Wednesday, February 22, 2006

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.

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