Tuesday, February 07, 2006

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.

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