Wednesday, April 19, 2006

We musn't eschew obfuscation. So I shant beat around the bush, I'll beat right in it.

Top of the morning gents,

We got trouble, and ain't none of us immune.

Some days I'm possessed by mysterious rage and furious
anger.

You know those days where you have fire in yer veins
and death in yer intentions? Yeah, besides the Craig
man, the Chief and you lot: me too.

I've railed away at us broken hombres that can't
behave themselves in our battles to keep our minds as
wonderful slaves instead cruel taskmasters. You all
knew I was addressing our very own poor behavioral
control and poor risk assessments. Hence why we're
hired to do these nasty ass jobs.

Where does all this unexplainable rage come from?

You boys work all fucking day. I, on the other hand
spend my time researching and writing pure crap whilst
doting on grandchildren that are safer way far away
from the very gramps that white knuckles patience
suppressing pretty fucking awful compulsions to
butcher fellow primates: with extreme prejudice.

So I phone my wife in Kotz merely to pitch a bitch how
I'm afraid I've been tasked to be both angel of mercy
AND an angel of death and that these beautiful
children really should not listen to nor love their
murderously angry gramps.

I've been holding out on y'all, me and the Commander
have been talking. A lot. Can you tell?

He has concerns that I have poor control over my
emotions and that I ought to continue writing.

Not the daily am cop talk that I thoroughly enjoy, but
starting back from the beginning and writing more and
more towards lightening my load. Whatever that means.

All of you know and understand completely what I'm
talking about. The binding cement that keeps us
relegated to this cat box I staked out in yer minds
sublimely doubles as safe haven for my rants, your
ravings and where we can git together for a cold one
and a smoke.

This cement I reapply daily also reminds all of us
that ain't none of us are alone. Death by cop, blue
Sunday suicides cleaning our guns and praying we go
out loudly may seem and feel a worthy destiny.

Our blessed Commander Craig refutes the statistical
significance why so many of you graying gunslingers
and uniformed felons will likely die alone from
diabetes, heart disease or failure to take
responsibility for our inherently selfish genes. And
dicks.

This cement and mutual understanding is based in a
common disorder he believes none of us ain't got our
arms and minds around.

Our dear constabulary sherpa and sentinel of 'the last
shred of what Abe Lincoln calls our better angels'
insists we need guidance, support and protection from
this blessed day forward.

Craig worked for Army Intelligence from 1950-1966
before fleeing his controllers and handlers flying up
to Kotzebue believing he too could shirk that cursed
sense of right and wrong, good and evil (zones only
inhabited by lunatics, zealots, dictators and agents
with a death wish) in a village on the edge of the
Bering Sea.

He also found religion to be a wonderful antidote for
the nagging guilt derivative from his duties
specializing in extracting information.

Ya see, Craig has witnessed and expedited
interrogation that inevitably resulted in the death of
their subjects. Death from shaken cans of pop or beer
opened directly into the sinuses and lungs, or high
pressure air hoses in the ears and orifices and
worstly womping the piss and brains out of a lad with
a phonebook.

To rid a hangman or torturer of these plagued visions
and nightmare sounds, he says bourbon works best
washing all the bile down yer throat. Sometimes
supplemented with a smoke of any kind or legality to
prime his throat for the next sin wash of solvent, hot
air and spit.

Hence his assertion that self-medicating PTSD with a
bartender's pharmacy of very limited inventory works
better than behaviorally modifying prescription pills:
like yer author on drugs. Know what I mean?

As I stumble towards our salvation and forgiveness,
I'll relay any useful information back to ye, daily.
David has also signed on for the ride.

When I told him I was heading to Los Anchorage to
backtrack smuggling routes from Barrow to the doorstep
of the same dudes that to this day, are the majority
vendors to the north (rope a dope) slope, he balked,
then counseled otherwise.

"Come on guy, you don't gotta prove nothing to any of
us."

Whereupon I stated that I had something to prove to
myself (and the chief) that I've got plenty more high
risk missions in me, and that I can't let you boys
down.

I could hear his voice quibble, then mine. So I hit
the mute button to listen carefully to the trembling
in his voice.

I've never heard another man, outside of jail,
silently weep while all his best mates "set the
controls for the heart of the sun" (S. Barrett/R.
Waters)

Last night, I raced all over Anchoragua tearing up the
new tires we bought the super magnum child. I almost
flipped the vehicle bending the steering wheel and the
throttle.

Pulling over to smoke one of my French Galouises
cigarettes I was accosted by a homeless negro and a
brainless drooling drunken native begging me for money
or one of my cigarettes.

Yup, God sent me 2 punching bags just for my very own
enjoyment, psychological release and 'sexual healing'
(M. Gaye)

Had it not been for their stumbling into traffic,
backwards drunken jaywalking, and chirp siren from the
APD unit, I'd a kilt them pieces of human detritus and
debris with my bare hands.

Sirens tend to get my attention, so I merely veered my
clenched fists away from the park and strolled ever so
nonchalantly to the reeking brake pads and tires of
Sara's sweltering hot motor unit.

I've seen these episodomy moments in all ye too. One
of ye gutted a nuisance Wernecke and one of ye smashed
in the face of an asshole Indun in the drunk tank
under Wallace's watch AND protection.

1D25's quick-draw kid seen me skull bounce a
punk-snigger off the cement floor, yank his legs apart
like a wish bone then drag his shit ass attitude along
the hallway floor all the way to his cell: with a few
choice words and groin stomps as my treat.

Good stuff. Good release.

Returning home an hour and half a tank later, I felt a
bit better, just a mild headache and shaky nicotine
stained hands.

I went inside, rudely kicked Sara out to go work out
at her health club, sat down with the micro-skimo
grand-chitlens, poured my quart of beer down me pie
hole and watched Carl Sagan's COSMOS.

Just as I did pert near 20 years ago with their mommy.

I'm okay. You're okay.

Not.

I got me a new bumper sticker. No, not ‘Eschew
Obfuscation'.

How about ‘Sanity or Bust’?


Karl.

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