeling better?"

"I'm feeling you better get me a bucket" (M. Python).



Karl.

Why's everybody always picking on Galena?

Top of the morning gents,

My, oh my.

I got some tedious news clippings about a gorgeous
community on the Yukon River. A bit of a row at the
local watering hole over trite regulations contingent
upon employment: nothing important, just a bunch of
fucking natives anyway.

I also got a long ass news article from the NY Times.
Seems someone opened their big fucking mouth about how
easy it is to deal shitty drugs to the Induns out on
the reserve.

Back here in Alaska it's sacrilegious to blabber on
about bootlegging and drug dealing product channels
from Seattle, Anchorage then all parts unknown
throughout rural Alaska. It's also in poor taste to
poke fun at the millions of native dollars going down
the drain in the form of beer piss from a whiskey
dick. It's even more of a faux paux to poke around the
millions deposited in bar and liquor store bank
accounts.

I'd venture to speculate that a lot of Alaska's
history and lore originates from legendary tales of
gold rushes and oil booms attracting and siphoning all
of America's deadly blue eyed devils. These same blue
eyed devils that diluted the grabby aboriginal gene
pool with recessive traits dooming high stepping
yeller half-breeds to the same fate as your author on
drugs.

Albinos can't hang. Off to the shitter with history
rewritten in the future omitting any existence of us
fair skinned fairies from Northern Europe. The
promised land is a metaphor in time, not geography nor
broadmindedness. Ye just gotta wait til all them poor
white motherfuckers with blond hair and blue eyes die
off, then it's Miller Time.

Imagine: no more guys like me in 2 centuries. Now
that's a reason to party.

I don't care if all Americans are immigrants, with all
the black folks back in Africa and all the Mexicans
back in Mexico, the surviving native Americans oughta
have a fucking Coke and smile.

Seattle's skid road and Puget Sound's docks are built
on 'stores of goods' headed for Alaska: lots of 'good
whores' in Seattle too. The real Alaska gold was found
in the bars, whorehouses and flophouses. Most miners
and trappers left or died broke, same with life
support systems for cunts. Hard to make a living
sucking dick in parking lots with all the free native
biscuit around.

Shoot, Trudy would shoot wet tennis balls at ye if you
bought her some drinks. Some folks are destined to be
part of Alaska's history, even ripe bastards like them
feral fucking rural newspaper editors.

Which brings me to something I found startling. In the
last few months, I've seen WAY more hookers leaving
slug tracks all over Mountain View. Just like the good
old pipeline and Valdez days, money flowed and so did
the native pussy.

Those still alive and remember the days of Alaskan
Dimes ($100 bills), lap dances without condoms, and
Shitbanks breakouts of North Slope native VD, might be
smart and write a last will and testament.

I'm sure glad I got over that AIDS thing. The Black
Plague had some upsides, us white neegroids and
infected gypsies snagged a whoop ass case of mental
retardation AND a questionable immunity to
herp/hep/aids and shit.

Communities are like human bio-cells, my lavish party
habits can ruin whole villages, possibly even kill
small children.

Here's the ironical verso. Brewster’s has been vacant
for almost a year, seriously crippling the local
economy's employment multiplier factor down "to the
kind of work even the blacks wouldn't do" (V.
Fox-President of Mexico).

To add insult to injury, the new tenants only hire
delirious dry drunks and mumbling homeless winos. Yup,
from a decrepit Brewster's building to a filthy heap
big bottom feeder, the Salvation Army.

Yeah team, go peasants.

I ain't fucking kidding. Lots of whores slipping and
falling all over Mount-a-NativeView this last few
months, with concentrations of black dudes parked in
cars supervising the Brown Jug, Mapco and Red Apple
parking lots. Professional property managers so to
speak.

Speaking for all the rest of us drug dealers, "there
goes the neighborhood."

Street hooking on ice in Alaska is a highly segregated
business. Each street has a different flavor, odor and
color of prostitute. Even a fat legislator from Bethel
could find a hooker to suit his pockmarked Indun
taste.

You may ask why I'm spending so much time in Mountain
View?

Simple. That's where all my old neighbors and in-laws
live.

"All I ask of a bar is that it be open." Lem, Dummy &
Assoc.

I also have a dilapidated old friend that might remind
a carcass of the dark ages. He looks like a larger
version of Tom Evans, Vietnam Vet Cripple, yet
derivative of Fek. If any of you watched the Rivers
Edge, you'll remember all the kids tweaking on Fek
weed.

Better yet, how about the psycho Nam dude Cheech and
Chong chiefed up with, trying not to look at the funky
blotch across his face.

Yup, that's my damaged on arrival Fek dude. Thomas the
nam crip, and central hangout for every pot smoking
native in the damn state: shitty smoky little
apartment, dirty and ungodly, but in a homey village
sort of way. Dig?

We pop in when he awakes in the evening. Good place to
catch up on pipeline gossip and where the heavy weight
is for sale: cash and carry-gentlemen's rules.

Surrounded by dirtier darkies, me and Thomas bullshit
about recent Barrow, Bethel and Kotzebue doings. He'll
sit behind his scale and weigh up bags whilst me and
Bunnik make ourselves at home in a rural dumpsite,
wash the coffee maker in preparation for the ancient
Japanese tea ceremony.

Like all of you graying gunslingers and uniformed
felons, I'm a goddamn Alaskimo. North of 70 lat, our
tea ceremonies ain't got dick to do with Japs, just
slopes like me.

When your zip code puts yer sorry ass at the wrong end
of the North American continent, most ritualized camp
and cabin gatherings enhance long overdue comrade and
friendship with a bit more than a cup of fucking tea.

This ain't bum fuck Egypt, our tea and toke coffee and
bonghits and 4:20 Tea Time with a spot of sugar and
lemon are a bit more of a chemically diverse custom,
and dosage.

Don't mess with Texas.

Where on the map does it say, "Alaska was made for
fucking with?" Can you tell I'm making new friends?
We'll see where this little drug junket takes us.

Same Bat Time. Same Bat Channel.


Karl.


---

Troopers cite untrained Bush alcohol servers
BUSTS: 9 men, women are ticketed for selling booze
without training.

By MEGAN HOLLAND
Anchorage Daily News

Published: February 19, 2006
Last Modified: February 19, 2006 at 03:09 AM


Nine men and women in western Interior Alaska who work
in some of the state's smallest bars and package
stores were ticketed by Alaska State Troopers last
week for selling booze without having received
required training.


The nine -- all of them longtime owners or employees
of liquor establishments in their communities --
include people who were nailed at Archie's Yukon Inn
in Galena and at the only retail liquor outlets in the
communities of Galena and Koyukuk.

The busts are some of the first under new procedures
in which troopers have begun enforcing state Alcohol
Beverage Control Board rules. The ABC rules include
requirements that people selling alcohol have had
alcohol server training and that they have received
instruction in the state's laws regarding IDs and on
serving people who are drunk.

The citations took those hit by surprise.

"We know everybody because we just little village,"
said Lolita Munter, 46, one of the store salespeople
cited in Galena. "I always be careful when we do
alcohol, because I know them."

"What's going on? Being in a village, we thought
nobody going to bother us," she said.

Galena has 650 residents and is on the north bank of
the Yukon River about 270 miles west of Fairbanks.
Koyukuk, with 100 residents, is 30 miles west of
Galena.

"Some of the places out in the boondocks have never
seen an ABC inspector," said Doug Griffin, Alcohol
Beverage Control Board director. "But now that the
troopers are doing this for us and finding violations
and writing them up, our presence has -- in terms of
doing inspections -- (been) greatly enhanced."

Griffin said he doesn't expect troopers to stop their
regular duties but that it is a cost-effective use of
state resources to ask them to do the checks if they
happen to be in a village.

"You are going to see a lot more inspections and a lot
more violations," he said. "We're trying to raise the
bar higher."

On Feb. 13, Galena-based wildlife enforcement trooper
Jay Sears issued tickets to the owner of Archie's
Yukon Inn, Marlene Marshall, 44, and her bartender,
Charlotte Gowan, 61.

"He just walked right in and wanted to know where the
booze was kept," said Marshall, who has owned the bar
for five years and run it for more than 20. "He didn't
even try to work with us or give us a warning."

Sears asked to see their alcohol server training card
-- Techniques of Alcohol Management, or TAM, cards.
They didn't have them, and the citations were issued.

At the Galena Liquor Store, owner Lewis Johnson, 55,
and four of his employees, Mary Benson, 55, Dennis
Sweetsir, 54, Curtiss Carlo, 45, and Munter, were
cited. Johnson, who had only recently renewed his TAM
card online when he realized it could be done
remotely, was cited for not making his employees get
the training.

"I guess we were all a little surprised by the
troopers," Johnson said. "The ABC guys would not have
cited us on the first-ever inspection. There was no
warning."

Sears could not be reached for this story.

On Feb. 14, at the Last Chance Trading Post in
Koyukuk, Sears cited owner Celene Hildebrand, 41, and
employee, Berchman Esmailka, 51.

The training that they were ticketed for not having
typically costs around $35 and lasts about four hours.
In addition to the state's laws regarding the sale of
alcohol, it also teaches things like how alcohol
affects the body and how to tactfully cut people off,
Griffin said.

The tickets are class A misdemeanors punishable by a
fine of up to $10,000 and one year in jail -- although
maximum penalties for these offenders is unlikely,
Griffin said.

The ABC used to be under the state Department of
Revenue, but in July 2003 Gov. Frank Murkowski moved
it to the Department of Public Safety and the idea
developed to use troopers to help with enforcement.
Within the past several months, troopers have been
trained to check ABC requirements at licensed liquor
establishments -- rules that otherwise would only be
enforced by ABC's four investigators.

Troopers enforcing the ABC rules are checking for
alcohol server training certificates, and things like
warning signs to pregnant women and underage drinkers.
They are also checking to see that toilets flush and
sinks drain properly.

Griffin estimates that less than 5 percent of the
state's roughly 1,800 liquor licenses are off the road
system -- most in places like Kodiak, Nome, Dutch
Harbor and McGrath, he said.

"We don't want to clog anybody's court calendars with
these cases; it's mainly to let you know that we're
watching you," Griffin said.

Archie's owner, Marshall, though, wishes the ABC Board
had let the Bush establishments know of the uptick in
enforcement. "The laws are fine, but we got misled
years ago," she said.

It got so expensive to fly employees to TAMs training
in Fairbanks, and "because we go through so many
employees out in the Bush. We thought they were giving
us a waiver," she said.

Marshall is a former TAM instructor and let her own
TAM card expire because she thought it was no longer
necessary, she said. Since getting the ticket last
week, she has taken the TAM test online and passed,
she said.

Johnson, owner of the Galena Liquor Store, also was a
TAM instructor at one time. "It's certainly not a hard
test," he said. He said his employees knew all of what
training would have taught them, they just didn't have
the paperwork to prove it.

Griffin said the Bush gets no special exemptions,
especially with Internet training now available.

"They have as big a problem of alcohol and a threat to
public safety than anywhere, if not more so. So I
could make an argument that they should be more
vigilant out there."

Daily News reporter Megan Holland can be reached at
mrholland@adn.com.


---


Article Published: Monday, February 20, 2006

Police Report
Fairbanks Daily News Miner

Failure to comply

Several people in Galena and Koyukuk were cited this
week for failure to complete the state alcohol server
training course within 30 days of their employment.

The owner and a bartender at Archie's Yukon in Galena
were cited for failure to complete the course.

The owner and four employees of the Galena Liquor
Store were also cited for failure to complete the
course.

The owner and one employee of the Last Chance Liquor
Store in Koyukuk were cited for failure to complete
the course.

I love the smell of napalm in the morning. It smells like victory.

Top of the morning gents,

Energy is so cool.

Boyhood memories of dumb ass pyro-spastic match play make a moron wince in embarrassment, guilt and self-punishing sense of stupid-ness.

Peeping inside all yer minds I see TONS of wasted storage space filled with a lust for burning shit too.

As boys, me and Cully pedaled to every neighborhood house fire and lightshow just to watch all the activity and rescue water response and mud-fest.

We sped on our bikes to the four corners of the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest just to watch nuclear clouds arising from barns, stalls and farmhouses. Some collapsing still inhabited with farm folk and farm animals. That kind of trauma is way better'n black and white TV any day.

One fire we didn't stick around to watch was the house fire we set ourselves. That scared me and I ain't a scared of nothing.

Me and Cully and Mike Perlatti snagged some chez (matches) from this old garage way out in the Indian Trails we'd played in for years. Lots of old tools, tires and glass jars full of nuts, bolts and clear fluids.

Great toyshop for future bombers, drug dealers and car thieves: all except the jars full of clear fluid that almost cooked 3 boys and flared up the wall louder'n a dog barking.

No shit, that fireball woofed at us and blew our goldie-locks back barely burning our eyelashes.

The series of subsequent flare-ups also effectively accelerated our midget leg sprint out the back door and to our getaway bicycles we'd covertly kept stashed and idling silently nearby.

When yer size 4 Keds is burning rubber faster than an adopted redheaded stepsister screaming and scared shitless, it's hard to make motor noises with yer mouth. So we had to imagine racecar motor noises and peeled out heading straight for home trying real hard not to cry.

First time the 3 of us ever saw one match turn into such a big and loud fucking monster. We never recovered from that experience.

We also never learned a damn thing that day either, cuz shit never stopped burning and exploding way out in the back of the goat's pasture along a dirt road in rural Snohomish County. Pyro-spastics tend to migrate like Chinese slaves, Nordic rapists and diseased gypsies, including one that shit and pissed all over the Kikiktagruk spit.

One of my most classic bonfires effectively fumigated all mosquito action from house 369 all the way past north tent city to those unnuk barrels me and Harley always kicked over.

I phoned Monson and Kathy Elam I was tearing off the front and back porches of house 369 and burning all the trash. Of course, not mentioning the dozen tires and hundreds of cooqtuq buckets filled with Eskimo ass paint energy cells.

Yup, Charlie and Big Dumb Dale raked and swept out the entire house, the surrounding yard, piling it atop a 10 foot stack of precariously balanced coolers, buckets and a freezer full of brown trout and reservation pancake butt-syrup. Mount Gallahorn I called this handsome pile, then I lit the fucker and put up a stink and smoke flair visible from the Deering bluffs.

The Chief and Sgt came out, watched us tear off rotten walls and roofing with a keen eye on Joe and Shauna Hammersley legally poaching narco-trafficantes on property owned by a crooked man, yer author on drugs.

Monson came out, Gordon Ito also showed up. Real geniuses speculated I needed a water source for safety concerns.

I pointed at the mile high steam plume over Pike’s Spit emanating from the untold hissing and steaming buckets of Inupiaq dysentery, exploding slowly over the tire fire underneath and pallet garbage fire atop, effectively storing 500 gallons of frozen incendiary retard right in my barbeque and poopy wiener roast.

Dave Summerfelt also graced us with his retarded supervisor's thoughts about landfills being cleaner than open pit bonfires. I chuckled with him, and at him.

Poor dick head is likely still poking through the trash at the District Office trying to deduce where so much electronic and PA equipment disappeared to.

The steady melting of liquid bio-mass and flavor cells kept the pallets, trash and tires at a steady roar and a damn fine upward wind thrust turning north at 50 feet dumping particulate poopoo and micro butt nuggets all over Kotzebue proper, but mostly Ken Hall's, Chris's little house and David Burnor's bug infested summer bucket shack.

My swath of collateral damage embarrasses me, but when I recall the total devastation of mosquitoes and criminal irritation I produced, my soiled boner and shitty grin outweigh any residual rapist's guilt.

I fucking love burning shit, which makes the energy field so cool. We gotta torch something like coal, natural gas, gasoline and diesel to get that throaty V-8 roar. The same roar I got when I drilled out the inner muffler plates under my 75 Cadillac.

I've run super in some real goddamn junkers, even lawn mowers, roto-tillers, weed-eaters and farm equipment. I still do. Every fill-up I've ever pumped my whole fucking life has been Leaded Premium or Super Unleaded, except in bush Alaska, you guys get the cloudy 87-octane tank piss.

Mark Arneson worked at the Ballard Union-76 for years. His analysis goes as follows:

"In the gasoline business, it's pretty much a commodity market with anti-foaming, anti-knock, detergents and water elimination additives for brand distinction and brand loyalty."

"In other words, you get exactly what you pay for, not penny more."

"If you prefer the cheaper grades of fuels, be my fucking guest." "It's cheap fuckers like that dumb bitch over there that keeps us mechanics in cigarettes, titties and beer."

Old Bob Jones at R&R Automotive always laughed every time I recited Arnie-Girl's fuel sit rep rendition.

"You know Karl, I make a penny more on regular gas per gallon than I do on Premium."

"Notice me and all my boys only use premium?"

"We hate gummy carbs, sooty plugs, and carbon pits in our exhaust valves."

"Besides, I hate fixing my own cars. Pisses me off."

"Now get back to work Mr. Ewing we got a line a cars out front. Get to washing windows and pumping gas and quit fucking around under the hoist!"

Before I was old enough to legally purchase liquor, I lived with Pim in a junkyard and worked at R&R Automotive pumping gas, washing windshields and chasing parts.

Americans sure can chief up a lot of tasty burnables. Earth easily accommodated all of us Americans and our thirst for Texaco Sky Chief Leaded Super 102 octane petrol. The North American Continent ain’t nothing, fueling China and India will surely Bogart the piss out of our personal stash of harsh oil.

Some shit never changes. My favorite leisure activities include road races, gumball rallies up and down Interstate 5, the Glenn and the Parks, or hanging around Jeb Timm, Jared Hope and John Trotter drinking cold beers and smoking cigarettes in hangars and service bays. I am in full agreement with our Texas pit bull president; I am truly addicted to resource eating machines.

Fire halls are an addictive substitute for my motor head fixes, as long as I smell a little diesel fuel from any tanker, hot coffee and Monson's cigarette smoke.

You lads all have similar surrogate fathers, brothers and toke partners no longer banging about in the shop, but raising holy hell inside yer minds.

Yup, it shows. Despite our diverse backgrounds, I’m betting most of our olfactory memory banks are filled with smells of delicious carcinogens.

Some of our old pals come up here and visit us from time to time just to remind us how far we’ve traveled and how many we’ve abandoned. That smell of cigarette and coffee smoke you smell every morning is proof they all made it back home hauling ass burning GTO (gas, tires and oil).

Funny, I think this might be why all these angels no longer leave skid nor burnout marks on terrestrial pavement in airfields nor hangars, highways nor drag strips.

They’re almost all gone now. Once in a while 1D25’s quick draw kid will pursue one of our long dead grease monkeys, motor heads and petrol-spooks, maybe even try to pull one of ‘em over for speeding over twice the legal limit.

I know Nay's kid can drive like a mother fucker and do spectacular signatures backwards and forwards in a patrol car, but my money ain’t on our copper dude.

Ye can’t pull ‘em over if Ye can’t force ‘em to land.

Like every story that ain't got no moral, gotta let the bad guy win every once in a while.


Karl.

----

The North Slope Crude right out my backyard used to be 25% of America’s oil reserve, now we’re only a skoatch over 10%.

From over 2 billion barrels a day down to less than half (875K): scary to see one of the largest oil pools on the continent leaning towards a quarter tank.

Sucking fumes? Only if we can’t pump 35 tcf of natural gas to market in Chicago.
---

January's North Slope oil production declined
MIXED RESULTS: Slope's two biggest fields increased output during the month.

By KRISTEN NELSON
Petroleum News

Published: February 15, 2006
Last Modified: February 15, 2006 at 02:55 AM


North Slope oil production averaged 857,271 barrels per day in January, down 0.3 percent from December, the state Department of Revenue said.


Production from the Slope's two biggest fields, which account for more than 60 percent of the output, saw more oil in January.

At Prudhoe Bay, which BP Exploration (Alaska) Inc. runs on behalf of all the oil companies with interest there, production averaged 406,578 barrels a day, up 1.4 percent. Prudhoe production includes oil from its small satellite fields: Midnight Sun, Aurora, Polaris, Borealis and Orion.

At the Kuparuk River fields, run by Conoco Phillips Alaska Inc. on behalf of itself and other oil companies, production averaged 170,336 barrels a day, up 0.6 percent. This total includes oil from the nearby West Sak, Tabasco, Tarn, Meltwater and Palm fields.

The Slope's number-three field is Alpine, which averaged 127,880 barrels a day, down 1.6 percent. The Revenue Department said production there slowed in the first week of January for minor pipeline repairs.

BP's Northstar field had the largest month-to-month production drop, down 10 percent, with an average of 49,462 barrels a day in January. The department said production slowed Jan. 17-27 while an engine was replaced on a gas compressor.

Production at BP's Milne Point field, which includes Schrader Bluff production, averaged 42,165 barrels a day, down 6 percent.

The Lisburne field averaged 40,124 barrels a day, up 3 percent. Lisburne's numbers include oil from the Point McIntyre and Niakuk fields.

The Endicott field averaged 20,726 barrels a day, down 2 percent. Endicott production includes oil from the Sag River, Eider and Badami fields nearby.

---

Lost in Arctic Darkness? Chemical Warfare on Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Top of the morning gents,

I found another article detailing the curse all of us
rural Nigerian Candidates suffer or enjoy: 66 days of
total arctic darkness.

This kicks my ass. My liver too. What's a moron to do?


When in Rome, do as the Romans. When in Barrow, do the
Ukpeagvik Boogie. This boogie is the toxic dance of
the dead and dying north of 70 lat.

Hang halides, chop powders, charbroil phlegm in pine
chron seasoning and wash away the dark of night with
vision enhancing levels of solvent and dog wash (R&R
and Natural Ice Beer).

The only thing natural about that beer is the high
flow hop squats my nose detects wafting from Child
Mo's and Reilly Ko's (Jack Octollik and Reilly
Kuwanna) honey bucket carving and drinking shack
across the street from Super Dad from Unalakleet.

Me and Sarin Gas have pert near chuked up visiting
that little shit shack. If the airborne powdered ivory
dust, cigarette and pot smoke don't gag ye, the
mountain grown, I mean mount and groan steaming and
smoking bucket chair in the corner will.

What kills me is how my hard drinking Eskimo brethren
can just walk up next to me and pull up a chair on the
throne that never flushes.

In my last tranformation, I had to focus on my bong
rips and cups of gulped whiskey: not the frozen uncle
on the S&R sled nearby nor my upriver fecal discharge
of high liquidity blasting overspray on my very own
north of 70 lat homegrown bud.

Ever slug an Immik, then push him over his own bucket
of ass paint? I have.

I sometimes wonder why I do such mean things. Poor guy
only cursed and spit at me, he likely didn't deserve
the liquid shit coating treatment, but the slug in the
neck was judged fair and healthful.

Paula Hensley's bro received karma from karluk. I was
so inflamed from shitty booze and eskimo drugsmoke I
almost killed that soggy snigger, 'cept he used germ
warfare.

When I got home, I burnt all my clothes.

Ah, the memories of long, cold and dark winters
suffering in the upper left hand corner of Alaska,
chugging and fighting over shots of 151 in Benny
Hensley's old shack, David Burnors little snow drifted
grovel, or Karl Sheldon's place of death watering hole
and sigluk tent freezer.

They're all dead now. No runs, no drips, no errors.

Those brusk faces and shrunken heads and shriveled
eyes only come out at night for a skoatch over 2 very
cold months and visible only in the dark if the dead
soul is sparking a bowl. A mind needn't accumulate
such images, drive ye to drink.

Since hiking all the way to Barrow, me and bunnik now
get fucked up in old man Ira's 1-lightbulb cabin up
the coast near Pt. Barrow, or me and Sarin chief down
doobies and chug R&R like mad Induns high on life:
gasoline fumes and Lysol.

Jack and Reilly always had a can of Lysol to share. It
was really good eh?

A picture is worth a thousand words, I'll assemble
some graphic photos for y'all. Take a peek, you may
recognize some of the characters.

These pictures are computer generated, no felonies
were committed or injured in the making of these lame
dumbass pictures and retarded morning emails.

Have muttoo and eekoot, will travel. I'd also happily
walk a mile for a Camel and 'caulq' in pitch dark 43
below up the coast to Ira's party shack.

Black frozen faces, lost toe nails, teeth and
braincells. Along the Arctic Coast, it's all part of
the dance.

Karl.

---

On Call With Globeandmail.com

Health Alert

Not enough daylight? SAD Disorder can spell disaster
for our northernmost populace.

By Dr. Shapiro

It wouldn't be winter in Canada without unusual
weather patterns -- extra mild weather in parts of the
country, heavy snowfall in others. But one thing
remains constant at this time of year: About 5 per
cent to 10 per cent of our population will experience
seasonal affective disorder, commonly known as SAD.

SAD symptoms include changes in mood, energy and
appetite, excessive sleepiness, fatigue, weight gain
and craving for carbohydrates, loss of libido and
depression. The disorder's hallmark feature is that
symptoms are present in darker fall and winter months,
but gone in spring and summer.

It is well known that seasonal affective disorder
increases, the farther north you go. A study of U.S.
soldiers in Alaska, for example, found about 13 per
cent experienced the condition, much higher than the
general population rate. And it has been noted that
people from southern latitudes are at increased risk
of developing the disorder if they move north.

It isn't known for sure what causes seasonal affective
disorder, but the "latitude theory" suggests that
lower exposure to sunlight increases the risk. There's
no doubt people feel down in the dumps on dark, gloomy
days and much more energized when they get a shot of
sunlight.

Thus, many people believe that light is vital to
fighting off the disorder. But what about blind
people, who cannot distinguish between dark and light;
wouldn't they experience a higher rate of the
condition?

To explore this question, we have to take a look at
our eyeballs and the role they play in our body
rhythms. At the back of our retina are receptors, the
so-called rods and cones that are responsible for
interpreting what we see and are essential to our
vision.

But researchers at Harvard University have recently
discovered that there is another kind of receptor in
our eyeball -- a non-rod, non-cone receptor essential
for recognizing the presence of light.

This third receptor is critical to the workings of our
circadian rhythm, because darkness triggers the
synthesis of melatonin, often called the "sleep
hormone." Daylight, in turn, suppresses the production
of melatonin.

In blind people who do not have rod or cone functions,
but do have the receptors to recognize light, the
circadian rhythm remains normal and the incidence of
SAD is about the same as the general population. But
in people who do not have eyeballs at all, and thus
don't have the third receptor, the circadian rhythm is
altered dramatically. Their melatonin production is
distorted. They are in a constant state of jet lag, if
you will. (So far, no research has been done on
whether this group has a higher rate of seasonal
affective disorder than other blind people, or the
general population.)

Along with the role of light in the condition, there
may be a genetic component that makes some people more
susceptible to it than others. Studies show that
genetic adaptations may have evolved to deal with
lower light levels in fall and winter months. For
example, direct descendants of Icelandic immigrants in
Manitoba have a much lower incidence of SAD, at about
1.2 per cent, than the general population. It's also
known that the condition tends to run in families,
bolstering the idea that there is a genetic component
involved that makes some people more susceptible.

(Another theory of what causes seasonal affective
disorder looks at another brain chemical, serotonin,
which your body uses to make melatonin. It is
suggested that if serotonin levels are low, melatonin
will be low, circadian rhythms will be off kilter and
the risk of SAD might increase. Carbohydrates increase
serotonin and some researchers believe that the
carbohydrate craving seen in seasonal affective
disorder might be a body's way of trying to correct
serotonin levels.)

The classic treatment for SAD is light therapy, which
is about 70-per-cent effective. The idea is to have
early-morning exposure to light to turn off melatonin
production and ensure the circadian rhythm is normal.
While some studies have found that morning light and
evening light are equally effective, most research
suggests that treatment -- whether outdoors in natural
light or using artificial lamps -- is best done in the
morning.

Other possible treatment includes taking St. John's
wort in combination with light therapy. But this herb
can interact with a number of other medications, so be
sure to check with your doctor before trying it.

Dr. Marla Shapiro can be seen daily on Balance:
Television For Living Well on CTV. Questions about
general health issues can be sent to her at:
health@globeandmail.com.

Holy cow batman, my zip code puts me in Auschwitz. "If I wake up, it's a good day. It's a holiday." (T.Date)

Top of the morning gents,

“Hi this is Harv Zimmerman fer the American Cancer
Society.” “Ever since I lost one of my lungs, I’ve cut
my smoking in half.” (Cheech and Chong. OD-40)

I’m not much of a cigarette smoker, usually less than
a pack a year I suppose. I do chug more bottles of
beer on the wall than all the rest of my immediate
famn damily.

Them Eskimo bitches are smart as fuck. No shit. They
is all sober as fucking judges. All of ‘em: 3
generations deep. Bunnik, Magnum, and Gwendolyn
Ootoyuk and Tayleen Tikiq: all non-smokers,
non-drinkers, and non-druggers. Shit, leaves more fer
me.

Aboriginal chicks is smart, keep gramps all fucked up
and handcuffed to his dumb ass computing station
ranting like a goddamned lunatic. A pensive mood need
not make a poet, but coffee and bong hits sure
unleashed havoc upon meaner men. Ye bastards.

If I ain’t bitching like a menstrual goat, I’m typing
and cycling at rates sub-moronic about the mud and
goat poop and jizz inside me rubber boots. Not all
dairy need milking, yet swathed with bag balm
regardless.

Eat yer heart out; I’m merely manipulating yer own
filthy fucking imagination. Fuck all, right mates?

Since I’ve been reading so much medical research about
the health hazards of drinking and smoking, I’ve
decided to quit reading. If my only literature is the
Seattle Post Intelligencer or the Shitbanks Daily News
Moron; I ain’t missing much.

In the attached article-our left coast buddy Joel has
the right to be gay and the right to be as happy as a
dike in Auschwitz. But, his pissing and moaning only
communicates that his pains originate from his uterus,
just like that Joel cheek spreader at the Wanker Lefty
Lib Anchorage Daily Muse & Elimination, that fucker
walks like he got water in his mouth piece.

Nowadays, you cuff a bent muke under the eye, ye might
get AIDS; garrotes are mighty fine, just not very
recyclable. Ick, sorry.

Cereal Killer dudes.

Silly faggot, dicks are fer chicks. Or as G. Gordon
Liddy kicked my ass broadcast and sideways, “Yer an
M-1 A-1 Mod-Zero Fighting Machine” “Don’t put it in
boys.”

I haven’t received orders barring we not put it in
goats.

Fuck I’m gross this morning.

Karl.

---

Monday, February 13, 2006

Alaska's politicians to blame for image

By JOEL CONNELLY
P-I COLUMNIST

If you buy the line taken in Alaska Gov. Frank
Murkowski's recent State of the State speech, the
answer to flak over "bridges to nowhere" is for the
state to go out and hire flacks.

An alternative might be put on the table: Alaska
politicians could stop fleecing taxpayers in the
"lower 48" states, and cease crude threats and clumsy
retaliatory measures -- particularly against their
colleagues from this state.

Not likely. The latest act of vengeance is a bill in
the Alaska Legislature to take the Alaska ferry
terminal away from Bellingham.

It would presumably be punishment for Washington
lawmakers' refusal to go along with December's barely
thwarted backdoor maneuver in Congress to open the
Arctic National Wildlife Refuge to oil drilling.

If Murkowski does go for the public relations option
-- he has long-standing ties to the Rockey Hill &
Knowlton firm in Seattle -- the image-makers'
challenge will be formidable.

How, for instance, do you justify subsidized logging
of temperate rain forests in southeast Alaska's
Tongass National Forest?

In 2004, the Forest Service shelled out nearly $49
million to lay out timber sales and build roads.
"Smokey Bear" took in just $800,000 in income. Since
the mid-1980s, the government has lost $750 million on
logging in the Tongass.

With closure in the late 1990s of a pulp mill in
Ketchikan, timber jobs in the Tongass have fallen from
1,500 to fewer than 400.

Many timber sales go unsold. Near Hoonah, trees were
cut and left to rot on the ground. No economical
market was found. Naturally, Sen. Ted Stevens,
R-Alaska, found a way to bail out the logging company
that bought the sale.

"Taxpayers spend millions of dollars for the Forest
Service to build roads and plan sales to access timber
they often can't sell, and those that do sell do so at
below-market rates," conservative Rep. Steve Chabot,
R-Ohio, told colleagues on the House floor.

A bipartisan measure to end federal subsidies in the
Tongass actually passed the House in 2004. Stevens
deep-sixed it in the Senate.

Government pork can be nourishing, and at times part
of a wise diet.

Just look across Lake Union at the University of
Washington Health Sciences Complex. It came into being
with essential help from a powerful patron, the late
Sen. Warren Magnuson.

The research center spawned a medical products
industry in the Seattle area, and is helping make us a
world center for biotechnology. The city's total,
one-industry dependence on Boeing is history.

A different philosophy seems to prevail up north.

What long-term economic development will come from the
$315 million "bridge to nowhere" linking Ketchikan to
Gravina Island (pop. 50), site of the city's airport?
The current ferry service is quick and efficient.

The Murkowski administration plans to push a 50-mile
northward extension of the Juneau Veterans Memorial
Highway. The road would still dead-end. It is
extremely unpopular in Juneau. Its main beneficiaries
would be a proposed mine and a logging operation (to
be facilitated by a land "exchange" with the Forest
Service) near the mouth of pristine Berner's Bay.

"Unfortunately, Alaska's leaders appear willing to
sacrifice everything that makes the state unique in
order to prop up a boom-and-bust extraction economy.

"Alaskans and American taxpayers would be far better
served by diversifying the state's economy, which
would create a healthier job market and wean the state
off federal subsidies," David Jenkins writes in the
new issue of the Conservative Environmental Policy
Quarterly. Jenkins is with Republicans for
Environmental Protection.

The pork-barreling and browbeating power of Alaska's
congressional delegation has made challenges risky.

When oil drilling in the Arctic Refuge was blocked in
December, Stevens promised to stalk the home states of
its opponents -- particularly Sen. Maria Cantwell,
D-Wash.

He is also sponsoring legislation to strip
environmental protections from Puget Sound.

But Cantwell's Republican challenger, Mike McGavick,
has privately warned Stevens about the Puget Sound
legislation, and publicly denounced the bid to strip
Bellingham of its ferry terminal.

The tantrum-prone Stevens has become an object of
national jest. He was the "winner" in a recent
"Coot-out" contest staged by Jon Stewart on The Daily
Show, edging out Sen. Robert Byrd, D-W.Va.

Ethics issues are swirling around Rep. Don Young,
R-Alaska, chairman of the powerful Transportation
Committee.

Young fund-raisers were held at the MCI Center skybox
in Washington, D.C., of convicted lobbyist Jack
Abramoff.

It was Young who blocked House action on a bill that
would have made the garment industry in the Northern
Mariana Islands comply with U.S. labor laws.

Abramoff represented the garment makers.

Were he a more astute man, Murkowski would recognize
that a dose of reality lies behind Alaska's image
problem.

In 2003, federal spending amounted to more than
$12,200 per resident of Alaska.

Doesn't the rest of the country have a right to
question waste, and to insist that the money not be
used to degrade values that make Alaska such a unique,
wonderful and largely unspoiled place?

Damned right it does.

P-I columnist Joel Connelly can be reached at
206-448-8160 or joelconnelly@seattlepi.com.

A day at the races.

Top of the morning gents,

Better than plain ol' 'dudes' eh?

Tracking social development and cultural change in America takes a special kind of lens and special kind of brain. A discriminating brain: albeit colorblind too. Know what I mean?

For Dr. Benesch's PHILO 320 class (philosophy: 3rd year-jr level, second semester) I researched and debated the relative effectiveness in Brown vs. Board of Ed. that resulted in forced integration, meaning forced long haul bus rides for sawed off chitlens of every odor.

To further insure I avoided "foolish inconsistencies" I dragged snippets and bits of programmed humor, programmed class systems and programmed racism now visibly retro-evident as "the hobgoblin of little minds." (Emerson)

You assfucks already know I was diggin' this shit.

In rural America over 1/3 of the population suffer from chronic illnesses easily diagnosed and treated with modern medicine. Put that in yer pipe and smoke it. Since I know all yer roots, this factoid smarts don't it?

Ya see culture is promulgated and reinforced at work, play and church. Since the Feds control school, this was determined by smarter social scientists residing East of the Mississippi and North of Mason Dixon: to be the desired lever of change.

Forced school integration + Forced bussing = Fragmented obsolete values and behavioral incongruencies between generations.

So across the US, K-12 schools became forging device that effectively gutted and vaporized pre-Civil War values and behaviors infecting our generations-and older. This includes value systems derivative of tall alcoholics of Nordic descent too.

Tricky guv'ment bastards aren't they?

Let all us older and dumber farts malinger away under a brilliantly and liberally applied eraser of wicked history. As excessively trained, yet violent fucking soldiers, you know the truth, cuz it's ugly like y'all AND yer shithouse mirror.

Hoorah for using K-12 schools to undermine rotten old mutually dependant and reciprocating racism at work, play and church. Someday, our kids might go to an all-white senior prom and dance.

Got you didn't I? You forgot my kids and grandkids are sisters from darker mothers whom herself has been barred entry to Moose, Elks and Lyons Clubs merely cuz her skin was a skoatch darker than the color card at the door that day.

Under certain equatorial sunlight conditions, my Eskimo wife turns pure black. She'll need another 10,000 years north of 70 lat before she earns her albino hide covering and blue eyes.

Ya see, my notions of proper color and class have been repeatedly pitched on their ass. Beuler Terrace to Kotzebue, painful flip. Some changes are for the better, amen?

For a bunch of graying gunslingers and uniformed felons yer a pretty progressive and intellectual lot. You all may remember a gal that proved thought paradigms are shattered at the individual level, not the collective. A dude might be brilliant, but a commission or board is ALWAYS compromised, retarded and useless in spheres avant garde or creations imaginative.

Even though she's dead and long gone, we still can sing praise for one of our own dearly departed.

I was missing Jan Shackles the other day. Chick was a midget linebacker for the Doctors Without Borders program AND one pretty decent triage Doc faster'n a spic with a Mexican speed wrench.

Doctor Shackles was also a very short black woman that favored shithole native hospitals sub-arctic fer big city med-palaces. Her fucking holidays were spent partying in field medic tents on yonder continent sub-Saharan.

No shit, this chick could sew kids' random black parts together as fast as they flew from tribal warring machetes and sub-civil aboriginally superior propeller blades.

She herself died under attack. Her Red Cross motorcade was decimated by flying debris accelerated by rapidly expanding gasses. Mortars and roadside bombs are like African tribal disputes: they don't discriminate; they kill everybody of every color all the time. 2,000 mph hot scrap metal don't slow down in butter nor melted med staff. Fuck all.

We are all as racist as the next fellow. But a genius already knows his own foolish inconsistencies; concealed or advertised.

Despite my insensitive self-deprecation, it's still best we not act upon our subconscious tendencies towards interracial gunplay. If we followed our grandparent's racist marching orders, we'd all be dead.

I'd likely be the last alive, but writing to nobody.

Hands are met for shaking not tying.

Karl.

Kikiktagruk Dope Opera: As the Spit Churns. Or how about "Genital Horse Pittle"? (Premarin=pregnant mare urine).

Dudes,

Over coffee and bong hits this morning, me bunnik told
me about Helen Williams lynching herself.

Is this the same Helen Williams; Tex (Aubrey)
Beasley's lifelong jizz dump, tormenter and punching
bag? He once confided in me that he kept the wench
knocked up for 16 years straight humping out 13 kids
so he never had to put up with a bitch on the rag.

Weird.

You boys remember Ralph Hess? He spooged all over baby
number 13. Lucky fucker ain't he?

That limp muke was convicted for sexually assaulting
her. Foul steaming Eskimo buckethead served a stretch
a bit over a hard nickel for something beyond Front
Street sense: akin to killing the dead, this ripe
maggot got arrested for raping the willing. Pregnant,
drunk as hell, yet very willing raunch bait.

"Adunsii put his coockoo in my unnuk!" -Annie Cyr
whispering serious stroke talk in my ear pert near a
hunnert fucking years ago.

Fond cases y'all can recall, sprout a boner, jerk a
load, then heave a sileage spiggot of stinging acrid
bile. Some turds of hurdles smell the same yet
stereotypes do come with guarantees as chimed by Carl
Perkins in 1959 "Some niggers never die, they just
smell that way."

Justice wasn't served for that particular crime
(scrawging a pre-moistened native dumper and preggo
biscuit might be criminal). Justice was served for his
ENTIRE life of acting like a complete dumbass and
senseless drunken retard.

4 out of 5 dentists surveyed don't give a shit about
some browntard cum guzzling gutter slut, they merely
enjoyed the opportunity to ship out one of Kotzebue's
stinkier buttfuckers.

Amen.

Reason I know all this? The jury foreman is wearing a
shitload of jewelry your author on drugs has smuggled
and stolen as mentioned heretofore.

*I know I'm swimming in gossip, shit and syphillis but
my enquiring village mind enjoys vicious backtalk.

Understand?

Y'all have the Alaskimo virus swimming in yer veins,
including yer dick. So when I ask ye "When you coming
back Red Rider?" I'm pushing that 'missing Alaska'
homesick button.

I can yank the village outa yer ass, but I can't yank
yer ass outa the village, or some shit. Wake up fucks,
ye best wash yer bottom and penis 'ral gud' cuz we all
know who dirtied yer fruit.

We do: dead souls and dead meat haunting and seasoning
a sub-arctic peninsula we all did our best to infect
and slaughter.

Suicide is the permanent solution to a temporary
problem. Shit dudes, we got a buttload of it 'round
these parts.

Senseless.

Nonsensical commentary too.

Karl.

Alka Selzter nor the Pepto can keep flipper down. When ye dance on top of mass graves Kikiktagruk: party till ye puke, party till ye die.

Top of the morning gents,

Did ever tell y'all I truly love long-winded
philosophical phone debates?

I absolutely fucking do.

Last week I chatted with Columbo about Barrow's Summit
on Meth, drug interdiction theory and how the
structure of your team should be composed of complex
demographics.

Meaning: rural Alaska narc squad teams are vastly
different than the crews I worked for up and down the
beltway in Anchoragua and Shitbanks.

My old boss Sgt. Wahl from Statewide DEA and Tyler,
Bleicher and Bowman at Mat-Su Narcotics do a spledid
job coordinating their agents at the airports, post
offices and weigh stations up and down Alaska's
highways.

To pull off a spectacular bush drug op your team can't
be clean and shaven cherry dicks. Yer gonna need a
skoatch smarter, vicious and flexible crew: pretty
much like all you motherfuckers.

Kudra Cat Buscuit once commented that only those
possessing crude guile and and the most cunning
hominids survive outside of the civilized uterus:
namely agrarians and hunter/gatherers. I'm still
impressed with the strands of simile eminating from
his statement.

Ye also might adjust your finer sensibilities to the
more blunt methodology rural rodents express
themselves in their daily habits and seasonal
cultures. If you've ever had yer hair blown back and
beard groomed and decorated with exploding hot gastric
gasses blasting from your best guttin' knife: you got
my respect.

If you've ever had yer hair blown back and yer beard
rinsed and chunked with a busted whale gut balloon:
you got my condolences. No stories, no tales etc. are
gonna express to womb city dweller how truly
devastatingly asphixiating this large intestinal odor
can be.

Now imagine putting bits of this tripe in yer fucking
mouth. Most macho hombres can also gorp mucous down
their pile hole other cultures call rotten.

To quote the Mason dude at the Arctic Sounder desk
stationed neck deep in Kikiktagruk spit, "For maxumum
efficacy and get the job done right out in the world's
most remote and rugged regions, you gotta break all
the civilized world's rules of sanity."

The home office absolutely fucking hates it when a lad
kicks ass out in Indun territory: they sent ye there
to drink yerself to death, or get killed by restless
native pussy.

The reservation will always be hellish, else we'd call
it something different. If yer a clever lad lacking
manners, lasting one year is too many yet a hunnert
too few.

Since ferral folks MBO (manage by objectives): food,
clothing and shelter, the ends justify the means. High
collateral is A-okay, long as ye got some grub to
shove down yer pie hole.

Here's the catch: this paradigm shift is irreversible.
Once yer toolbelt expands for each village ye infect
and slaughter you can't un-grow yer newly adapted
fangs, claws and liver enzymes.

Wake up fucks, notice I didn't mention stomach
enzymes? I didn't cuz they never fucking adjust and
adapt to alien cuisine.

I've heaved up in the villages of Kubaka, Russia. I've
tossed major cookies in a village too fucking far from
Riga, Latvia. I even grubbed down some damn fine and
tasty salmonella in Dutch Harbor and Mountlake
Terrace.

Last week I geysered like raped ape. No shit.

Me and Bunnik snogoed down to Ron and Josie's with a
box of wine in tow and a chink in our eyes. We sat
around their big boardroom table and quaffed vino and
chowed assorted sub-grub (subsistence grubbage) out of
Josie's kitchen, porch and tunnik sigluk (electric
freezer).

Amidst the odor of our aged rot-chews was far too much
chron cloud pine and my skank liquor fart breath. No
kidding, we consumed enough neuro-toxins to kill a
small child. Which is exactly what we all enjoy doing.


We're Alaskimos. Fuck all, right mates?

Rack 'em and stack 'em there Karluk. So I did. We ate
dried meat, smoked fish and moose, and lots of bo-tox
hot sauce and sea mammal oils which pleasurably
enhanced the liquor and weed efficacies in burning my
cheeks and urges towards gunplay.

Breathing fire and 6 foot 3, armed and retarded, atop
a snogo far too fast for 2 chinks agrinnin'.

Alaska really needs to do something about it's high
rates of alcohol and drug abuse. I do my part,
everytime I throw up enough village party materials I
selfishly prevent a hunnert scraling motherfuckers
from doing as I do instead as I say.

Maybe we need to ship out all them despicable little
sober people. Since nothing good stands alone, I'd be
far less a piece of shit. At least I wouldn't get
ragged to wipe my ass as much, saves on hand washing.

Cheers mates, here's mud in yer eye. Perchance north
of 70 lat: here's shit in yer food.

Fuck ye.

Karl.

Only the good die young.

Top of the morning gents,

Fuck, I haven't typed that in a while. My dick
skinning hands gotta re-learn to speed dial with
automatic fire all over again.

Seriously doubt my foul mouth needs any honing.

Okay, sit-rep fer all you scar tissue armed maggot
mother fuckers.

* Spent the New Years and January way up north in
Barrow, or North of 70 Lat fer the more briefed Intel
crew.

Walked my chubby-chubby to shit. I was blessed with
some damn fine legs, ya'd think I might as well use
'em. So I did.

Me and the Mrs. walked every day as a form of exercise
and transpo, we rallied like 'walks far bake heads'
along the snow fence to the beach, to 'PO to check
mail', or over to 'old town side' for banking, bills,
and bong rips.

Funny thing I noticed about mountain biking and power
hiking in Barrow and Browerville: It's just me and
bunnik, our pistols, and lots of barking dogs. Nobody
walks in LA.

Barking dogs swell up my trigger fingers; I sure
wanted to shoot 'em. Dog lots and half frozen yapping
bitch mutts give me sweaty butt cheeks and a really
drippy dick. Me bunnik too, so to speak.

No worries mates, we zipped some rounds through odd
shit that yelped; least not no more. .38 +P SJHP's
will even scream through caribou calves and mommies
but yer gonna need a Deadly Sarin Gas 243 to trip and
flip the bulls on the run. Damn, all this talk gives
me a woody.

The reason I use the cheaper 38 cal rounds from
Spenard Builders is cuz my carpal tunnel smarts when I
load real ammo like 357 mag rounds in my revolver.

It's only good luck that Tyrone carries the odd brands
specializing in the high-pressure old fart cop rounds
Lt. Eunice, Mack, and Wallace seemed fixated with. One
round from them old fuckers'd make yer breathing
really fucking hard and painful, but not yer pissing
and shitting.

"Them wheel guns may look funny, but they're almost
always magnums." K7 Garroutte.

*Snow machined my dick off, and that ain't easy.

Any chance I had to rupture a lung pull-starting a
frozen machine in a 43 below frosty dreamscape; fuck
it. I was all over that bad chicken.

Froze my damn face too.

We all seen really dark folks; so dark they're almost
blue, but we ain't seen any soot and scab colored
folks, 'cept me.

Having so much damn fun re-learning old speed
stabilizing muscle coordination I returned home to
show my wife my very best black face.

Not sexy.

My nose and cheeks looked them sore loser mountain
climbers that were too pussy to fuck anything fer heat
nor eat anybody fer grub.

I ain't like them dumb fuckers. If I'm stranded above
the tree (and food) elevation and sleeping in a paper
bag with some scrawny corpse that voted for George
McGovern for president; I ain't skipping breakfast fer
shit. Move over faggot ass, pass the salt and pecker,
this maggot is lunchmeat.

If I got the munchies and a bit of a hangover, yer
shit is stew. Yer brains I'll freeze for 21 days. The
mad cow (mad thou) pryon is tough as bear trichinosis.

Imagine Douglass and S&R crew finding my mangy ass
after a month or two lost in bum fuck Egypt and on the
lamb, I mean human freeze dried, yet not brined
punniktuk (jerky). Probably best ye depart quickly and
leave my ass to freeze, cuz by that time I'll likely
believe you maggots in the chopper are my replacement
meat stocks.

The mind plays funny tricks on you when you're lost or
stranded alone for months. Mine does that already;
imagine yourself after 2 months of chowing alone on
man rump steaks and fat ass hairy back straps.

Hey, you guys wanna go camping?

Y'all might be rich niggers, but ain't none of ye know
dick about going hungry. Starvation is a vicious death
with zero moments of no hope till you wither away and
die. Take that fate lying down and I'm eating yer
sorry ass. I don't even fucking care if I puke for the
first days of cannibalism, my guile and cunning for
survival is the core of my sick being.

You too. That's why I like y'all. You sick fucks;
goddamn graying gunslingers and uniformed felons.

A composite set of stories stolen from all of yer
lives makes fer perty good reading. It's my job to
weave these horrid images into visually awful stories
told with foul language that only makes my grandpa
laugh out loud.

The same chap that is alive today and passing his
100th birthday. Mean son of a bitch is a lot like
6Killer, genius with a 12-gauge bitch stick with pert
near 6 of one Induns (half dozen) shot to piss and
buried nearby.

A bunch of crows is called a murder, what the fuck do
I call you lot?

Karl.