Thursday, March 30, 2006

Keep up the good work gents, miles to go before you sleep.

Top of the morning gents,

Never let ‘em grow up, never let 'em mature. Good
parenting always bites my fucking ass.

Ever get ragged out by your own bastard offspring
worse than a red headed stepsister leaking pink sperm?

I have.

I ain't talking about that buggering Peter Pan notion
dick heads, I get ragged out by our own daughter for
putting her in harms way on schizophrenic vigilante
narc jobs, 'turning my bedroom into a gun locker or
grow room', partying with sick native pedophiles and
walking dead wigger village trash.

Healthy children should pull away from their parents
in healthy ways. Bossy little fuckers oughta hang a
thumb and bitch-hike at puberty cuz they'll betray you
and turn on ye: snitching, stinking, sneaking little

Wake up fucks and take a look at yer calendar, your
mortal date with Death is now less than half a yard
away. Thus your children should be pert near one third
used up also, "in native years Karl" (Mrs.).

Our daughter has grown. A lot. Imagine a tall native
gal, pert near 6 Viking feet tall, and with hips, ass
and hooters totally exaggerated from mondo sessions
camping on the bowl at the Anus (ANS Scraling Toilet
and Nursery).

Okay I’ll spell out my dumb ass out-of-date acronym:
ANS was the old native hospital, Alaska Native
Services. Bunnik enjoyed that anus pun cuz it
accurately reflected the odor of that wretched old
facility, and its occupants.

Our Magnum child now works at the ANMC campus, and of
course fails to appreciate my hospital humor, nor my
racy and sexy, racist and sexist old fart military and
public service humor.

She's a quarter century old now, big native gal yet
adorned with all the trappings of a well-paid Eskimo
DOPE-double offspring, paternity empty.

No shit, she’s now hatched 2 darling little minority
runts that I absolutely adore, spoil and play with all
the way to the liquor store and my secret smoke out
places ("stone grottos" in UW Greek Row upper
classmen's proper parlance).

Yup, good call. White punks on dope: these kids get to
see a well dressed handsome "appa Kye" chat loudly
with my dudes at Spenard Builders, smoke my French
ciggies with the Broken Legs (Oaken Keg Negroes) or
spark a number with the Party Time Liquor store

Bun can always tell I took the grandkids to my hiding
places of ill business and reputable pleasure cuz the
kids’ hands and faces are stained yellow from tobacco
and bong resin. They're happy as shit from secondary
exposure to Grandpa's choke-loads and Viking’s thirst
for Jim Beam.

I stay up late at night watching the Hitler channel
with my midget buddies and explain why my grandparents
fled to America. I get all kind of goose bumps telling
‘em stories of ancestors fighting invaders in 40
below, Gulag sufferings and firing squads eventually
arriving here in Alaska and living long enough to fill
their heads full of shit.

Hence my overt exposure of the Grandfather Conspiracy:
all of you vicious old killers can become lovable old
men and not mean cunts like yer in-law’s descendants.

I did.

What’s so damn cool is seeing these little Eskimo
grandchildren shaking each other's little hands
mimicking old Northern European manners, yelling “Yes
sir!” or gasping loudly after drinks of juice cheering
loudly “Cheers mate.”

Just like GOD: Good ol' Dad.

Damn shame: I’m such Euro snobbery reaching across a
smelly cultural divide teaching these little Eskimo
kids good social skills and pissing drunk poddy
habits: inappropriate for the shitty native existence
I intend on leaving them in.

Like all of you, they can’t mullick appa Kye on his
last narc job to the bush or smuggling job on the dark
side of the moon. Ya see, Valhalla got a sign on the
door, No Natives. Else we couldn’t call it Heaven.

If you paid attention, I'd mentioned soiling brain
cells in the company of dirty white Frat Boys. I did
and excessively, yet with barely passing grades,
completed ONE whole year at UW.

Academic stress induced chronic partying? Yer fucking
right it was, just Seattle Frat Boys network and
cooperate better'n a trillion insect bees, high on
base, coffee or chron.

We drank everything and studied tough till my gonads
ached from laughter. I know when I'm in a good crew
cuz my grades go up, as with my bar tab. Some of my
fondest memories are of wrapping up BA325 finance
projects, locking up our computer lab and heading to
John Johnson's and his Norwegian roommate's dorm room
fer beers and Chivas Regal depth charges.

Surprised I remember those UAF mad genius output
epochs? *Inside chiding towards one of our readers.

These are blocks of life I treasure, cuz I had 5
different college careers. University of Warshington,
Edmonds Communism College, North Seattle Pen, and
Shoreline Comm/Col, lastly serving a hitch at Upchuck
U and UAF.

Shoreline is fru-fru campus fer rich kids too baked to
drive further than our parents' Jennair Ovens or
indoor hot tub ventilator ducts.

Nothing better than a rainy Puget Sound morning with
half a pot of strong and cannibal soup (hot tub)
blowing huge plumes of wake and bake into the turbo
exhaust hot tub fan, or cackling iron lungs full of
pine chron air pollution directly into those MONSTER
exhaust systems on Jennair stoves. Seattle kids are
such pussies, we bitch if we gotta sneak tokes in the
kitchens or hot tubs of lavish homes overlooking Puget

Ouch, I sat down wrong and my silver spoon gouged me

If I want to lose a stale girlfriend, I'd take her to
my parents mud farm and horse poop factory. If I want
her and her Eskimo daughter to stick around, I’d camp
'em at the Richmond Beach House, grand old palace back
in the day. Now it’s merely a giant vintage car,
antique and junk storage bin, albeit surrounded by
million dollar homes.

Growing old ain't fer pussies, and all of us will
honor the call of duty to wrap up our humping time
fiddle farts and business fucking around and return
home to play mommy to our mommies and daddies.

Here's the cool part, our mean ass fucking bossy nazi
kids will have to return home someday to wipe my arse
with diaper wipes. I'm planning on shitting
everywhere, except near my bar or smoking jacket.

Paybacks are bitch, I dread what my parents may be
scheming, but I’ve got a major woody fer repaying our
kids and grandkids every ounce of baby poop and
pitched food we’ve bought and paid for, thawed, cooked
and served: only to wipe half the shit offa the
fucking floor, the rest gorped in their laundry.

Moral of the story is take note of all yer wayward
scraling runt offspring’s short comings and
digressions, then imagine yer wife taking a huge
emergency room discharge crap smear and ass paint
butt-spray all over their new car or white carpets and
divan. We'll discuss nefarious ways to encourage
incontinence in yer wives on days yer at my place
taking bong rips, shooters and pouring beer foam down
yer wheelchair piss bag. The inside joke will be coded
as 'fucked ‘em in the goat ass.'

Sure, like all fairies, I too believe I'll live
forever and be the one prima-donna-biach attending all
of YOUR funerals.

It's only an illusion.

You nasty ass killers have always been the last man
standing after all the truly awful things you've
justifiably carried out: proofed in your breathing on
this blessed day so late in yer thankless lives of

You’ll all be pulling assignments and narc jobs long
after Nolton and Nay back their patrol car up to the
incinerator out back of MMC and pitching my rancid
remains into a lake of fire like a baggie of mashed up

As with all of our last missions prejudicial and
unconstitutional, your walking papers and termination
assignment is with a Mr. Reaper, location unknown,
dossier photo unavailable. Dudes, this target ain't
any of our kids or spouses.

Look in the mirror ass wipes.

I sure like composing curse-ridden prayers and
confusing affirmations of affection greased in gun
oil. Its just my way of giving thanks and saying

One author on drugs truly appreciates what you graying
gunslingers and uniformed felons have done for God’s
broken children, to hell with our own.

Fuck I'm funny.



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