Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Be careful what you imagine. Images, icons and words can trigger pogroms painful and cleansing akin to ethnic.

Top of the morning gents,

There’s power in them there words. Don’t I fucking
know it.

Colombo tossed me an atta-boy a few years back, whilst
simultaneously demanding I hurry the fuck up with that
morning’s posting. “Word-smith” was his moniker
sublime, yet strident.

Yeah, very funny motherfuckers, I already know I’m the
mouthiest white zombie on the fucking planet, but why
is my core language subconscious so violent and
hateful?

Writing down my transparent philosophical
contradictions and blatant structural pose
inconsistencies candidly without curse words, is well,
just wrong.

And gay.

Good folks need not spew foul language, but all you
graying gunslingers and uniformed felons hiding in
plain site Alaskan would most certainly be overwhelmed
with a cop’s sense of the incredulous if my scraling
mistress and editor removed every single bad word. In
other words, you’d smell bullshit.

How the fuck should I write?

A phrase I recall from a movie a while back touched
me.

“Why would I wanna do that to another fucking human
being?”

What a beautiful, eloquent and brilliant statement and
a good retort to any and all hatred spectral, human
and diverse.

How do we continually hurt folks we’ll NEVER bump into
in our particular latitude?

Easy, gotta tag ‘em first with shitty slang, objectify
their asses, lastly de-humanize them. The instant 2
killers in gentle clothing agree our prey is subhuman;
we phone the church to receive our inquisitive
Hispanic rewards.

All language has powerful negative and positive
overtones and connotations, but when I dip my
metaphoric toe into the book of slang, cultural bitch
slapping and subtle racist jabs are inescapable.

Who am I kidding?

Language is everything. We may visualize everything
imaginative, but our hard Alaskan communications via
f-mail (fuck you mail) is rife with Chinook Jargon and
ghetto-mod geographic specific terminology.

In other words, gushing with local speak only heard
“when nobody’s looking” (M. Python).

And I ain’t even gonna fucking apologize. I’ve spent
decades listening to hundreds of local languages and
dialects. Dialects only shared over food and
beverages, cigarettes and SR’s, and sadistical
analysis assignments from the Mad Doctor Logan. I’ve
also absorbed a few other particularly hateful
languages that always crack up my brother in law
Kenny, and my gramps.

The happiest man in the world is seated comfortably
and warm, beverage at his side, tobacco pouch and
writing tools, whilst deadly weather waits silently
outside. As I gaze out the window of my arctic
computing station, I see subzero sunshine and deadly
frost monsters abound inside.

“Appa Kye take his coffee with cream and drugs in the
morning.”

Ya see? With decent chemical restraint yer author on
drugs is happy as a pig in shit.

Nothing illegal mates, divine trinity is composed of
coffee, smokes and scripts keeps these handsome Viking
hands machine-gunning malarkey at ye. This morning
we’re examining the power of language. And the
injurious potential in all hip slang lingoes.

All you guys are Alaskans first, assholes second. You
all also fully understand, yet may not appreciate my
“abrasive yet amusing” language I’ve dredged out of
the auto shops, police departments, fishing villages
and drinking establishments in Alaska and Washington,
Finland and Russia.

Come on, wake up fucks! Where else, besides you
international circumpolar sons of fucks and UAF, have
I spent my life? You guys have scatted far and wide.
Meeting and drinking with all of ye put far too many
miles on me.

My year may be a good one, but someone drove the
wheels off this car. I’m too tired to be ashamed, so I
write every day fully exposed before my peers.

That’s my duty of self-deprecation and idiotic output.
I like a good expectorant.

If I’m to ridicule stupid shit I’ve eaten and only
partially enjoyed, you’ll have to taste a chunk of
turd I kept in my saddlebags. The horse is long dead
way back on my trail of beers, no need to beat it.
Tango marked the organ donation box on his WA driver’s
license so I’ll make some tunnik punniktuk and ship it
Selawik.

Salisbury steaks and strips is really high-grade
horsemeat: now you know what we all ate at respective
BIA cafeterias.

The image of God is a mighty contrasting and complex
image, cuz that’s what I see when I look at all ye
graying gunslingers and uniformed felons: mismatched
pile of shit swapping smokes with me here in this cat
box and that region of your brain, yet in His image.
Weird, huh?

Fuck it. We’re all just scralings with bastardized
racial descriptors derivative of too many ancient, yet
foul languages with God the cigar-smoking comedian and
we’re too stupid to laugh.


Karl.

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