Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Looking for dead people? Ye just gotta know where to look.

Top of the morning gents,

I've been having lots of lucid dreams. I'm fucking almost as paranormal as my complex composite yet reincarnated Siberian Mrs. possessing a badly disintegrated Indun soul.

I’ve had way too many dreams and gross recollective nightmares since eliminating hard liquor, all wines, ports and brandy, sticking to just a quart or two of sudsy malt or cold ice brew as my evening constitution.

Maybe sobriety is a good thing, but I doubt it.

I tend to lean towards the arrogant and irritating whilst during oft' repeated 2 year drinking vacations; be they arctic American or bloody clashes with the Nordic tribeswomen.

Me mum calls me her Lord Fauntleroy, as long as I'm closer to 200 pounds: instead of 300, mildly drunk, well dressed and long curly blond hair. She now adores me as much as my other Doctor brothers, since finishing my sentence on campus.

No mystery where me bros got their attitudes with such pampered programming; she spoils any child of hers that's earned 3 or more college degrees.

All moms have this bizarre love affair and grossly overweight affection for their boys, you may have even felt this once or twice during your boyhood: those magical seasons or summers where yer mum was more human than stink port, more mother than miserable spouse.

If you recall, yer mum is most affectionate if all the other bitches and cunts are outa the house. Ya see, when yer mum is only doting on us clean and shiny baby boys, she ain't getting SDNL.

Yes you can misconstrue my acronym to read Stinking Drunk Nigger Lipped, but don't. This morning's offhand acronym explains why all my NANA and NSB neighbors at the Anchoragua bars have scarred lips, noses, and chipped teeth: Stinking Drunk NANA Lipped.

Make sense? You know all the red skinned rape bait we've all harvested and discarded all have been beaten dumb so often, the lips on their faces look just as shredded as the lips on their subhuman soul kitchens.

As I cease my machine gun fingers and cast a loving gaze towards my truly violent yet lovely Eskimo wife, I'm reminded what I wanted to tell you guys this morning

My wife is loonie toons when she's absolutely clean and sober. Yup, she's my DD (designated driver), AA sponsor (kidding), and horticultural student extraordinaire.

She's also my native dreamscape field agent and outland bodyguard.

I'm gonna tell you something that only the Chief or Craig have known for a long time. As a matter of fact, I lobbied their inputs on this matter before I added this ancient aboriginal paranormal dimension to my otherwise racy and sexy, racist and sexist am cop talk newsletter.

My wife gets visited every night from her long lost pals and YOUR dearly departed parents and grampies. I just never feel comfortable telling you about the dreams she runs past me on our 30 below early morning walks across Browerville every day.

Lorena Fields Ward paid me bunnik a picnic visit immediately after her passing with a follow up visit just to reassure bun she was fine, and so was Juju.

Jooj is my bun's first born son. The reason Lorena Ward would have first hand knowledge of Jooj is cuz they both ate vanishing pills that do really shitty things to your DNA: reptilian wings tear out yer ass end and circular bony crown shaped rings slowly emerge out the toppa yer head.

They say Death is easy. Far easier'n being born.

I tend not to put much truck in things 'they say'. From the sitreps me bunnik gives me every morning upon awakening, Death is just as scary and traumatic as birthing. Equally transformative too, hence the painful bright lights and Godly M-1, A-1 divine mod-infinite combat circuitry upgrades after we pitch dirt on yer fucking faces. We may reach our full quid, but it's only after Death do complete Eskimos or Vikings we become.

My eyes get watery as shit and I swallow more when bun tells me her stories.

The reason I get a wet face and trembling cigarette is cuz some of my friends join bunnik and her gratefully dead girlfriends too.

One berry picking and tundra picnic I seen a few of your parents there too. One tall Swede would only stand and never sit. When bun invited him to join the parties deceased, he kindly advised her that he had died in his shoes standing in line at the airport and besides, he was expecting someone.

The reason I know this? One night after a bunch of mock drownings and particularly violent beatings, I sneaked outa my unnuk filthy jail cell, crept along the edge of Squirrel Canyon and got to sit in on one of bun's picnics too.

After hiding in the brush and just watching and listening, I braved my naked shit up and walked over to join the party.

To my surprise, I seen a bunch of folks from Kotzebue, Barrow, and Mountlake Terrace, plus 2 Estonian inmates that'd hanged themselves on New Year's Day. Sitting with bun and Mrs. Ward, Jooj and bun's uncle with the frozen face was one of my best friends and favorite field supervisor: Trooper Kim Nay. Armed and shiny, in uniform and kewl fucking fur hat.

He was dressed in full regalia, just like Carlos Salazar and all them old cops hanging around the graveyard up at boot hill, tall and handsome, smoking and joking. His outer parka badge was trick: it had a revolving rank plate just like the rotating license plates on 007's Aston Martin.

When bun seen me, she whispered something into Kim's ear whereupon he rudely jerked me by the arm and escorted me away from their party.

Ain't nothing more upsetting than to be kicked out, 86'd from a bar, or booted from a bonfire kegger. More upsetting was the severe scolding Trooper Nay rallied my ass with.

With a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and me jerked up off the ground, he marched me in cuffs back to the upper edge of Squirrel Canyon, said a tearful goodbye, and with his hand on his sidearm he ordered me to "finish serving your time, any jail is better than this place." "And Jesus Christ Karl, take a bath or something and git some goddamned clothes on!"

Which is how I awoke, filthy as fuck, still in handcuffs, naked on the floor, face down in Suomen jail muck.

When some old cops take the oath to protect and serve, this duty fucking supercedes the limitless lifespan of our blessed yet blood-spattered angels in uniform. This cop is still 10-8 and in service, looking after us broken folks that least expects it: in life and death.

I've never been in a haunted house, but I've been in horribly haunted prisons. I also been inside a wonderfully haunted woman before.

Matter of fact, I married her.

Glad to see you gents still hanging around with me here in the smoking section of this cat box I staked off in yer minds. What do you think? Killer place to hide all yer secrets, stolen hearts, and shiny things too huh?

I'm losing my place.

I must be alive. I have to be, right? Unless all of ye croaked too, and yer here with me and bunnik.

Pinch yer gonad real hard, if it aches, ye ain't dead and neither am I.

Thanks, I needed that.

Karl.

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