Sunday, May 28, 2006

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.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home