Saturday, May 13, 2006

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.

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