A bedtime story fit for a monster.

Top of the morning gents,

I sure write a lot. A fucking lot.

Some messages are to my friends. Some messages are to
the Mrs.

Despite suffering a typically tragic and violent
Eskimo childhood; she possesses unfathomably deep
reserves of kindness, care and understanding.
Benevolent attributes absolutely necessary to wed such
a monster possessing tools and abilities few can
understand, stomach nor learn from.

Most of what I spew is curse ridden prayers to my best
mates I've accumulated along this long ass road we
call life. Until we serve some asymptotic and elusive
purpose this dirt road will seem tiresome and endless.
My back aches, my feet hurt and my soul is strewn with
shit much like this dirty and dusty road with ditches
filled with good and evil human wreckage on both
sides.

Hell, some of you blessed gunslingers were found in
those piles of bleeding shit and road kill. Glad to
have made yer acquaintances.

Do ye ever feel like we were scooped up outa the ditch
at moments when we truly needed a friend? At these
moments when our grasping Homo erectus hands clenched,
I 'spect we all needed mutually ungodly friendship
too.

Some of my daily postings are well camouflaged so that
you git what the fuck I'm writing about a few days
after ye read my shit. My most wonderful concepts of
kindness and the love of our fellow man are smeared
with shit and syphilis.

Yup, my missives most eloquently foul and disgusting
are intentionally cryptic: heartfelt thanks, cloaked
apologies to the universe, and you lot.

Some twists and turns in our flight paths are shrouded
in shadowed gloomy darkness equal to unlit roads along
the Skagit River on any foggy winter midnight. Nights
so dark, even blue dot acid, mice nor burgundy
mycelium will beacon a lost lad pursuing a Bard’s
enlightenment.

If you focus real hard and look in my rear view
mirror, you'll see what I'm talking about. Ya see, I
come from a long line of monsters. And today is a good
day to say I'm sorry.

I ain't apologizing to you sons of fucks, friends
don't ever gotta apologize fer shit. Part of the deal
when ye make friends, apologies are implicit:
forgiveness is explicit.

As you all know, I’ve never laid hands upon another
human, nor ever touched a weapon of any kind, but I am
compelled to take responsibility for horrors
unspeakable done to, and done by, my grams, gramps and
great gramps.

Assuming responsibilities plural and ownership of my
murderous legacy, I sense tremendous imbalance. Yup,
the karmic score card is lopsided towards the maimed
and leaking hence my schizophrenic vigilante contract
work tapping the reserves of pure evil seeping outa my
pores, mouth and hands.

All evil is within all of us, and so is limitless
goodness and kindness gloved in infinite capacity to
give. I just tend to get distracted and confused once
in a while, getting a little carried away folding
space, turning devilish reflections counterfeit upon
evildoers that prey upon the naïve and innocent
forever trapped in darkness that don’t and never will
know better. Okay, I get carried away a lot and often.

As you all are aware, I’ve executed orders created
above AND below, playing both sides of the coin: bait
and hook, fish and fisherman, and predator and prey.
In my game of prolific theft, embezzlement,
prostitution, smuggling and consumption there aren’t
any rules, no rights and no referees. I’m gonna have
my hemp cake AND eat it too. My mission in life
straddles good and evil in codependent ways
comprehensible only to those suffering similar
bi-polarity and stress traumatic erosion corroding
your halos.

My path usually has 2 sets of footprints; occasionally
you’ll see only 1 set. Whoever carries me through my
most torturous stretches of road is anyone’s guess.
The big guy manning the helm sports a silver beard yet
refuses me sight of my dearly departed.

Fuck me in the goat ass; suffering and existence are
inseparable, yet I awake every blessed day forever
imprisoned within my own militarized zone of lunatic
occupancy.

Today’s litany of lineal absolution is a gift I’ve
intentionally pissed and shit all over, then shared
with you lot.

My Grandma Saimi grew up in rural Finland, more
specifically, a remote Suomen village far North of the
Arctic Circle. (See a pattern here?) God bless her:
fearful, superstitious village woman that viewed her
own gender as chattel and men as prize possessions and
horsepower.

Give or take a thousand years, back before the
centennial 19th hunnert year of our Lord, a local man
fell in front of his own horse drawn plow, died in
agony, leaving a widow behind without children.

In Nordic fashion, the village folk left the poor sod
for 3 days in his own unfilled grave, in his box but
with a string attached to a bell. During the Black
Plague it was customary to let a corpse rest for three
days in their coffin before nailing down the lid and
pitching dirt on ‘em. For some ungodly reason, some
undead folks awoke and rang the bell for help outa
their damn pine box. Hence the phrase, “Saved by the
bell.”

This downtrodden stiff never awoke to ring his bell.
So he got the heave-ho, sealed tight and buried six
feet under. Conifer seed cones were poured in and
around the coffin to expand huge forests haunted
feeding upon sapient mortals past their pull date and
sailing effortlessly amongst the clouds of Valhalla.

As mentioned heretofore, I come from a race of pale
pagans notorious for prehistoric pillaging and the
last holdouts against Christianity, so my ancestors
had no use for decorating buried boxes of dead meat
with crucifixes nor crosses of Russian orthodoxy. Tall
and straight-grained trees grown intentionally atop
the dead and buried for shipwright lumber are what any
good Sammi or Laplander uses for a grave marker.

You’ll likely never find any ancient graves or burial
sites in Northern Scandinavia, just huge forests atop
all of history’s dead and buried Vikings. The notion
of haunted forests arose from the millions of Viking
Dead subsequently nourishing premium continental
forests of selective species and grade. Like all your
subsistence sea mammals, trees bear the spirits of the
dead and have offered themselves to Norse shipwrights
for an estimated 150,000 years.

Besides, cutting 2 planks for a cross would be such a
waste of blessed wood. Wood better utilized in the
manufacture and construction of man’s earliest ocean
going sea vessels.

Once buried and seeded, a corpse is never mentioned.
Speaking ill of the Viking Dead causes unrest in the
Earth, and is believed to retard the appearance of
high-grade lumber seedlings in the next reincarnation.
It also forces a widow to quit her bitching and
moaning, get over her self, get another husband and
get on with her life.

King James plagiarized a lot of Norse folk wisdom. So
did the American Psychiatric Association in echoed
epochs inhabited by us time traveling serial killers
and graying gunslingers.

Well, this widow refused to neither interview nor
audition any eligible candidates. Instead she received
late night guests bearing gifts, spirits and
adulterous erections. One by one, all the married men
of the village popped in for a little buttered biscuit
and un-birthed womb service. Amongst the village women
this was tolerated, but not forgiven. Viking women,
like Eskimo women understand why both Tupperware users
and walrus prefer a tight seal.

Ever since prehistory, even Vikings frowned upon
infidelity for fear of pain, pus and scraling
discharge characteristic of Vikings returning from
round the world tours raping, pillaging and
exterminating any race shorter, darker and free of
slave shackles.

Far be it for the men to exercise better judgment, but
ornery village women surely did. Once word of this
village wide biscuit thawing and seasoning rounded the
sewing, knitting and skinning circles: a curative
measure was devised.

On a night darker than Death, my grandma Saimi joined
all the village women and paid this unattached harlot
a lethal visit. She was dragged from her sod cottage,
out to the edge of the haunted forest and dismembered.
Alleviating recapitulation, culpability and recourse,
every female stabbed or slashed this poor unmarried
widow as penitence for soiling their husbands’
divining rods, kickstands and selfish genetic pistols.
Not one girl, mother nor grandmother shied away from
this duty, not even my dear grandma Saimi.

What was left wouldn’t even pass for shitty dog food.
But this ancient exorcism wasn’t completed yet.

The eldest matriarch of the village bent down and
shoved an earthen jug full of poisonous mushrooms and
lethal toxic herbs up inside the dead woman's uterus,
then stomped upon her abdomen shattering the clay pot
and releasing the contents inside her abbreviated soul
kitchen. This last measure voided any 3-day waiting
period eliminating any chance to be saved by the bell
and symbolizes where the soul of a woman resides.

The shredded corpse was pitched in a hole, covered
with coniferous pinecones and seeds of premium grade
shipwright lumber and buried with lots of spit, cuss
and dirt, thus contributing to an ever-healthier
village and an ever expanding haunted forest.

So you see my dichotomous conflict: not being my
grandparents still ain't being myself.

The next time you take a saw to a plank or board, duly
note the offering. Even if you’re not a carpenter, I’m
betting your boss is.


Karl.

Road Trip? Nup, just a flight along Alaska's Northern Arctic Coast.

Top of the morning gents,

I just bought my ticket to Barrow.

Instead of taking the jet I thought I'd save a few
bucks and take our friendly neighborhood bush plane
service instead.

Alaska Airlines routes their jet service from Kotzebue
South to Anchorage, then heads North to Fairbanks,
Prudhoe Bay then Barrow.

Sounds like a lot of time full of airport malarkey and
barley corn Tom-foolery don't it?

Don't get me wrong, I'm a natural born bar fly in some
of the world's finest airports, but Anchorage and
Fairbanks aren't even in the same category.

Now if I could spend a few hours with the Sgt, Squish
or Lt. Columbo, or Timo, Dwayne and Paul Quinn at the
Amsterdam, Frankfurt or Helsinki airport bars, I'd be
one happy camper.

Alas, these gatherings occur only in my imagination.
My barts, buds and oomahs only cheer "Pohee man koutu"
(Finnish for 'drink to your health') in the smoking
section of this cat box I staked off inside your
minds.

Nice thought though, despite apparent nonsensical
assertions from yer author on drugs.

My brother Tim flew all the way from Tokyo twice just
to visit his very own eldest brother. Once to drive
all over hell and back: up the Parks Highway through
Denali to Fairbanks. Another visit with a whole slew
of wealthy Japanese and Korean businessmen.

I was proud as a peacock to show him our Willow
safe-house, the Susitna River Landing and the trails
all around our 5-acre spread at the end of Lucky Shot
Trail Road: a mile long dead end dirt road.

His reciprocative invitation to join him in Anchorage
with all his distinguished colleagues for drinks,
dinner, drinks and more drinks surely exercised my
abdomen and finely tuned Viking liver with much too
much laughter.

I learn a lot every time I visit with strangers from
strange lands, even if I fly all over Europe and
Scandinavia or the most remote villages along the
Alaska's Northernmost Arctic Coast.

The further and longer we stay far from the soil our
mothers hatched us on, the more alien a human evolves.
This is what's called the "Ex-Patriot Syndrome": the
oddly far removed sense of homelessness a lad achieves
the longer we're away.

A British pal of mine mentioned previously, Paul Quinn
called me a wandering Jew and an American 'fuck off
cunt' with only the most positive implications in
mind.

He believes Roger Water's phrase, "Picking around on a
piece of ground in your hometown, waiting for someone
or something to show you the way" best describes the
lost 'fanny farts' he grew up with.

"To reach yer full fucking quid, ye gotta cast
refection in every fucking country on the fucking
planet!"

Amen to that.

Since I've already pissed and shit all over Anchoragua
and Shitbanks, I'm gonna go the long ways 'round and
pop in on all the coast villages whilst ferried on the
milk run flight path with Frontier Flying Service.

Whence I arrive in Barrow, I'll be stacked with chores
re-renting out apartment A in our duplex and partaking
in the Inuit Circumpolar Conference: a worldwide
gathering of all the InuTribes every 10 years. '86 was
here in Kotzebue, '96 was in Greenland with '06 in
Barrow. Is that kewl or twat?

I'll try to punch out a few essays foul and articles
upsetting over the weekend.

Karluk.

Want to piss off yer wives? Let 'em read my stupid shit.

Top of the morning gents,

Rehashed hash is nothing more than “scraped crust and
resin check” (F. Empfield). But repeating positive
mental affirmations, and mantras reassuring
non-murderous attitude can’t be too fucking awful.

This is the driving force why some of us attend church
services while others of us enjoy visiting friends
like St. Paul (Lt. Columbo) and good shaman healers
like Dorcas Rock. High manna is the goal and this
feral Finn achieves this by hook or crook.

If possible, I like to visit Lt. Columbo on his late
lunch break. We chat about real estate notes,
structured wrap arounds, bankruptcy protection laws
granted to shitty tenants, and of course, native
village drug politics and unethical strategies.
Contrary to snuffing suburban and big city drug
dealers, it takes extreme prejudice and cunning to
torpedo drug dealers and bootleggers out here in
remote Arctic Alaska.

On our walks, me bunnik will gaze out of her window
upstairs in the Eskimo Building and watch us walk and
talk.

"How cute." "Two handsome men looking so serious in
deep thought discussing only God knows what."

"Some of my coworkers also watch you two old killers
stroll by and speculate gossip of future narc jobs and
who's getting busted, or killed."

Perception is reality in the land of the blind.

To comfort our souls, fellowship also works real
fucking good. Churches, computer labs, squad rooms and
pubs serve up healthy doses of kinship, familiarity
and fellowship.

Allow me to put a few conditions on this fellowship
theorem. Alaskan taverns and bars offer only smelly
flying knuckles and drunk cunt native women spitting
teeth at me.

From my Helsinki campus dorm room on Jakarinkatu
Street I’d walk down to the Old Skipper’s Pub to visit
Dwayne, Timo and Rob Kennedy for Sunday brunch, French
cigarettes, Cuban cigars and ale. It does a lonesome
Alaskan soul wonders to spend an afternoon with really
bright people invisible to the rest of humanity.

In the game of IQ and humanity, ye can only see
downward, not up. Looking upwards takes blind faith.

Another reason I collect truly violent graying
gunslingers and uniformed felons as friends and pen
pals is for the pleasant reflection I get whilst
bullshitting, retelling thrice told tales AND busting
a gut.

Just last week I bumped into the Sgt at the Post
Office: smart guy, witty too. We chatted about truly
wonderful headshots, goalie groin kicks and crushing
punches we’ve used to collapse and fold miscreant
mother fuckers of diverse hygiene, intelligence and
skin color.

It's a fact: DV calls are the most dangerous to first
responders. Invariably every domestic violence SR
(service request) yields knife wielding screaming
bitch wives, axe wielding homicidal in-laws, or
definitive 1-round boxing matches during the book-in
procedure or at the front of the jail.

Whenever I heard "Hey!" "You want to send Karl out
front to help git this guy out of the patrol car?" I
sprouted handsome boners. Sometimes it's just good and
healthy to beat the piss out of punks high on crack
like Tyke Lloyd Hall, Jim Ginley or any butt fucker
with the last name of Judkins or McConnell.

As I edit and revise my audience so as to not offend
any pussy faggots, I tend to steer my foul mouth and
curse-ridden prayers towards the likes of you
monsters: busted knuckled, armed and dangerous mother
fuckers with attitude. Amen.

Like-minded people are what you get in any voluntary
gathering. Just like the smoking section in this cat
box I've sectioned off in yer minds, any club will ban
folks for reasons of race, IQ or in this case, gender:
No Cunts Allowed.

Ya see, folks like us could pass for sisters of
similar clan and tribe. Bad Mother Fuckers akin to you
lads always show up at keg parties, cocaine parties,
and political parties. Nature of the beast: birds of
feather, fuck together.

Oops. That was way back when: at least beyond any
polygraph or statute of limitation blowback.

Impromptu bullshit sessions are the key. Since a
vampire cannot enter your domicile without permission
from your mean ass wives, I’ll stick to random
encounters on the street. Besides, all of ye get real
uncomfortable when I knock on your door unannounced.

It’s my lot in life. I inevitably steam a bitch’s
temper with my raunchy fucking language, gross
arrogance or when you guys laugh so hard at my
animated tales of shredded baby butt pussy that you
exhale your uppers.

Another sure-fire way to piss off any wife is to chat
over their head in glowing language code talk or
subtle reminders of how scant a layperson’s grasp of
gnarly language is.

A while back I asked one of my Ukpeagvik neighbors why
he bragged about being a “Barrow native is better than
all them NANA people.”

'Our land, our people unite' is pure shite.

"If you invite any of them retarded NANA negros, we'll
treat 'em all like second class Induns. Besides,
they're all half breeds and smell funny."

See how it works? Like colored skin, culture and
family still breeds hatred and distrust. To quote
Suzie Erlich, "If you white men hadn't showed up, we'd
a killed 'em all."

Echoing this, Charlotte Skin Brower, formerly of
Selawik went on to tell me how alcohol is killing
every generation of Eskimo babies born in Kotzebue yet
omitting the sheer devastation bath tub crank, Hitler
meth and biker speed we see every day all over the
North Slope.

Looking back at my drug sales at the Tulalip and
Puyallup reservations, BOTH the NANA Region and the
North Slope are far worse than any filthy reservation
I’ve ever shit and pissed in.

Now get this, she took offense at my foul language. Ya
see, my foul industry specific and correct language
laypersons don’t understand, and it pisses them off.

In bootlegger and drug dealer jargon, “pissing and
shitting” is the correct word usage for dumping piles
of product and making fat bank on them reservation or
inner city darkies. Correct language despite the
offensive secretive yet excretive discharge metaphors.

Furthermore, I lectured that back on the farms of my
youth, my father scolded me to always use correct
veterinary terminology in discussing animal husbandry.
For instance, a castrated pig is a “Barrow pig” and
viable canines are called “bitches.”

After I joked that Barrow women could be called
'bitches' and Barrow men could be called 'castrated
pigs', she grimaced and grunted something in toothless
Inupiaq.

Since then, she now scorns me. The only thing worse
than a dumb native is a Finn with brains and balls
lacking couth or tact.

In spite of my irritation with my new village locale,
I stumbled upon a paradox that’s baffled me all
weekend. I bumped into an old acquaintance and
classmate of mine from over a decade ago whilst
studying at Upchuck U, better known as Chukchi College
here in Kotzebue.

On my daily walks ‘round town, I bumped into another
shoe leather traveler, Ross Schaeffer. No shit. He was
walking down Third Avenue with a gate and stride only
I could appreciate.

As we approached each other, I saw a smile spread
across his face even before I recognized him. He
greeted me with, “Looks like they let all types in
this town.” To which I replied, “Looks like they let
natives in too!”

His chuckle and agreement were disingenuous, but good
enough for government work. Ya see, Mr. Schaeffer is
our Northwest Arctic Borough Mayor.

Ross shook my hand and then asked me when I was kicked
out of Barrow. I answered with “After I sent a million
tons of muktuk to the Kotzebue Senior Center and after
I took out their most popular bootlegger and meth
importer.”

His smile faded as he nodded in agreement. He
concurred that native communities embrace illegal drug
dealers and tend to banish the troopers and narcs for
just doing their job. He also nodded in understanding
when I stated that Eskimos pay more for their booze
and drugs than anybody else in the world.

I opened my jacket and showed off all the weight I
lost and complimented him for doing the same. He
showed me the scars across his neck and told me about
the back and neck surgery he’d underwent, then he
explained how he parked his car and now walks
everywhere. He lost 10 pounds the first month after
surgery, subsequently losing 30 more pounds the second
month.

Mr. Schaeffer extolled the virtues of native foods if
he’s exercising and the nightmare obesity if he’s not.
He theorized that eating traditional foods is worse
than eating white man foods if we don’t exercise.
Apparently seal oil, muktuk, and stink flipper will
bloat an inactive aborigine faster than McDonald’s
food. Logic I’m ill prepared to debate.

I asked the Mayor if he’s detected any trace of the
amphetamine plague making it’s debut here in the NANA
Region, whereupon he stated that he’s out of the loop
on such matters but the hospital hasn’t treated any
reported overdoses and the police department hasn’t
had reports either.

Despite our existence upon “soil that’s gone bad” (S.
King-Pet Cemetery) there’s hope for this place yet.

As we concluded our respite from hard walking, Ross
surprised me with a compliment. “You’re a blessing in
disguise, Karl.” “Good to see you back”

See how it works ‘round here? Just like Mr. Schaeffer,
I have to look for the good, and then praise it. Hate
to say it, but he’s a pretty smart man too.

In the world of physics, opposites attract. In the
world of philosophy and epistemology, it’s the other
way around.

Don’t that beat all? I hate politicians almost as much
as I hate cops. But by my continual PMA-positive
mental attitude, I also attract the same.

Karluk.

If yer at Death's Door, I'll pull ye through.

Top of the morning gents,

"I'm not the one that's so far away" (God Smack)

It's perfectly okay to fail to live up to your
ideology, but why do I feel like I really fucked up by
leaving the Ukpeagviks and returning to
soil Kikiktagruk?

In comparing native villages, I'd be disingenuous to
spout, "Same shit different day." My blessed brothers
from darker mothers: they ain't.

Like our neighbors across the yonder pond, rural
Russia is very similar to our own remote cat box out
here on the Bering Sea. The unique ethnocentric
mindset, xenophobic mistrust and subtle hatred is
identical to what your see, hear, feel and smell
'round here. Just the direction of fear and greed is
aimed at diverse groups of fellow humans.

In Barrow I earned terms of endearment such as
'tunnik', 'oochuk boy', and 'stink man', with my very
own best friends hailing me in public with 'negro!'
and 'nigger!'

At least they never called me 'Jew' or 'Gypsy', them's
some bad words.

I'm chuckling as I write, albeit a devilish chuckle
indicative of overwhelming village resentment that
nourishes so much evil.

The darkness of hatred, ignorance and racist
resentment are the well mapped out road signs
revealing to us lads that we won't be seeing hateful
native bitches upon our arrival in heaven.

To quote Grandma Magdalene again, "Don't hate!"

Smart ol' gal wouldn't ye say? Despite cultural
futility, she frequently scolded her boys not to abuse
the fairer children of her colleagues at the hospital.

Like good house niggers, my in-laws still believe
their carcinogenic gossip and secret code for (rifle)
'nugger shooter', (fish club) 'nugger knocker',
(tundra hillocks) 'nigger heads' and (walnuts) 'nigger
toes' are perfectly acceptable language amongst
themselves.

Ya see, sinister gossip and vicious lies don't really
harm the intended victims; they curse the culture of
entire communities. The cruelest whispered secrets
tend to elevate persons extraordinary and demote the
gossip cunts to the bottom of the totem pole.

The negativity I feel in the various villages I've
pissed and shit in don't bring bad karma to me, quite
the opposite, this feral Finn is lavished with graft.
It's a yardstick measuring device revealing to me the
inherent evil and subsequently overwhelming amounts of
crime I can commit unscathed.

For me, native communities are the devil's playgrounds
despite counterfeit Christian reassurances he don't
exist. Clever bugger.

No shit. I'm a magnet for crime. Here are a few
examples beyond statute, just to put yer gonads in a
pinch.

Y'all remember Barney Reuter's wife? Yup, the crazy
gal that worked upstairs at AC. Whenever me, bunnik
and Sara Magnum went shopping she'd give me half price
on everything, and usually stuffed my shopping bag
with extra goodies. I'd pay no more than thirty bucks
for bags of goodies easily worth three hunnert.

Another one. Gumby's nut job sister gave me a wink
whenever I stopped to browse the jewelry counter. I'd
pass over the Black Hills Gold stuff picking out the
really nice gold nugget goodies. When I made my
purchase, she'd drop a half dozen chunky rings in my
grocery bag and only charge for one. You go girl,
needful things are the price of her soul.

Mike Kramer used to work the Hanson's Dry Goods
counter back a few decades. I don't know about you
guys, but he took excellent care of me. Same deal, I
pilfered the expensive jewelry being charged for a
silly pocketknife or rubber boots filled with bonus
treasures.

Gotta love cultural corruption. But my notoriety ain't
for rape nor pillaging, I'm always open for business:
trade, barter and the capture of your soul.

I've had bad hombres approach me with all kinds of
deals too. The LSD you've already been updated on, if
not assisted me with your badges and guns. Pity, I'm
gonna miss those Capones.

When you coppers pinched Fernando for trading booze
for underage biscuit, he left Dicky Moto in charge of
his affairs. Whereupon Dicky Moto knocked on apartment
304 at the 29 unit and me and bun, with good Viking
manners, warmly welcomed him in for generous servings
of liquor. When he pulled out a big nugget and diamond
ring and asked us if we wanted to buy it, I asked "how
much?"

Knowing it's real price was pert near 3 grand I shit
my pants when he said "How 'bout 2 hunnert?" As you
guessed, Fernando took a few bruises in the Kotzebue
Jail when he demanded I give him back that ring.
Deal’s a deal you wet back spic.

Yup, my blessed Siberian Mrs. still wears all these
rings, deservedly so, classy fucking dame, good
looking gal. Come on, ain't no wife of mine gonna go
out in public without a minimum of 10 grand worth of
adornments.

Remember, I ain't native. I spoil my wife, even by
means of theft, graft, prostitution, village drug
trade and the brisk sale of dead souls.

As I promised you graying gunslingers, I'm resisting
temptation of the familiar echoes from 6 feet under
and 10,000 years ago. Something you lads told me was
“hellhounds callin' yer name Karl."

Despite assurances to my wife that I wouldn't steal
anymore, Barrow yielded me a veritable treasure trove
of evil ops.

Barrow is far smarter than you NANA negros. They
regulate ALL liquor entering the community tighter'n
shit: 6 bottles of hard liquor, 6 cases of beer and 12
bottles of wine are the monthly limit. If the retarded
TSA gonad busters found more than ONE bottle in your
luggage, you got a summons to appear.

Everyone has to go to the police department, pay
$25.00 for a criminal history printout, then go over
to City Hall for their examination. If ye ain't got
any assaults, DV, DWI, or ANY alcohol related charges
in the last hunnert years, they'll laminate you a
liquor purchase card, charging you an additional
$25.00 of course.

ALL liquor arriving in Barrow has to go through the
Distribution Center, and everybody pays out the ass
for it too.

Okay, ALMOST everybody. The Barrow Distribution Center
was run by good ol' boys that found my company
refreshing and offensive. Imagine that?

You know everybody's got their inner core of closest
negro buddies. My forte is gaining admittance with
foul charm, shitty language via forked tongue and a
glow mistaken for divinity.

I was given membership to their inner circle of
bootleggers allowing your author on drugs to order my
monthly limit twice a week. Ain't I special?

Come on, do the math. How could I have sold 500
bottles every dividend season without constantly
restocking my inventory through the mail, private
aircraft and exploiting the souls at the Distribution
Center?

Entrapment? Nup, just devilish charm.

"Never did I want to be here again." (Ibid)

There's a special place in Hell ready and prepped for
incurable Alaskan sinners. It's my job to help them
get there.

Upon this cursed soil atop 3 mass graves filled with
your very own grandparents, the job almost does
itself.


Karl.

Treasure Island: I merely follow the yellow puke road.

Top of the morning gents,

It's hard typing this morning, my hand hurts like a
motherfucker and my feet feel like I got 'sukpiq
mukluks.'

Me and bunnik did our thrice daily constitutional
walks over the weekend. In proper bad English yet
appropriate Ingulish "we go visit" our buds, barts and
'ilyas.'

Friday and Saturday were windy cold as hell with heavy
fog and frost mixed with rain and snow whipping around
us and pushing us along.

We paid visits to lots of elderly pals and partook in
rich, foul smelling snacks that would make any
European dickhead puke in disgust. With our punniktuq,
seal oil and jew bread (pilot crackers) we also
enjoyed our fill of coffee, bourbon and vodka. No
shit, folks 'round these parts are spot on in their
alcoholic generosity.

As expected, the walk back up to the edge of town was
a real bitch. The wind ripped our shit and exaggerated
my drunken stagger so as to create the appearance I
was just another local. Fun, fun.

This you’ll dig: me and bun spent a few nights last week
with her elderly aunty, a gray haired old Eskimo witch
of sincere benevolence: Dorcas Rock a tribal doctor we
toke and talk with from Pt. Hope. She's a self-avowed
Inupiaq shaman, albeit a GOOD shaman.

She connects with my Bessie Ootoyuk in spooky ways.
Those girls are peas in a pod, but I can keep up.
Creeps me out dude.

These shaman Inupiaq gals continually encourage me to
never forget about the magic and to quit attempting to
comprehend the unfathomable universe I send
curse-ridden prayers out to. They cackled evil with my
stating that the silly notion that I could ever
comprehend the creator of Einstein AND this universe
is akin to a penguin understanding nuclear physics.

I’m a fraud, charlatan and counterfeit in the school
of remote seeing, touch diagnosis and ESP sharing of
joy, healing and truly high manna. My dreamscapes are
filled with slaughter and erotic violence so delicious
I sleep on my side propped by a handsome kickstand.

Ya see, due to far too much LSD, rural Washington
mushroom trips and repeated near death experiences
part of me was left stuck regressed in an altered
state. I suspect a few of you killers may inhabit
those existential realms too. You graying gunslingers
are fully aware of my forked tongue, buried horns and
ungodly spiritual occupancy, cuz you've been there,
done that.

Fuck it. I refuse to believe I'm more than a cruel
molecule: just a deadly omnivorous carrion scavenger.
The soul of this Finn was created below.

For the time being, I got me a way cooler’n shit trio
of old Eskimo time travelers: me bunnik, Elija and
Dorcas Rock to keep my feet off the ground and my mind
off my futile battles in other spheres.

The more I scoff at my own significance, the more they
implore me to share my tales with them, but I fucking
don't. I fear they’ll detect my blood lustful
nightmarish experiences, lay hands upon me and vomit
up pure evil.

You know that wherever I nomadically wander, the Devil
ain’t far behind. Looking behind me is futile; I’ll
only “see what’s gaining on me” (Sachmo).

I sure trip fucking balls on my all night chats with
bun and our ethereal ancient Siberian angels with
Chinese eyes and spooky tales.

On all of our walks, me bunnik and I scan the
environment for treasures. You know, wallets, purses
watches and loose cash blowing in the wind. Over the
years we've found shit loads of goodies.

Here's an example of historic blessings due to my
strict adherence to the magic all around AND my own
blessed existence here and around the world.

Years ago me and bunnik were taking a Front Street
walk down the full length of town whereupon I found a
hunnert dollar bill laying in the snow right near the
Nulugvik Hotel. Then bun found a role of hundreds
totaling 6 more. In total we snagged $700.00 all in a
yard radius partially concealed by drifting snows.

Fuck we were jazzed.

As we passed Hanson's Trading Post we were greeted by
Mark and Sara Bird: both whom looked terrified and
greatly upset. When queried what was wrong, they told
us that they just lost a bunch of money. So I asked
how much with a shit-eating grin on my fucking face.

When they stated they'd lost "7 hunnert bucks" I
reached into my pocket displaying a role of hundreds and
their eyes went from chink to round-eye in dismay.

"Here ye go." "Me and bunnik just found all your money
up the road a ways."

Hence our false impression of absolute honesty in the
eyes of everybody coming and going in the entrance of
Hanson's. Mark and Sara hugged the piss out of us and
Dragged us through the store insisting they buy us a few
groceries. They also hooked me up with a tasty pouch
of pine chron and have forever since poured me
overflowing drinks from their bar.

All my good deeds have come back to bless me. All my
bad deeds bless me too. Fuck ye.

This last weekend was no exception.

Me and bunnik popped in to visit Delbert Ward and
Annie Joule for lots of whiskey and vodka, and damn
good snacks. Delbert is a chef par excellence and
Annie keeps plenty of booze around, so much I can
afford to play on and around the no-host bar.

As they were winding down, me and bun make a hasty
retreat allowing our two kind barts time to go to
their respective apartments. They both start work at 6
in the morning, so we book no later than 8 pm.

On our way out we found a killer pocketknife on the
ground in front of the 41 unit.

On our Saturday stroll bun found an old collectible
coin in the dirt. Which is cool enough, but on our
final stretch up Caribou Street we found a muddy
little purse with a roll of twenties, tens, fives and
ones inside it. No name, no ID, nothing.

Judging by the location and the road grader and ice
melt run off, it's a safe guess this find was aging
since last winter. Treasure Island mates.

As with Heaven on Earth: Hell is for the asking too.

Most days I see truly fucked up kids staggering out of
the little shack across the street early every
morning. That's when I feel I'm in hellish
surroundings.

I'm such a dumb ass, some days I'll put on my hat,
coat and gloves, jog across the street and raise hell
with the impaired retards constantly partying, smoking
and hanging around there.

Last few mornings, I've pushed, punched and slugged
the whole lot of them. No shit, I'll kick the door
open, march in and pick fights with all of 'em whilst
yelling at 'em to 'get the fuck out.'

Yup, the hooligan males can't resist thinking they're
gonna git a piece of a big ol' white dude that can't
fight fer shit. Whereupon I happily toss, flip and
pound the living shit outa kids that really oughta
take some boxing lessons from Squish and the Sgt and
wrestling lessons from Columbo.

Like bringing a knife to a gunfight, them poor fuckers
really should also pack a lunch and bring their mommas
along before they take a swing at me. Fun, fun: I'm
happy to improperly fold and pound the shit outa the
drunken girls that fly at me too.

If you've received any police reports about some tall
white man beating the piss outa whole gangs of drunken
native kids, don't know what to tell ye. Wasn't me. My
sore hands and feet are from long walks and typing too
much. Fuck ye.

If I dwell on the little native kids so drunk I can
stack 3 at a time, I'm also delving back into Hell.

When I follow Siberian Witch Doctrine derivative of
ancient remote seeing and Christian antidotes to
primitive evil, I'm cool as shit.

Being raped and pillaged is the fait a compli destined
these fucked up little drunken monkeys. For me to
respond with boner eliciting violence, I'm taking time
away from my light-speed and voluminous writing.

Tourette's Syndrome is a natural high, so is
hyperactivity: beating hell out of shitty little ice
niggers ain't.

I think I’m losing my place again. Catharsis? Maybe.

Epiphany? Sure, I'll buy that.

The dodgy lesson I'm grasping to get my puny mind
around is quite simple really. Heaven and Hell are
both found here on Earth. It's my attitude that
determines which is which. Make sense?

Ain't none of ye should feel like Hercules. The
world's troubles needn't burden your gnarly shoulders.
Mine neither, ‘cept my hands and feet sure fucking
hurt.

Karluk from Hell: Heaven sent of course.

I must've been good in a previous life, cuz I surely don't deserve such good treatment today.

Top of the morning gents,

Since returning to the most violent place on Earth, I
am getting some pretty spooky reflections.

No shit. In the last few days, I've sat and chatted
with people I thought would never have the time of day
for the likes of me.

Pretty weird fucking shit my dear gunslingers.

First, I had a chat with Rachel Downing about the 2
houses she was selling, which was strangely warm and
oddly positive. Ya see, rightfully, and quite possibly
deservedly so, Rachel Downing was a first-class cunt
to me, way back in the day.

During our first conversation in over a decade, she
apologized for treating me and Joe Garoutte "like such
a bitch" and went on to explain that her dickless
husband Lorin beat her twice monthly during his
irregular man-periods.

She elaborated that being married to such a lame fuck
also made her miserable to work with and that her
goiter scrotum faggot in wedlock despised me and Joe,
and that she should also mistreat us arrogant
dickheads. Which she did, in spades.

Her hour long confessional lifted both our spirits and
reminded me that a permabitch can be tamed like a
shrew, albeit with lots of king-sized boners she was
deprived of heretofore. I guess Mr. Knoblitch has got
swinging meat like all you rapists and is taking core
samples and counting rings from deeper strata than a
midget bitch knew possible.

You go dude, punch the bottom outa that shallow well
and knock all the mortar outa the walls. Fuck, she's
also been knocked up twice since her days barren with
beta male wife beater Downing. Guess he didn't know
there was serial numbers on a condom, cuz he never
rolled one out far enough. Hooah!

She sure elaborated how she's happily married now and
quite content with 2 new babies, even laughing at
yourself being WAY pregnant in divorce court. She also
apologized for lying so much during Lorin's Domestic
Violence trial for beating the piss outa her.

Ya see? A big dick wins every time and Mr. Knoblitch
is making all us donkey rapists proud. What a visual,
John Holmes feeding mongo penis sausage halfway up the
back of a midget bitch with a mustache.

My second surprising meet: Last week I walked the Mrs.
to the IRA office upstairs in the Eskimo Building then
bid adieu in the identically glowing fashion as I seen
me mum and pops do a million times during my
childhood.

The Ewing patriarch seemed to shine after he gave me
mum a peck on the cheek when seeing her off to work or
departing on month long hikes throughout the Cascade
Mountain Range. Crazy outdoor endeavors with his best
mates kept the lad gnarley and fit, and my rapt
admiration.

Kid like me got sole bragging rights about his dad.
This bragging is serious repellant juice for any lad
on a playground packed with violent farm kids: all
rural children from the killing fields of the Pacific
Northwest.

I now understand my padre spouting that the "best way
to raise your children is to simply love your wife."

"Someday Karl, you'll understand just exactly how
difficult this can be."

After 40 years, we all can fully understand his wise
words. Most of us married darker gals with tempers far
more violent than anything our mums could dole out. In
comparing relative levels of whoop ass, ain't nobody
as vicious and bloodthirsty as a wife from the Mongol
Asian Steppe. My advice is an occassional tune up and
womb stretch, by force if ye gotta. The only sexual
complaints I wanna hear from your wives is "that it
hurts." Amen?

Which brings me back to my quandry why the reflection
I'm receiving from villagers here north of 70 lat
ain't jiving with my internal self image.

After parting company with my pretty Siberian Mrs. I
strolled past the Pillitaq Center, City Hall then hung
a left into the blowing snow, fog and frost past the
MMC hospital. Numerous 4-wheelers, cars and trucks
past by me with mysterious hands waiving at me. I had
no clue who these smiling aboriginies with squinting
Chinese eyes were, but in good manners, I waved back,
with ALL 5 fingers.

One ol' dude lept out from the way past of my broken
mind and gave me a salute. Only soldier that pulls
that formal crap could've only been Lt. Richard
Eunice. No shit, the one and only motorcycle cop:
armed and truly fucking dangerous.

I almost tripped on my own big feet trying to get a
second glance as he smiled and sped by, but I swore I
seen the same mean ol' redneck that for reasons God
only knows, chose graveyard shifts in the old jail
aside yours truly, yer author on drugs.

His scolding was always the same: "Do ye wanna die
boy?" Fun, fun.

My stroll carried me past the old Ponderosa Bar and
the Senior Center where I heard some gal scream in a
uniquely Georgian accent, "Oh my God!" "Where have you
been all these years?"

Yup, that mean motorcycle cop had a wife, and she come
up to me asking when I come back to town and gave me a
big ol' hug that reddened my cheeks like a grandma
kind of hug. Know what I mean?

Mrs. Eunice, or more correctly, Mrs. Rhonda Eunice
invited me in to the Senior Center, offered me yummy
hot coffee and we done sat down in her office for long
ass spell.

She'd heard and read of my misadventures flying in the
back of a bootlegger's plane, selling a bar to the
NANA Corporation, and tidbits of a tall Viking
motherfucker shipping "what, a TON of muktuk to the
elders here in the building?"

I held my hands high and fessed up that I was guilty
as charged and clarified it was 2.5 tons each year for
3 years in return for the hunnert monster shefish
Cyrus Harris sent to the Barrow Senior Center.

She then went on about how I look much taller and
handsome as "all get out." So I informed her that I
undertook another renewal of thyself and also renewed
my membership with the human race.

I held my coat wide open and spun around in front of
her to show off my slim physique, whereupon her jaw
dropped and she muttered a Southern cuss we shant
repeat.

We continued chatting about the microbiology of the
village water supply, the chronic addictions to
alcohol, and the wholesale rape of Eskimo boys and
girls that miraculously is ommitted from school books
the world over.

My recital of "Love that dirty water, ah Boston yer my
town" elicited a smile, but shortlived.

She explained that the tap water I drink by the
fucking gallon to quench my thirst for Jim Beam "so
great it leaves a shadow" is full of bacteria. A
unique bacteria responsible for ulcers and esophogus
erosion.

Fuck me in the goat ass, again.

The good Doctor Carroll advised me to double up on
water consumption to remove the rapidly dissolving
arterial plaque and the veritable ton of toxins I
smoked and snorted in the line of duty, of course.

When a Viking motherfucker starts mountain biking and
hiking all over the Arctic Coast in pursuit of poached
polar bears and whales to butcher, the body will
undergo radical tranformations. He stated this will
also mirror the dubious healings to my "trouble in
mind" (Nina Simone).

Now I got an angel advising me that the trillion
gallons of water I hydrant out my fucking dick is
poisonous. My response to her was "ain't nothing but a
thing, the last time I got bit by a rattle snake, it
died."

I wasn't lying neither. After me and dad put the
finishing touches on a house Tobus remodeled during
his doctorate studies in Pullman, we cruised out to a
family owned 52-acre piece of real estate with a
sawmill and creek on it way the fuck out in rural
Idaho.

On my sneak a toke stroll up on the ridge, I got
snagged on the pantleg by a rattler that couldn't git
his teeth outa my ass. So I made a fist and smashed
the fucker, carefully pulled it away and flung it as
hard as I could against a big ol' rock. All whilst
shrieking like a goddamned girl.

He'd sunk fangs through my jeans and into my boot, but
no visible marks on my leg, so fuck it. I again lit my
doober, pulled a big chug offa my whiskey, then
strolled drunkenly back down to dad and his nightmare
sawmill I secretly believe he and gramps used to
package stink Induns.

We all got skeletons hanging from our family trees,
y'all are just too ignorant to know where the gimps
are buried. You really should investigate secrets from
your violent past, even if your family tree looks like
a fucking wreath! Fuck I'm funny.

Mrs. Eunice chuckled with me and at me, then her phone
started ringing incessantly, so I waited till she
finished chatting to let her get to work.

In good Southern manners and hospitality, she thanked
me for dropping by and chatting with her. Then I left.

As I walked past a crowd of really old Eskimos
occupying the building I was soon to inhabit, I felt
my hair for horns, my ass for tail and my tongue for a
fork. Nonesuch.

Since nothing was amiss, I boogied out the front door
and continued on my lonesome solitary Kung Fu trek up
the isolated spit sticking out in the middle of
Hotham’s Inlet, my new home.

Karl.

"Don't drink, don't smoke. What do ye do?" (Adam Ant). And now a discouraging word from our sponsor.

Top of the morning gents,

Booze is an equivalent disaster to Siberian folks as
hard drugs is to our kin. After a detailed briefing
about Machine Gun Tony's mishap with the law, I say
take everything.

Good philosophy when going after unjust enrichment and
ill-gotten gains fattening our village and reservation
drug kingpins.

Here's the irony: few bush planes can fly from
Anchoragua to Kotzebue, so by simple deductive
reasoning my dear Dr. Watson, yer inventory supply
chain of meth, coke and weed is arriving via Alaska
Airlines, Frontier, NAC and a few other air carriers.

Hey, don't I have an eye for the obvious?

Barrow requested special funding from the United
States Postal Service for a Special Investigator
solely tasked with tossing all mail packages.

No shit: ALL mailed packages be they parcel post,
priority mail AND bypass mail pallets the gooks,
slopes and dinks make use of in their bootlegging
missions. After the Bethel bacon bit piglets tore up a
pallet of gook eatery supply pallets of bypass liquor
and Karl Main's crew's snagged a shit load of illegal
cigarettes, smarter communities started kicking some
ass.

This special investigator also has a dog for rapid
searches of large numbers of parcels but also has one
of those TSA mass spectrum analyzers to detect trace
particulates left on the exterior of packages by the
tainted and soiled hands of the smugglers. The results
of this tough hombre’s good work were detailed in
recent editions of the Arctic Sounder: Postal
contraband interceptions are the new pipeline to
pinch.

Is that kewl or twat?

Before me and bunnik left Barrow, we attended the
North Slope Summit on Meth. Yup, them Ukpeagvik
motherfuckers are serious as shit.

In my years of smuggling I found a few ways around the
jack booted thugs at Statewide Drug Enforcement.

*Inserting sheets of acid inside my dog kennel's
pillow or canine blanket

*Carefully opening the BOTTOM of powdered laundry soap
boxes, pouring out some product, inserting yer drugs,
then silicone sealing the bottom with the tear off
opening at the top still intact.

*The Capone’s mastered the paint bucket, mud bucket
and VCR covert smuggling trick

The most recent and effective smuggling technique is
the multi-layered package taped to yer abdomen trick.

Village smugglers are smart so they wear latex gloves
and put perfumed powders between each layers and then
tape this odiferous feminine plastic pillow full of
drugs to the stomach of fat tundra maggots willing to
mule meth, weed and cocaine out to the villages.

As of recent, smuggling booze has become a bitch so my
pals merely sign up multiple folks for legal purchases
handed over to bootleggers.

This war on drugs is also a sneaky war on the rights
of Americans too ignorant and fearful to realize this.
We've expanded this war on drugs into a war on the
right to carry firearms, privacy and search and
seizure as well.

If ye got a pouch of chron, and a pistol: yer fucked.
If ye got a roach, doobie or pipe, and a pistol:
again, yer fucked. But if we objectify and dehumanize
our prey, these 'crooks' become less than citizenry
and subhuman, hence putting away millions of
minorities. Fun, fun: black is beautiful when pulled
over.

"If you see more than 2 people in a car, they're doing
drugs" (J. Mack).

The sanctity of the car is weaker than a wet paper
bag. But if a bunch of rich kids are toking up or
snorting down piles of nose candy inside their gated
community homes out in Suburbia, America: all deals
are off. Hence the attitude adjustment breaks all us
rich white kids enjoyed in the rumpus rooms and hot
tubs of our parents’ big houses down yonder.

Passing a hooter around between new cars in the
parking lots of Shoreline College or UW isn't very
smart, but still private property and patrolled by
campus security.

Retching plumes of pine chron in campus dorms ain't
nearly as safe as clouding up a whole floor of a
fraternity or sorority neither, but few of you rushed
a frat and gained friendship from sworn brothers
within the Greek Row system.

Rich kid scholarships and tribal memberships are based
on criteria other than brown skin, diluted obsolete
DNA and traditionally deprived entities.

They’re based upon ass kicking academic achievement
and productivity we offer to the economy and
workforce: hence the notion of 'meritocracy', merit
for hard work and smart choices. Sorry, but it’s a
myth to think that nepotism works for rich kids
furiously studying for their engineering, law or
business degrees.

I've been chatting incessantly about America, not my
motherland populated by recently civilized Vikings and
Norsemen. Verso with all my blessed native brethren, I
feel more at ease and comfortable when surrounded by
Northern Europeans too.

Sorry, but we're NOT all alike. Ethnocentric,
xenophobic and fearful racism persist here in Alaska,
but far less down yonder in the lesser 48. Hence the
blindfold over the eyes and scales balanced in the
pursuit of justice.

This is Alaska, not Norway, Sweden nor Finland where
egalitarianism and absolute fair play is the rule of
thumb. All of our rural Alaskan village, regional and
state leaders are mean spirited, hateful and pig
headed men.

Ye get what ye vote for.

Weed possession in EU member nations is less expensive
than a minor traffic offense, but hard drugs like
cocaine, heroin and amphetamine based drugs like MDMA,
meth and ecstasy still punished harshly and felonious.


Finland has a woman president; Norway forbids all
discrimination on the basis of race, religion or
ethnic ancestry, Sweden too. NOT the Affirmative
Action and Political Correctness crap we eat on this
side of the Atlantic. Our new age racism and
discrimination is the stuff of comedic broadcasts
yielding laughter us Americans might not comprehend.

We should be appalled at the oppression and forced
downward treatment of women by aboriginal groups
flailing about in inept endeavors to return to their
roots. Nordic and Scandinavian folks will openly admit
their stupid ancient cruel treatment of all folks
darker than my gramp's dick; lest we no longer act
upon these compulsions.

Land of free ain't here in Europe Junior (USA), it's
yonder northward in "the land of the ice and snow and
the midnight sun and the arctic glow" (Immigrant
Song-Plant/Page).

The culture of the past died for a reason, useless
obsolete and based upon hunter-gatherer societies.
Reclamation of ancient ways only serves to reinforce
mistreatment of modern women and girls.

"The best way to destroy notoriously cruel aboriginal
culture is to throw Christ and commerce at it"
(Ootoyuk). Like shackles and chains, addictions
reflect freedom felt by a culture's citizenry.

Hence why our reservations and villages are plagued
with alcohol and drug addictions that supercede free
will and freedom of choice of both bullets AND
ballots. Freedom comes from personal, financial and
healthcare responsibility: cradle to grave care simply
exemplifies captivity.

Most addicts hate their fiendish hungers. In the rest
of the world, hitting bottom is the turning point, not
in Alaska. We enable the shit out of our chronic
inebriates undermining recovery with codependent
twisted support, not strict adherence to sobriety. As
stated heretofore, 95% of all police work is alcohol
related, either directly or ancillary.

Relapse is a normal part of recovery, but if I see any
of ye giving handouts to your drunken and drug
addicted relatives, I’m gonna put a bullet in both of
ye.

All drug traffic and bootlegging commerce is demand
stimulated: our efforts to thwart such illegal biz are
futile until we understand the invisible hand of
economics. Demand destruction occurs two ways: the
price goes through the ceiling or preference for a
product collapses to zero. You choose. Coddling
drunkards merely lines the pockets of criminal
entities further.

Dual diagnosis, not double entendre: self-medication
illustrates boredom, pain and childhood nightmarish
and poor. The Band-Aid goes on the wound, not the
medicine bottle.

Imagine a village dealer with inventory he could NEVER
unload. Still with me?

I'll live to see this silly messing about set right,
doubtful any of you blood-spattered and wingless
angels will.


Karl.

---

Helicopter pilot, two others arrested in pot smuggling
probe

The Associated Press Published: May 12, 2006

LOOMIS, Wash. (AP) - A helicopter pilot was arrested
in Canada and two Washington state residents were also
in custody after authorities seized 325 pounds of
marijuana, Okanogan County Sheriff Frank T. Rogers
said.

The arrests Tuesday are the latest in a series of
aerial pot smuggling attempts in recent months along
the north central Washington county's sparsely
populated 90-mile border with British Columbia.

"It's like the Energizer Bunny. It just keeps coming
and coming," Rogers said Thursday.

He said a number of law enforcement agencies received
reports Tuesday that a helicopter crossed the border
illegally, left five hockey bags at Blue Lake, about
10 miles south of Loomis, and then took off again.

Royal Canadian Mounted Police arrested the pilot and
seized the chopper after he landed in British
Columbia, and U.S. authorities seized the marijuana
and arrested two Henry P. Roman, 49, of Seattle, and
James N. Burglund, 64, of Centralia, after stopping
them in a pickup truck near the lake, Rogers said.

He said he did not have the name or other details on
the pilot.

Roman and Burglund were jailed in Spokane for
investigation of federal charges of possession of
marijuana with intent to deliver, the sheriff said.

The arrests marked at least the fifth time that
authorities have intercepted airborne pot shipments
since December. The previous four involved float
planes, and in three cases people were caught with
marijuana at or near remote lakes.

On a fourth occasion, after tribal police seized a
float plane March 14 after disabling it by hurling
rocks at the propeller on the Columbia River, the
pilot made it to the other side and eluded sheriff's
deputies. A man believed to be the pilot was later
spotted and arrested on the Colville reservation.

Nulato residents argue over liquor store. Step aside, I'm gonna lecture angrily and set yer shit straight.

Top of the morning gents,

A few years back 2 North Slope villages tried going
totally wet.

The result was disasterous, and both villages quickly
returned to dry status thus allowing me to
disintegrate Logan's Run and WeBeDrugs Airline routes
plethora.

Ya see, the excessive and chronically abusive drinking
that we see all over bush Alaska has nothing to do
with the relative status or availability of alcohol.
The disasters are due solely to the composite liver
chemistry of the citizens in each of these villages.

Yup, I'm talking about ethnicity, race and organ
structure and function. Allow me my habitually
digressive preamble...

A hunnert years ago Dr. Jan Shackles was my graveyard
guard duty conversationalist and Florence Nightengale
whilst watching over badly injured arrestees at MMC,
Kotzebue's infection connection analogous to the
Anchorage Native "Anus" Hospital (ANS).

She and I chatted about all sorts of things, but her
depth and authority lay in the EXACT reason why I was
hired to watch drunken and broken Inu-monkeys that
would be in prison had they not been wrapped around
axles or worse, inserted into storm porches like May
Marlene Thomas, God rest her soul.

I may be more immature and naive than all of ye
graying gunslingers and uniformed felons, but I'm
older than almost all of ye.

It may also be the case that I arguably have a better
memory than you lads because I broker (steal) huge
sections of your brains (me bun's too) as temp. data
storage using my hyper sonic mother board and
processor speed as a means of retrieval from all YOUR
giant hard drives.

I'll say it again. All of you likely have higher IQ's
than I, but were denied the ability to learn. Strike 2
for Team Alaska public schools.

The thrust of Dr. Shackles theoretical assertions were
a simple fact: the Mongolian Spot on all our Eskimo
brethren. This 'spot' is easy to detect and indicates
missing liver chemicals and uniquely native liver
function when soaked with ethanol alcohol.

All Asian descendants from the Siberian Mongol-Asian
Steppe have both 'spots' on generationally mutating
male DNA and non-mutating mitochondrial female DNA,
hence no gender specificity with regards to poor
alcohol breakdown, digestion, secretion and excretion.

Still with me?

ALL our Eskimo folks are of Asian descent, thus the
vile hatred of gooks, slopes and dinks due to the
irritating similarity seen in the mirror and
differring treatment with us Northern European
swinging dicks.

Alas, I digress, but not too far from the fray. But to
back these ideas I attached a Masters Thesis
Submission assigned by the good Dr. Porter.

It's a quick read and may surprise you how the medical
world is catching up to notions only understood by all
you village coppers, state troopers and a contract
narc that will remain persistently annoying and
anonymous.

Despite our fond memories of Northern European holiday
drinking with our blessed gramps, grams, mums and
poppas, ANY drinking here on the resevation with our
aboriginal inlaws spells only disaster. Come on,
they're Eskimos, not Vikings nor Celts for fucksake.

You are merely humble servants in the million year war
protecting the innocent from evil and we have
thousands of dearly departed Inupiaq angels covering
our 6 and backing our plays.

God be with you chaps. You are the chosen few.

Karluk.

---

Nulato's choice

Out of money, village may bank on liquor store sales

Published: May 10, 2006

Without question, alcohol abuse has ravaged much of
Bush Alaska, wrecking families and futures, condemning
thousands of Alaskans from the unborn to the aged to
troubled lives, violent deaths or both.

So why is the Yukon River village of Nulato going to
vote on owning its own liquor store?

The village needs the money.

Right now, the village sees a lot of money going to
the Last Chance liquor store -- owned by a member of
the city council -- 15 miles out of town. Rather than
let liquor sales enrich one person, the idea is to get
into the business, control the flow and tap the
profits for city services.

Councilman Howard Esmailka said revenue from the store
could pay for a city police officer who would sleep in
the back of the liquor store.

At best, the village would be doing more to make
drinkers pay the social costs many of them impose on
the community. At worst, the village would be
administering its own poison.

It's a practical choice laced with local politics. If
Nulato is going to live with the consequences of
liquor sales, it might as well make the benefits
public rather than private. Practical or not, it's a
choice Nulato shouldn't have to make.

Like much of the rest of rural Alaska, Nulato has been
on the ropes financially with the end of state revenue
sharing in 2003. The village hasn't been left utterly
adrift: In fiscal year 2006 there was $44,791 in
temporary state energy assistance and a federal
payment of $37,605. The Legislature's just-passed
budget includes one-time payments to local governments
aimed at helping with higher fuel costs; Nulato will
receive $40,000.

But none of this is money Nulato or any other local
government in Alaska can count on in the future.

"It's kind of a hit and miss with the state," says
Bill Rolfzen, who specializes in municipal assistance
with the Department of Commerce, Community and
Economic Development. Mr. Rolfzen noted that the last
state revenue sharing payments in 2003 capped a decade
of steady decline.

So Jack Daniels may be a more sustainable revenue
source than the state of Alaska. But as Alaska State
Troopers investigator Michael Duxbury says, where
there's alcohol, there's crime.

Nulato and the rest of Alaska communities need
sustained revenue sharing. Alaska's small local
governments don't have the wherewithal to be entirely
self-sustaining.

A small slice of the state's Permanent Fund earnings
would put revenue sharing on a permanent basis, and
put money in the hands of local governments, which are
generally more in tune with local needs and wants.
We'd give up a few dollars of our dividends but still
have our autumn checks -- and maybe some property tax
relief in Anchorage, or a police officer in Nulato.

At present Nulato residents make all of their liquor
purchases just upriver in Galena, the region's sole
outlet for beer, wine and hard liquor. With such a
huge sum of money being spent at Galena's liquor
store, a Nulato municipal liquor store would mean much
more money would stay in community: hence Nulato would
have better choices to make.

BOTTOM LINE: Nulato shouldn't have to turn to liquor
sales when the state has the means to restore lost
funding from revenue sharing. A local sales tax,
property tax or income tax would serve the community's
financial needs without filling their graveyard to
capacity.

---

Article Last Updated: 05/09/2006

Nulato residents argue over liquor store

Associated Press

Residents in the Yukon River village of Nulato are
debating a proposal to create a city-owned liquor
store and use the proceeds to pay for police and other
city services.

But it's a tough choice to make in a community with a
history of drinking problems. Supporters say a store
will also discourage residents from traveling in
dangerous weather to buy from a liquor store about 15
miles upriver.

Opponents say crime and alcohol consumption will rise
as more locals drink in town and residents from
surrounding villages arrive to binge drink.

About 100 Bush villages have banned alcohol sales or
possession. Only four villages of more than 200
villages in Alaska have created city-run liquor
stores.

---


ALCOHOL: ETHNIC, RACIAL AND CULTURAL EPIDEMIOLOGY

Probably as a kind of spillover from the rational fear of racism, there is an irrational cultural phobia against recognizing hereditary differences of any kind. Nevertheless, the composite of evidence fully supports the fact that there is a genetic gradient of susceptibility to alcoholism. As discussed earlier, the hypothesis that best fits all of the data is that alcoholism results from not one but several genetic factors with an interacting effect on the various phenomena of alcohol attraction or aversion, adaptation, dependence, and deterioration, McBroom (1966) and Moody (1967). This view is fully compatible with the science of genetics as applied to a large number of other similar hereditary phenomena, as explained by Dobzhansky (1962) and Vale (1973).

Alcohol has many complex effects and there are many individual differences in the initial biochemical response to alcohol as a stimulant, a source of energy, and a sedative drug. Since there are such obvious physical attractions, it is as instructive to ask why some people drink less as to ask why some drink more. Wolff (1972) found marked differences in reactions to small amounts of alcohol in a comparison of Caucasoid subjects with a Mongoloid group comprised of Japanese, Taiwanese, and Korean subjects. As a control of cultural and postnatal dietary factors, infants were also studied. After drinking even less than an amount that had no noticeable effect on ninety-five percent of the Caucasoids, over eighty percent of the Mongoloids responded with pronounced facial flushing, increased pulse pressure, and symptoms of mild to moderate intoxication. Amplitude of response correlated directly with blood alcohol levels, and could not be attributed to differences in absorption or metabolism of alcohol. Unpleasant reactions, such as "a pounding sensation in their heads," were reported by some of the adult Mongoloids at peak measured response amplitudes. Thus the lower incidence of alcoholism among at least some groups of Mongoloids appears to be related to an inborn aversion to even small amounts of alcohol. The author concludes, "The assumption that ethnic group differences in autonomic regulation have a genetic basis is compatible with other reports of racial differences in autonomic responses to selected pharmacological agents."

It is estimated that some ten percent of all drinkers in the United States are alcoholics. However, the differential rates among ethnic groups are enormously varied, from a negligible rate below one percent for Jews, to something like eighty percent estimated for Indian and Eskimo groups. These differential rates appear to be stable in spite of cultural variations in corresponding reports from different parts of the world, Malzberg (1960).

If you examine my matrix chart (below) showing the inverse correlation between the length of time some illustrative ethnic groups have been exposed to alcohol and their rates of alcoholism. The time exposed to alcohol refers to the time in each group that alcohol is estimated to have been available in sufficient quantity that significant numbers of the population susceptible to alcoholism could progress in their drinking and deterioration. Thus the universal principle of natural selection could begin to eliminate the susceptible genetic strains at that point, Moody (1967), and Alland (1969). This process of elimination can be seen dramatically in the groups just starting their exposure to the toxic effects of alcohol ingestion. In a study of fifty alcoholic Indian and Eskimo patients at the Cedar Hills Alcoholism Treatment Center, we found that they had reproduced at a rate averaging less than one offspring per patient. Their nonalcoholic and nondrinking parents of origin had averaged seven children per family. (Undoubtedly the "skip phenomenon" described below accounted for some of the difference in reproduction rates from one generation to the next, but a true attrition must also be assumed from the general drinking patterns in these ethnic groups.) The reason for this relatively rapid attrition is the very low resistance (high susceptibility) and the correspondingly early age of onset of alcoholism that characterizes these early exposure groups, Dubos (1965), and Young (1970). Most of the fifty patients in the study had shown alcoholic deterioration in their teens and twenties sufficient to disqualify them from normal socioeconomic development and mating behavior.

There are reports of certain American Indian tribes who have had access to alcohol in small quantities for many centuries. They are said to have used alcohol only in occasional tribal rites, when the whole tribe went on a ceremonial drunk. At all other times drinking has been taboo) and the prohibition strictly enforced. This kind of drinking pattern tells nothing about the rate of susceptibility to alcoholism, and could not materially effect any change in the gene pool no matter how long the practice continued. Alcohol must be freely available on a continuing or frequent basis in order for the more susceptible individuals to succumb to the illness of alcoholism, and for tribal adaptation to occur.

In contrast to the Indian and Eskimo groups, the average North European alcoholic develops comparably advanced symptoms in his thirties and forties, after having mated and produced children in numbers more typical of his nonalcoholic group of origin. Thus the attrition rate decelerates with group adaptation over a period of centuries.

A "skip phenomenon" has been recognized as a common mechanism in family strains with relatively high rates of alcoholism, common among Irish and Scandinavian families. Members of a given generation may drink and be destroyed by alcoholism. The shock of this tragedy may cause the survivors and members of the next generation to totally abstain from drinking. Members of a succedent generation, not as directly affected by the earlier alcoholism in the family, may see no good reason for abstinence and take up social drinking, thus innocently precipitating another devastating wave of alcoholism. Of course the skip phenomenon is still prevalent because of the general cultural ignorance of the genetic basis of alcoholism. Alternate generations walk blindly into the trap, convinced by the prevailing cultural belief that sensible, moderate children of normal parents are not at all likely to become alcoholics.

Perhaps because of the dearth of any better evidence in support of the mental health belief about alcoholism, it seems to have become an obligatory ritual among mental health apologists to cite the old foster home study by Roe (1945) as evidence against the genetic factors in alcoholism. In any event, no one seems to have noticed that Roe's study completely failed to engage the issue. She studied sixty-one children placed in foster homes before the age of ten, rather late to rule out environmental influences and the skip phenomenon. Twenty-five were from nonalcoholic parents) while thirty-six had had at least one alcoholic parent. The children were followed only until they became early adults, by which time only three of the thirty-six children of alcoholic parents had begun to use alcohol, Since alcoholism most often requires at least a few years to reach diagnosable stages, nothing much can be said of the alcoholic tendencies of this little trio of novice drinkers who could scarcely be considered an adequate sample in any case. And since alcoholism can be manifested only as a response to alcohol, nothing whatever can be said of the alcoholic susceptibilities of the other thirty-three children of alcoholic parents who had not begun to use alcohol at all. Thus the study fell short of providing any relevant evidence one way or the other.

Jellinek (1945, 1960) was forced to acknowledge genetic factors in alcoholism in spite of the fact that the original data that he surveyed had been contaminated by mistaking the secondary psychological symptoms of alcoholism for evidence of functional psychiatric illness. Bleuler's (1955) and other psychiatric studies have been weakened by the same contamination, which only makes it the more impressive that they, too, have found evidence of genetic factors in their data. A number of less contaminated studies have found much more pronounced evidence of genetic relationships in alcoholism; family tree studies by Shadel (1948) and Lemere (1956), and a twin study by McBroom (1966). This whole area is another example of suppression and minimizing of evidence in alcoholism, but the truth will out. At the annual meeting of the National Council on Alcoholism in April of 1972, Dr. Frank Seixas summarized that another recent comparison of identical and fraternal twins, members of each pair raised separately, provides the strongest proof yet that genetic factors are involved in alcoholism. The genetic linkage was over four times as strong between identical pairs, compared to the fraternals.

Along another important line of genetic research, it has been found that infants born of drinking alcoholic mothers go through an alcoholism withdrawal reaction in the postpartum period, Courville, Montague (1959), Sandberg (1961), Sax (1966), and Dubos (1965). It could be expected that in the event these infants were to drink later in life (a relapse), that they would have an extraordinary susceptibility to alcoholism both because of the genetic factor and because the hereditary tendency was advanced by prenatal participation in the mother's alcoholism.

In animal research, genetic susceptibility to addiction through succedent generations of mice have been reported by Mirone (1952) and Blignant (1965).

Again, what is needed is not so much more data and information, but the willingness and ability to bring all of this vital knowledge together into a comprehensive alcoholism rationale.

Referring to my matrix chart again, the Jews and Italians after more than fifteen thousand years of exposure have very low susceptibilities and rates of alcoholism, and rates of attrition are also, of course correspondingly low, Gloor 1952), Moody, and Dubos (1965). Contrary to the belief that mental illness causes or predisposes to alcoholism, it is of considerable interest that the Jews rank lowest among ethnic groups in the United States in alcoholism, while ranking highest in schizophrenia. In a different type of comparison, it is also revealing that the Italians have been exposed to alcohol in quantity for more than ten times as long as the French, and that they have only one-fortieth as many alcoholics per capita as the French. These findings are all the more impressive in view of the fact that the Italians drink more alcohol per capita than the French. Which of the two ethnic groups drink more irresponsibly is not proven by this data, but the logic of the situation strongly indicates the Italians.

The deterioration of orthodoxy among Jews, and the concomitant crossbreeding with other ethnic groups, have been observed to be accelerating phenomena in recent decades. Genetic mixing with individuals who have higher tendencies toward alcoholism produces progeny with higher rates of alcoholism than the Jewish parents. Thus the increasing mixed marriages, or other mixed sexual unions, have led to an increase in the overall alcoholism rate among Jewish groups.

However, note that even with a doubling of the alcoholism rate of this ethnic group they would still be at about one percent. Some observers have mistakenly assumed that the increasing alcoholism rate stems directly from the breakdown of orthodoxy itself in the form of more tolerant attitudes toward heavy drinking. However, Gloor (1956) has shown that even when Jews become participating members in groups that engage in heavy drinking, as they have done for many years, they continue to drink within their tolerance limits and do not become alcoholics. This is not at all surprising when alcoholism is viewed as a biological response to alcohol. A person may thoroughly enjoy eating an apple, but cloy at the offer of a second. There is no reason to credit him with special cultural restraint or willpower for declining to eat the second apple.

The industrialization of northern Italy has led to ethnic migrations and to an increase in genetic mixing, and the Italians are also experiencing an increase in their alcoholism rate for the same basic reason as the Jews.

Of course, alcoholic drinking involves interactions with the environment, but to the degree that these interactions are distinguishable from those of nonalcoholic drinking they represent the influences of physical adaptation, dependence, and deterioration, and the augmentation of normal motives and relationships.

Historically in the political and economic conflicts that have occurred among migratory ethnic groups, those with high rates of alcoholism have suffered a competitive disadvantage, while those with the greater immunity have been quick to see and to capitalize on their fortunate relative position. The obvious socioeconomic advantage of natural immunity was expanded and strengthened by the allegation that a high rate of alcoholism is a symptom of cultural inferiority, rather than the expected constitutional reaction whenever any toxin is first introduced to any species or group. Furthermore, the perpetration of this belief helped to insure that the newcomers to alcohol use would continue to try to drink in spite of their prohibitively high casualty rate. As a protective counterreaction to the cultural insult, the majority among the newcomers who discovered that they could handle alcohol successfully were quick to disown as characterological inferiors the minority among them whose alcoholism threatened to confirm the cultural inferiority of the entire group. Thus every alcoholic is familiar with the inexorable dilemma-to drink the poison and die, or to abstain in humiliation and contempt, by admitting to the shameful fact of alcoholism.

Probably the most notorious example of this mechanism of ethnic abuse is within the more general devastation of the American Indians by the white intruders. The expedient of giving "fire water" to the Indians and then slaughtering them in their aggressive but helpless stupefaction was only an extreme manifestation of the general exploitation of their high susceptibility to the harmful effects of alcohol. It undoubtedly helped to ease the conscience of the exploiter to suppose that the Indians ran amok because of some mysterious psychic need to destroy themselves-that their berserk behavior was a revelation of their true cultural inadequacy which was merely released and magnified by the alcohol. The common spectacle of the withdrawal-crazed individual willing to betray his tribe for a drink must have seemed like confirmation of the cultural inferiority. And the frontier goad that one is not a real man if he can't hold his liquor is only the cruder form of the still prevailing belief that alcoholism is a symptom of an underlying psychosocial inadequacy.

Plate 2 also provides a clue to the origins of the "Drys" who engineered prohibition and the "Wets" who clamored for its repeal. The Drys come preponderantly from the North European groups still experiencing prohibitively high rates of alcoholism. Since the psychological view of alcoholism hasn't provided any reliable clues as to who will or will not drink alcoholicly, their only sensible conclusion is that nobody ought to drink. The risk is too great. The Wets are led by those ethnic groups that have reached low rates of alcoholism, along with the more immune strains among the north Europeans. They naturally suppose that alcohol is a harmless beverage, if only everyone would "learn" to react to alcohol as they do. Their allegation that the Dry position is merely an expression of the Puritan ethic against worldly pleasure is only plausible in the context of the larger cultural indignity that alcoholism is caused by psychosocial inferiorities. As stated earlier in this paper, once the false belief is accepted there is no limit to the number of specific derivatives that can serve as grist for the mills of research or be served up whole kernel to the public as information about alcoholism. Because of this cultural diversion neither the Wets nor the Drys have spoken sensibly to the issue of alcoholism. Nobody seems to have noticed that the Wets and the Drys share a common error, the totally irrational belief that all people react to alcohol the same. The Drys assert that alcohol is a poisonous drug for everyone and that nobody should drink. On the other side of the same error, the Wets insist that alcohol is a harmless beverage for everyone and that everyone should be able to learn to drink safely. Both groups are guilty of denying or minimizing the many profound individual and racial differences in biological reactions to alcohol.

It is inaccurate to say that society has been unconcerned about the problem of alcoholism. National prohibition represented a monumental level of concern and effort to control the problem. The reason for the seeming apathy is the fact that the public has not had access to unbiased information about the nature of alcoholism and how to cope with it. Given only the two equally stupid alternatives, provided by the Wets and the Drys, intelligent action has not been possible and society has been paralyzed.

Since the repeal of prohibition mental health professionals have again enjoyed a supportive social climate and freedom to promote the age-old philosophy that alcohol would be harmless for everyone if used in moderation, and that alcoholism is but a symptom of social, cultural, and psychological dysfunction. However, the basic error of this philosophy, and that of the Drys, has been fully exposed by scientific and clinical knowledge. The time has come for the public to be informed that sufficient knowledge and understanding is readily available to mount a successful community attack, not against the irrelevant wet or dry positions, but against alcoholism. As the new rationale and reform movement gain momentum, hopefully a growing number of established professionals will capitulate and become an enlightened part of the solution instead of continuing to be such a major part of the problem.

My car is equipped with a specially designed Tabor Seat, it freezes my victims to the floor of the trunk!

Top of the morning gents,

Jimi Hendrix once wrote, "Have you ever been
experienced?"

Subsequently, a schoolyard and crackhouse pal named
Scooter Deines elaborated with "Have you ever been a
nigger?" Which absolutely busted up Franky, Gordy and
Rubbish.

Hey fuck you, these kids were from Washington, a state
almost as racist and intellectually divided as Alaska.

I still cackle at some of the dialogue between Spanky,
Gordo and Troy: brilliant word smiths that you already
ascertained had a cursed effect on me too.

It was a habit to pack up Spanky's mom's station wagon
with our motorcycles, LOTS of beer and a couple
pouches of Wintergreen and Redman brand chewing
tobacco. We'd rally up to 7-lakes for fire pit
cooking, industrial bong rips, cold beer and of
course, spit chew like real midgets sporting blackened
foul teeth like Ugly (Oglala) Bart.

Too funny: spoiled rotten highschool kids with too
much real estate, motorized toys and party favors. I
ain't bitching, made me the bag of shit you all miss
and love today, so fuck ye.

These experiences warped me in ways undescribable but
were necessary to laugh out loud and cackle right outa
my chair at the chronic murder, suicide and child
splitting aboriginal affection we see all over hell
and back: rural Alaska.

I ain't kidding, when the Devil arrived in Kotzebue, I
was totally psyched with all the killings of so many
darky motherfuckers.

Why bloody my hands in legacy methodology like me
gramps when these self-lynchee rope a dopes and ax
weilding homicidal maniacs were hacking and whacking
each other just fine without my instigation?

Ya see, the best part about observing such carnage is
the insulation from guilt.

In our old age, we've met some serious fecal feasters.


Speaking of fecal freaks, have you ever been
Taborized? Richie Reich sure as hell did, and swore to
kill "that sick fuck Tabor Gaper." Poor bastard, he
killed the wrong child abusing faggot.

Just as you requested, I took note of my conversations
with lots of inmates: here and overseas, including
Billy Howarth, Richie Reich and Percy Sheldon. Them
boys can bust a neck, ventilate a corpse and fuck it
like no other.

Hats off to Roy Harper, Ritchie's ass was so gaped, he
stuffed (keestered) 2 whole cartons in his hole.

Don't ask me where he got 2 cartons of contraband
smokes, and I'll tell you no more lies.

I located a tough clipping about a dude that took
aboriginal sacrifices of one's own children to a whole
new level. He searched for willing volunteers, found
them, then sawed scrotal chukage for doggy treats, gay
nutrition and cereal killer snack time.

No shit, this funny fucker sifted mucho turds for
retards that actually requested he hack off naughty
bits, then chow them down.

I can see this maggot sitting next to Lorena Bobbitt
in the prison cafeteria asking her "You gonna eat
that?"

"Fee Fi Fo Fum, I smell the pud of an English man."

This baggy of mashed up assholes prefers to chow down
gonadular structures and dildo grisle from disturbed
Germans.

Yowza. Nuff outa me.

Oh, by the way. Richie's chopped up victim leaked all
over the trunk of an old cab in me and Higbitch's back
yard. At 20 below, the poor Inu bugger froze solid
hence why we had to hammer and chip the buttfucker out
before we could pitch him out on the ice.

Fuck it. It might have been easier to push Scott
Wheilin on top of him, slam the trunk lid shut and
then just torch all them sick little fag killers.

Clip 1: dicksmoker likely to die of food poisoning
instead of AIDS: he ate a bad weenie.
Clip 2: Lawn fertilizer and diesel fuel: now that's a
party.

---

'Perverse' cannibal killer gets life

Defendant: 'I wanted to eat him -- I didn't want to
kill him'

Tuesday, May 9, 2006 Posted: 1909 GMT (0309 HKT)

Man gets life sentence for killing, eating
acquaintance

FRANKFURT, Germany -- A cannibal whose killing and
eating of a willing victim shocked Germany has been
convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison
after a court overturned a previous manslaughter
conviction.

Judge Klaus Drescher rejected the defense team's
argument that Armin Meiwes, 44, should be convicted
only of the lesser offense of "killing on demand,"
because he was just following his victim's wishes.

Announcing the verdict at the Frankfurt state court on
Tuesday, Drescher said the killing was "a particularly
perverse murder." (Watch what message this case sends
to "anyone aspiring to be a cannibal" -- 2:40)

"He acted out of self-seeking motives and has shown
that, to this day, he does not regret his actions,"
Drescher said, according to The Associated Press.
Meiwes watched calmly as the verdict was read out.

Meiwes, a former computer technician from
Rotenburg-an-der-fuld in central Germany, had
corresponded with 400 people over the Internet to find
a willing victim.

Bernd-Juergen Brandes, a high-ranking IT manager with
German firm Siemens, agreed and traveled by train to
meet Meiwes.

The defense showed a videotape of the March 2001
incident, in which the victim made no attempt to
escape and was a willing participant.

Meiwes cut off the victim's penis before the pair ate
it together, authorities have said. He then cut up the
victim, stored his body in a freezer and ate it over
the following months.

"The next one must be young but not so fat," Drescher
quoted Meiwes as saying after the killing.

Meiwes was arrested in December 2002 after a student
in Austria showed police an advertisement Meiwes had
placed on the Internet, seeking another man willing to
be killed and eaten.

The judge described Meiwes as psychologically sick but
aware of what he was doing. "The defendant was fully
conscious of his actions and could control them,"
Drescher told the court on Tuesday.

"This is not killing on request," he said. "He killed
him because he wanted to slaughter and eat his flesh.
He had achieved the biggest kick of his life."

A court-appointed psychiatric expert, Georg Stolpmann,
told the trial he believed there was a high risk that
Meiwes could offend again.

The defendant had claimed he had hesitated before
going through with the act. "I wanted to eat him -- I
didn't want to kill him," he told the court.

Meiwes was standing trial for the second time after
Germany's top criminal court ruled his 2004 conviction
for manslaughter and eight-year jail sentence was too
lenient.

Under German law Meiwes could be freed after 15 years.
The court rejected a request by prosecutors to deny
his right to early release, saying his victim had
volunteered to be killed and eaten. Meiwes was also
convicted of disturbing the peace of the dead.

It is not known if Meiwes will appeal Tuesday's
ruling.

---

Nevada blast test put on hold amid court fight
From Larry Shaughnessy-CNN

Wednesday, May 10, 2006 Posted: 0413 GMT (1213 HKT)

WASHINGTON (CNN) -- The Pentagon's plans for an
explosive test next month in the Nevada desert have
been put on hold for at least three weeks because of a
lawsuit over the controversial experiment, which
critics contend may be part of an effort to develop
new nuclear weapons.

The National Nuclear Security Administration announced
Tuesday that the massive blast planned for June 2 --
intended to help the military learn how to better
target underground facilities -- had been postponed
because of the "scheduling of legal proceedings" in a
federal court suit.

While the blast does not involve nuclear material, the
experiment is planned for the NNSA's test site north
of Las Vegas, where most of the nation's nuclear
testing was once done.

Despite assurances from the Pentagon, critics of the
plan, including Rep. Jim Matheson, D-Utah, say they
are concerned the experiment may be part of an effort
to develop and potentially test new nuclear weapons.
Matheson said such a test would amount to "ignoring" a
requirement for congressional approval.

The Pentagon has conceded that information learned in
the test could be applied to existing nuclear weapons.

A spokesperson for Matheson said he hoped the delay
announced Tuesday would allow the public to learn more
about the planned blast.

In the test, known as "Divine Strake," more than 700
tons of fuel oil and fertilizer -- 280 times the
amount used in the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing -- would
be exploded in a huge pit, in an attempt to heavily
damage or destroy a 1,100-foot tunnel beneath the pit.

Planners hope the explosion will help them develop new
techniques to attack underground targets, such as
facilities used by North Korea and Iran to shelter
their nuclear infrastructure.

The Pentagon estimates the blast could send a cloud of
dust more than 10,000 feet into the air. Critics fear
the dust could could spread radioactive particles from
old nuclear tests.

But the Pentagon insists that the dust will be free of
radioactive particles and the blast won't even been
seen off the test site, although planners have said
strong winds in the area would force them to postpone
the explosion.

The specter of nuclear-laden dust is a sensitive
subject for those living downwind of the test range in
Nevada and Utah, where generations of people have
dealt with health problems blamed on fallout from
above-ground nuclear tests in the 1950s.

The word "strake" used in the experiment's name is a
nautical term, referring to planking extending along
the length of a ship.