Thursday, May 04, 2006

The ghosts of Chiefs Beuler, Wallace and Nolton are divine forces to be reckoned with. Provided yer so fucking old yer fartin' dust.

Top of the morning gents,

My, oh my I am truly blessed.

I had a beaut of a chat with John Creed over at Up
Chuck U just t'other day. I rejoiced in his
tremendously brilliant educational insights keen and

Did I just say acrid? Yup. That guy don't pull any
punches in regards to the wholesale highway robbery
passed off as Indian Self-Determination Advanced
Retard K-12 Education.

One prob dudes: his massively oversized big brain and
eloquently foul mouth also dirtied me with his shit.

Ya see, some of the thicker aboriginal staff took
offense at his pine box platform lecture, discourse
and mutually arrogant admiration society of 2: the
Professor Creed Monster and me.

Apparently the moron word-chain got around town "that
Karl and Creed are real assholes," racist, hateful of
natives, and think they’re too smart for reservation
residency. As with all village gossip, little is true,
most is maliciously contrived horse pucky cuz I’m the
world’s biggest dumb ass. Or so I claim in grand jury.

Amen to that, along with a beaver hat full of runny
unnuk to boot, I most of all deserve a serious dose of
aboriginal FOOD for thought.

What was lost in translation from proper English to
the mumbling toothless language of rect Inu folk was
the point that low academic aim is the real crime
committed upon blessed village children I dream will
someday work at NASA, but I doubt it.

He also took great pleasure reminiscing of my child
rearing and teaching techniques that he believes
should be used as a model for all of browntards of
mongoloid descent. I slapped that precious girl twice
in 20+ years and forced her to experience the
wonderment and beauty I see every fucking day here on
God’s green Earth.

I failed to inform him that I also taught her to drive
worse than Jim Rockford simultaneously shooting
stuffed dummy targets along the roadside. I also
sparred with her so she could flip any bitch in heat
just like me. God I’m an idiot.

Ya see, pert near a hunnert fucking years ago I was
hijacked by a cop few of you ever met (Don Beuler)
away from a lovely crew of handsome amoral drug
dealers and quite charming killers.

With the threat of incarceration looming up my ass I
agreed to move from Mountlake Terrace to a shit hole
mass grave dumpsite here in NANA NegroVille to assume
bastard fatherly duties responsible for a truly
stunning and gorgeous Sara Magnum child.

Professor Creed took great pleasure in seeing Sara sit
with me in all my college classes, playing classical
music on the piano or games on the computer in the
back room. My eventual sending her to Seattle far from
the res for private schooling and a rich kid
upbringing by my folks: The Ewing Corp, won me lavish
praise from all the Chukchi staff. Her mum too, I

S'truth be told. I never knew my parents were 'rich'
until I relocated here and swilled my first bit o' FAS
mongoloid taint. Pussy, ass no matter: it all tastes
the same up here. I suck so hard their puny craniums
simply cave in.

All the whining, griping and agonizing bitch cunt
tantrums my sibs threw down at the feet of my blessed
parents was all for not. My spoiled naive sibs just
never knew how good they had it.

Now that I'm crowding 50 years old, I sure fucking do.

I could never match their superlative parenting. And
since we all fucking know it, I sent the Magnum child
down to the big house overlooking Puget Sound for a
taste of the good life: strict sobriety whilst
generous and healthy drinking, good grades under
duress and gunpoint, in a large house with flush
toilet, hot showers, soap and toothpaste. How kewl is

Creed gets it, seldom others do. Too bad for the
thousands of generations of arctic Inu NigerMos that
still believe a female is merely a life support system
for a cunt and a fine sport fucking target for fist
porking uncles and in-laws.

I suppose I’ll forever wage my very own private wars
on issues near and dear to our hearts and farts.

Lousy K-12 product output? Not my magnum baby.

War on Terror? Nup, this retarded backtracking to your
roots is absolutely fabulous AND Muslim. Thus implying
regressive congress (verso of progress) nullifies the
need for religious reformation and healthy cultural

*There’s some naughty topics to chew on, digest and
regurgitate for your required philosophy courses.
(Sorry, inside joke. You coppers have no clue whom
hides in the realm of BCC)

Put this way, if Christ showed his face here in the
NANA Region he'd be lynched and pitched on the ice in
a Kikiktagruk minute.

Got wood? Oh yeah, you'll also be needing some
earplugs and long ass nails too. Long enough to pierce
my fine albino bottom and penis.

Which reminds me: I oughta start carrying a pistol and
knife again, I feel a slew of murders on the horizon.
You too?

Just this afternoon I found the fulcrum (leveraged
point of contact) where fate collides with a pedigree
dumb ass: yer author on drugs.

I popped into the MMC records department to photocopy
my State of Alaska PERS pension healthcare card, my
Barrow, Alaska drivers license and to pay for any
deductibles and co-payments us dirty white boys are
truly happy to pay.

God would strike me down if I tried to coat tail you
negroes with BIA un-Health Care Benefits. The legion
of no-teefer Ingines might embrace my falsified
membership to the sub-human race, but the God that
created me would shit bricks thus multiplying the
citizenry grief I'm forever cursed to endure.

After tossing my fat state healthcare card and Barrow
ID on the counter a wonderful gal ran around from
behind the counter and gave me a big hug, a kiss then
another hug. Daphne Wallace didn't recognize me until
she took a triple take on my cards, then exploded with
lavish praise, more hugs and loud accolades.

She lit up like a kid on the day us mortals celebrate
the mass of Christ. Come on, figure it out and keep

Daphne Wallace is the wife of the former Chief of
Police Larry Wallace who claims I'm the Lord's tool of
destruction, instrument of the divine and his personal
agent licensed to kill brain cells and skin wasters.
For some odd reason Chief Wallace did some research
into old case files that were SUPPOSED to be destroyed
and discovered I didn't exactly arrive in Kotzebue to
cut fish, hymen and gas.

Despite overwhelming falsifications and confounding
obfuscations of the truth, Larry learned that his
predecessor Chief Don Beuler had arrested me, Cully,
Franky, Marto, Troy and Dennis a million fucking times
down in Mountlake Terrace for loud parties, snarfing
or selling boxes of cocaine, tearing up holy hell with
our hotrods, pipe bombs and mysteriously repeating

Hence why yer author on drugs was given a choice: eat
Beuler's gun, git dirt pitched on me face, sleep under
his patrol car or report directly to Kathy Elam up at
the Kotzebue Police Department after my final exams to
work for the good guys. Whatever the fuck that’s
supposed to mean.

Yup, I got flipped, turned and rolled.

Jesus fuck I'm still kinda pissed to this day. I
missed out on a promising career in wholesale
distribution and refinement of lots of really yummy
nose candy, plumes of pine chron and delicious kegs in
my backyard. All to help a bunch of graying
gunslingers and uniformed felons take out drug dealers
that look just like me. Fuck me in the goat ass.

Bless her heart but Daphne Wallace was so damn loud.
She introduced me to all the hospital staff as Larry
and Beuler's best friend and Nolton, Nay, Tyler,
Bleicher, Bowman and Karl Main’s prima Donna that
lacks couth, sense of fair play and complete fucking
disregard for the law. In her retelling of her
abbreviated version of my slipshod career grifting
drug scum, she hit most of the high points.

That angel sure has an eye for the obvious. Even the
Capones were quite aware of my service to police
department; they just assumed I was REALLY dirty. Sad
truth, they failed to estimate the accuracy of their
non-erroneous assumptions.

She was so loud and proud all the sick negroes in the
lobby fled the lobby analogous to fleas and lice (koomuks)
fleeing a Selawik browntard heading for his annual shower.

I ain't fucking kidding. She is irate at the current
city and police administration. She voiced with
embarrassing volume how yer author on drugs is a
professional narc with a penchant for correcting
corruption with hilarious displays of legal man-rape,
financial hominid homicide and truly unfair
constitutional side steps and outright violations of
civil rights. My fucking ass is bleeding, can ye tell?

Who ye gonna call? Ass Busters!

She's right in part. If I ain't benefiting from
corruption and someone else is, I ain't happy.
Meaning: someone's fucking dying from his or her head
getting chopped off and in true Viking tradition I'll
fuck the bloody stump, come a load and drive it home.

The murder part is exaggerated wishful thinking. I've
never hurt a soul, never laid a finger on a firearm or
another human being.

When you finally buy that malarkey that I'm no
threat to anybody you'll likely find me snuffing yer
cold case suspects and ex-wives by sealing every
orifice in their bodies with excess genetic material
and gristle no-teefer bitches could never chew

I'm gonna have to have a chat with the Beuler dude,
Wallace too. They've got me mistaken with somebody

There’s only one Jack Beauregard and he now goes by
the nom de plume Lt. Columbo. While on the other hand,
my name is Nobody: notorious for ill temper, excessive
drink and poor treatment of his fellow humans and drug
dealer pals.

Buy that? Good, now bend over. Socrates and Plato can
blow ass. I wasn’t born with inherent virtue, nor did
I ever acquire any. So go fuck yourself: if it’s evil,
yer a friend of mine.

Have gun will travel, “Dirty deeds, done dirt-cheap”
(A. Young-deceased).



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