Sunday, February 05, 2006

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

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?



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