Thursday, March 30, 2006

In rural Alaska and Estonia, NEVER take a drink served by stranger or from an open bottle.

Top of the morning gents,

Some of my sins are funnier'n shit. So long as none of
us are the random victim surprised with such violent
gastric or behavioral disturbances out of our control.

I'd mentioned previously how I tried to gag down a
sandwich the Sgt and K7 Garroutte had prepared for me,
trying desperately to hide my burning red face, salty
gullet and peppered puss.

I fucking had to spit it out, I ain't that tough. The
sheer volume of salt, pepper and hot sauce fried my
dick.

You should have seen the expressions on their faces as
they waltzed into the squad room handing out free food
from the jail kitchen. Fuckers broke up an otherwise
boring fucking day, better'n forcing my dick through
the ears of a native infant.

Kotzebue Skull Buggery mates: "mud, bugs and drugs, my
'skimo sutures are tighter'n a baby's butt" (S. Wade).
Obvious derivation from Bundy, Dodd and Ewing.

Paybacks are a bitch and kick my ass for eternity.

Years ago, back in the late 70's, I lived with a motor
head dude named Steve Schlett. Looking back I now also
deduce he was a chronic alcoholic with secondary
addictions to nicotine and cocaine, and a real fucking
dumb asshole.

Y'all know me; I love knocking back rounds with my
best mates in any fucking bar that's open. I truly
hate 'instant assholes: just add beer'.

My roommate Steve: fridge pilferer of my Euro trash
dark beers and bane of my existence every fucking time
he kick starts long benders.

From Thursday to Monday every week, this knucklehead
pounded brewskies, snarfed down fat caterpillars offa
my glass coffee (cocaine) table, and then snitched all
my spendy imported beers.

On a Saturday evening, he and his white trash nigra
bitch whore stumbled in the front door, mooched more
free blow and bong rips, then fetched a HUGE Baskin
and Robbins ice cream cake they'd stashed in the
freezer.

Steve and BitchHo then staggered back into their red
neck Jeep and headed to his parents house for a
backyard red neck fucking picnic.

Here's where the story gets interesting.

You know I couldn't let that cake leave the premises
without additional ingredients. Ever hear of syrup of
Ipecac?

Yup. That's me, the blond kid barely out of his teens,
pushing indentation holes into that ice cream cake
with his pinky finger, then filling these holes with
sweet and delicious cherry flavored syrup of Ipecac.

By replacing the cake back into the freezer, this
poisonous medicine soaked in looking like color
seepage from all the replaced sugary decorations on
top.

Fuck I'm good.

Me and Spanky, Troy and Rubbish (rob frost) and 240
Gordy played chess all night with minimal beers and
lots of Morning Thunder or Celestial Sleepytime tea
awaiting to hear the butt/gut bomb explosions or see
the puklear assblowing mushroom cloud.

Heck of way to spend a Saturday evening in Edmonds,
WA. Even with the addition of chron toke, us kids from
the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest exercised
moderation. A lad only got a 'penalty bong hit' when
he snagged one of yer men off the board.

You play me a game of chess and you'll remain sober as
shit, I'll smoke yer fucking ass all over the
chessboard.

Some dweeb kids played D&D (dungeons and dragons),
others played guitar and piano all fucking day, then
booked to Karl's or Franky's for chess, or build a big
bonfire way in the wayback of the farm.

Smart lot of sids, just none of my pals had both
parents so they all adopted farm boys and partied in
the horse pasture for beer and bonfire.

These abandoned kids didn't require any more
parenting, just the high level of Scandinavian group
think in the company of exceptionally smart
conversationalists AND party animals.

The horses just stood around blocking yer heat from
the fire and pushed yer beer cup around with their
noses and slobbered and lapped yer suds. The goats
ditched into their barn after everyone let 'em gulp
enough brew and blew bong tokes in their faces, all
the dogs just roamed perimeter protecting remarkably
vulnerable kids from intruders of any species: humans,
coyotes and raccoons, all rabid.

The bad humans were fed poisoned ice cream cakes,
sharing these same cakes with their crazy motor head
coke whore families.

Days later, Steve asked all of us culprits: Spanky,
Troy, Rub, and me if we'd gotten the same flu.

Seems when morons party on Ipecac, everybody heaves.
Spanky admitted he too had been puking ass sick, only
to cackle aloud right in Steve's face saying "it was
something in the cake." Steve's dull ass retarded look
of confoundment only busted us up louder, cuz he knew
we wouldn't touch that suspicious cake.

Whole bottle of vomit inducing medicine effectively
chuked everybody at Steve's parent's place with long
lines of white nigra biachHos at each toilet and fat
white dudes chuking all over the back porch. Now
that's a party.

Here's a trick the bar staff has used for decades:
Visine 86.

When a patron is stupid shit ass drunk, zap his credit
card for his last round, then cut the top off a bottle
of Visine and pour the whole fucker in his beverage.
Tasteless and powerful ass blaster or puke hurler
clearing the aforementioned dick head in under 10
minutes. No shit, you gotta shove yer fist up yer ass
to stop the storm drain from flooding.

His buddies will be dragging his nasty fountain filled
trousers out the door quicker'n shit cuz they can't
help but feel sorry for such a mop up shit ass
disaster they thought was their friend.

Like I said, out in the bush and the final frontier,
be real careful what you drink and from whom.

You also might steer clear of the bottled water
dispenser next to Joyce Whitehorn's desk, upstairs in
the Bunnell Building at the UAF School of Management.

Part of my scholarship was the duties of moving files,
cabinets, copiers, paper and computers, including
lugging a 5-gallon carboy jug of water from the
downstairs loading bay upstairs to old lady Joyce's
desk.

A real prick of a professor made sure I got my hands
dirty, and out of my spendy suits: Brett Simmons.

SMS fag boy. Short man syndrome to the ninth degree.
I've never been beaten up by anybody bigger than me,
dudes over 6 feet tall are sweet as shit. I've taken
some life altering ass whoopings and mutilations from
shorter chaps though. If Mr. Simmons had me in cuffs,
I too would have his high voice and light loafer
stride.

I never knew what concoctions Yauney brought from his
mom's medicine chest, but when I added a chiplet of
GHB outa John Paliwoda's packets and poured it into
every full carboy of distilled water we lugged over a
2 month period, even my breasts starting getting
tender and my pussy really fucking hurt.

All us computer lab rats avoided that water cooler
like the plague but the menstruating Brett Simmons
drank from that fountain of puke relishing every
single drop.

Fuck me in the goat ass, he had Karl right where he
wanted him, under his fucking thumb. Albeit a thumb
flush with a variety of dissolved pills and
prescription garbage both pharmaceutical and street
grade adulterants.

Professor Simmons no longer works at UAF, pity.

After Sam's anonymous reports of drug use, Internet
porno on his computer and paper bindles with residue
in his desk, he promptly returned to Texas.

He weren't from Alaska, but Alaska loved him anyway.
Native love hombres: black eye and a hickey, and
hallucinations on Brett's ass with a hot piss test and
blood analysis to boot.

I tried to kill him, he just got sick instead.

Malicious fuckers ain't we? Passive aggressive, ADHD,
PTHD, whatever dickheads: armed and dangerous, ya'll
got it.

God bless each and every one of ye. I learn from the
best.

Karluk.

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