Thursday, March 02, 2006

Being a retarded Alaskan blue hair really sucks ass. I mean retired. Y'all need to tell me where and how to fuck off.

Top of the morning gents,

Responsibility can fuck off.

So can maturity, goddamn it.

A lad never knows how good he's got it, till it's
gone. That's me. Yer retarded author on drugs.

Don't get me wrong, I love babies, but the grim
prospect of being a Finnish Opair another decade has
got my Depends in a bunch.

Now hold on to your hats and get yer puny lead soaked
brains around this notion: the baddest parts are the
best. Me and Bunnik miss our yuppy DINK (double
income-no kids) subsistence leisure lifestyle north of
70 lat.

Despite an environment cruel and stunning, I'll likely
be really homesick for 2 little Eskimo grandkids. But
have mercy, I miss long walks, riding my mountain bike
AND vicariously shining with my pretty wife when she's
happily tucked within the folds of friendship and
knitting/talking circles surrounded golden girls
suffering congenital Siberian structure and skin hue.

That's what "mud, bugs and drugs" are fer, the crooked
man remodeling another crooked house.

The duplex is in stable occupancy and now fully
converted from a liability into an asset. Before I was
on the hook for a few bucks a month for utilities and
so on. Now both sides are rented pushing a decent
positive revenue stream, hence it's magical
transformation into a fixed asset on Karluk's

So we cool, right?


Boredom. Too much TV, family and endless suburbs,
chaotic and cleverly designed muni-traffic jams. The
real piss off is Super Fucking Unleaded scraping my
anes to the tune of 20 bits per US gallon.

2 bits = 25 cents. Or can't any of you graying
gunslingers and uniformed felons recall yer childhood,
before yer first boner. As expected, I'm forever using
dumbass language only dust farting blue haired elder
prune ass-buggers understand. Fuck ye.

Oops, none of you cherries know what a Haynes manual
is. Chilton's blow rectal ventilators, so real Volvo,
Triumph, Vauxhaul and Renault criminals are
multi-lingual when it comes to tweaking twin SU or
Weber carbs.

Boot = trunk
Bonnet = hood
Spanner = wrench
Dumbass = present company.

A true Renaissance man can tune his motorcar, play the
viola AND pass muster at any academy of his fucking

Again: present company included, amen?

Looking at you lot, I see you've expanded the
definition of Renaissance Man to include rural Alaskan
rogue bastard.

If God loves ye, I oughta be able to.

So, you dickheads decide, where should Karluk and
Bunnik boogie off to?

Idaho has been relegated to seasonal hobby property
development status. If me and Bunnik leave the state,
her 10% COLA pension bonus goes in the shitter. Her
COLA regs are the same as PFD umpire rules: 90 days
and yer outa here!

While we sort out a steel building shell design, or
simply add on to the sawmill, me paps with the deeper
pockets ALWAYS has the final say-so. He's the dad.

Meaning, since me and the Mrs. are homesick villagic
and truly weary of 2 babies and half of Alaska's
pretentious, yet highly mobile muni-minded cunts, it's
feral digs. Again. C-U-N-T = Can't Understand Normal

I'll never smell the same as long as I stay here in
Anchoragua. Bleach, cleaning supplies, carpet fresh
and car exhaust, that's my white zone olfactory
equivalent to "Stink Man" or "Oochuk Boy."

Something's gone seriously wrong here. Since when did
I become such a racist with such disdain for poorly
cultured colonists lacking color, nads and hygiene?

Anchorage is simply full of wigger village idiots
complacent not to learn fish, handouts make a nigger
out of all us.

Jump you say? How high?

What do you lads think about Kotz?

You fuckers tell me. Ya think Kotzebue can stomach my
foul mouth, stench and diaper odor?

The Mrs. brings a positive aura wherever she goes,
contrasted with the carnage I like to jizz, lick and

Let's refresh yer senile fucking brains fer a second,
upon my very first week in Kotzebue, back a ways, I
was fueling planes and loading freight with our now
growed up and beloved Trooper Nasruk Nay.

I wonder what'll develop this time 'round. Who'd a
thunk I'd be working and drinking with code name 1C25,
his son, and everyone of you gents. I suggest we
retire both 1D25 and 1C25 into a Hall of Fame or
something, know what I mean?

Due to my high fiber diet, I weave well into yer
broken hearts, damaged minds and violent fucking
lives. Or maybe it's my high fiber smoking habit.

Ya see how some characters in our life's drama are so
noteworthing and memorable? By sheer force and vile
language do I continue inhindered chatter with y'all.

In spite flying punches, kicks and bullets, "The kids
are alright." (P. Townsend-The Who)

Glad to be of all yer acquaintance, yer gray hair
looks better on you, than me.

Now send me some ideas where and how to fuck off:

Bethel, Kotz, Where?



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