Sunday, May 28, 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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