Monday, July 03, 2006

45 caliber birthday partying can be harmful to your health.

Top of the morning gents,

Busy weekend. Fuck me in the goat ass, but there was a lot of drinking AND a lot of drunks staggering around town.

Kotzebue's brisk drug trade enjoyed a bull market session from July 1st and still rallying as evidenced by lots of seriously fucked up ghetto gorillas, porch monkey fuckers and drunken ice niggers bellowing in praise of their successful dopamine rushes facilitated by rapid ingestion of a veritable plethora of intoxicating substances.

Me and bunnik rode the dopamine rush wave too. We rode our brand new mountain bikes all over town visiting all of our party mates from the old days back a few scores and 20 years ago. Most of the players are deceased, in jail or domiciled at the homeless shelters in Anchoragua and Shitbanks, but I’m still alive and equipped with fine legs that propel my mountain bike and me at breakneck speeds all over Kikiktagruk Inupiaq Soil that’s gone bad. What the fuck? It’s my party and I’ll fly if I want to.

Replenishing the old drug guard we got characters like Tami Stevens rolling in Cokeville peddling shitty grams (foot powder, baby laxative and biker speed) to droves of impaired Asian descendants inhabiting the Low IQ (low-income) compound (A1, A2, A3 and 16 unit). That chick is SO ghetto: true believer in the most tragic sense of the word. This chubby ice nigger bitch is hell bent on spending the rest of her wickedly miserable life sucking on convict pussy and stink fisting incarcerated skank biscuit.

Ye know something gentlemen? Lt. Columbo is spot on. A while back we chatted how fun it was to party with our fraternity pals on campus or in foreign countires, but how fucking awful and inordinately depressing it is to compress a 2-year drinking vacation within the Independence Day four day weekend.

The weed biz is kicking butt too: delivery is just a phone call away. Sunday morning I was awoken to a seriously packed Sally Melton pounding on my front door inviting us over to there house for Heineken Beers and bong hits. Tell 'em my motto: "Green beer and green toke?" You bet.

Just as I passed my 50% throttle with lots of really good Russian vodka the doorbell rang indicating the other half of my Finno-Ugric breakfast of champions had arrived. (The hoocha-maroonie delivery gal is a half black half Eskimo gal we all know, but my respect for my readership prevents me from mentioning her name.) Even with a natural blend of 17 herbs and spices, I barely cured reoccurring damage I was already repeating.

My favorite places in the whole fucking world to drink is Frankfurt, Germany, St. Petersburg, Russia, and Helsinki, Finland: in reverse order and sobriety. Someone bitch slap me, the reservation is a sucky place to party down, get fucked up like a Viking, and stagger home in terms I heard: "Walk like a Norwegian."

I laughed a lot and much to my own embarrassment I sounded callous as a fucking white Mike Baker. My cacophony of sick jokes would’ve cracked all of you up, but were chorused by lots of crying, lots of yelling and fighting and misery upon the next generation of fuck ups: their children. Call me a dumb ass, but why would anybody want their children nearby when I'm telling long winded stories about fishing accidents, shooting accidents and fucking accidents.

Beer isn't just for breakfast anymore. A Mexican breakfast is coffee and cigarette, a Russian breakfast is a glass of vodka and a smoke and a Finnish breakfast is scalding hot coffee, a table spoon of reindeer lard with a shot of vodka to serve as blending agent, emulsifier and antifreeze.

As I smoked and staggered past my 45th birthday this last weekend I enjoyed citizenship in all three zones of geographic impairment: but it's not the same. Getting hammered in the company of mad blotto ice niggers ain't no fun at all, but so second nature to me, I feel quite comfortable drinking and smiling while the rest of the party is screaming, fighting and abusing each other. When in Rome: do as the Romans, I guess.

I even retold funny tales about Sheila Romaine and Gil Hall eating a cannon, Dallas Hannah turning penis envy into facial destruction yielding 3 corpses that strangely appeared to have cunts on the front of their craniums.

Ethan Cooley's shooting the piss outa Chey Yuk redeemed me, cuz I can always crack up an Eskimo with humorous tales of Stink Indun Half-a-gas cans shooting the legs and abdomens of gooks, slopes and dinks. The finale of my tale ended with the comparison of bullets found in Sheila’s and Gil's hair and brains: both magnums, 44 and 357, yet Ethan Cooley's pissy little 22 rifle round screeched a mile out the top of his nappy head.

I resisted joking about the 3 little kids that drowned in the lagoon, cuz that ain't funny no matter how I tell that tragic tale. Plus it makes me think of poor Agent Octuck, Wallace and Trox smoking cigarettes in the squad room: red eyes and trembling smokes.

Describing Katy Norton's strangely stretched face yielded zero chuckles, even when I used my hands upon my own face and pulled my eyes and cheeks in opposite directions. But I'm cackling evil as I relay this entertainment bomb to you gunslingers.

I did get applause when I described Al Robbie Anungatoguk's rubber lips and no-teefer mimic speech after detailing the hunting knife slash that dropped the lower half of his face so that he kept tripping on his own lips. I don't care where you was raped, that's funny.

No references to last week's deaths: them's is too fresh and painfully sensitive. Common folks don't got stomach for gallows humor, nor ER banter. Pity, time heals all wounds, but nobody cares to save their last brain cell for my next party.

I could bust guts on a whole crew of Euro trash rich boys with these tales but not this weekend, all them browntard party animals got upset and quarrelsome. I gotta stop laughing at darker folks' misery. Fun, fun.

The method to my madness is simply reminding humans of their own madness. Drinking miserably yields darkness and despair. My job is to remind habitually bipedal hominids that God is a comedian and we're too stupid to laugh, “Silly human race” (Yes).

No, I didn't bring up the Adams kid that nose-dived his own plane into Squirrel Canyon, but I did wax fondly of dispatching for a S&R mish where 2 German hunters were found in their underpants, sitting on the edge of the ice dangling their legs in the open water. Another Tale from the Trox/Wallace archives: hypothermia and frostbite in the advanced stages feels like burning skin on fire. These 2 hunters started freezing so they stripped almost butt naked and cooled themselves in the frozen river: at 27 below zero. Wallace told me that they had cheesy grins on their faces: yet frozen solid requiring rescue personnel to axe chip their butts off the ice.

Ain't that a bitch to get yer mind around?

Alas, where the fuck do I get off importing my Scandi-negro drinking habits out here to the northernmost isolation on the edge of the universe and the edge of sanity? If any of you graying gunslingers hung out with me over the weekend, you’d surely question my wisdom. What the fuck? You already do. Your readership is vicariously evident of my own stupidity, unrelenting guilt and my inane fun derived from such painful and conflicting emotions. Had not you walked in my shoes, all this correspondence would prove all for not.

Contrary to cultural devastation and eventual obsolescence Alaska continually suffers from and may likely never escape, the entire rest of the world drinks to their health and celebrates life in general here on Earth, and specifically how we’re taking Heaven and this blessed garden of Eden for granted every time we choose to be stupid and hateful. Being stupid is a choice, so is depression, anger and resentment. “If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice” (Rush).

I remember exiting the Grand Hotel Bar in downtown St. Petersburg with Dwayne, Timo and Paul Quinn after a night of caviar, oiled salmon, Minky whale from a pickle jar, real Cuban cigars and lots of rounds of drinks. Paul was telling us a story about his Brit and Mick pals, comparing these recollections to my horrific village tales from Alaska. Approaching us was group of Russian sailors in uniform, arm in arm and staggering to the songs they were singing drunk. The frosty sidewalks of St. Petersburg are always crowded with pedestrian citizens Russian but happy to step aside for these jovially intoxicated uniformed comrades on leave of their duties and out on the town for some honest hard drinking.

As they neared us, I got a little nervous. But watching the elderly ladies and gentlemen make way for these sailors they too smiled in understanding and appreciation. My nervousness was uncalled for, cuz I wasn’t in Alaska, nor was I in America.

Both Timo and Dwayne smiled and expressed salutary greetings of “Harra-sho” etc. in traditionally harsh Soviet staccato as they staggered past us. It’s handy to have a few multi-lingual mother fuckers in yer crew: their Russian was perfect hence revealing nothing of our ex patriot status, nor Paul Quinn’s loathe of all things non-Anglo: fucking Brits are funny that way.

There’s nothing out of the ordinary to see groups of people staggering from pub to pub. Overseas it’s an activity called ‘Clubbing.’ Join up with yer mates and go Pub Crawling or Pub Hopping with everyone taking turns buying rounds of drinks at each drinking establishment. Most simply walk to sober up in the cold frosty air; some hop the trams, trains or busses if a bar is all the way across town. Even the drivers will ring the bell and yell cheerfully to their intoxicated tourist traveler when they have arrived at their destination. Why is it that in other countries it’s perfectly okay to rally around town hammered, but not in Alaska? This icky stigma of drunken natives clings even to responsible good folks like yer author on drugs.

Some cultures sure know how to celebrate, these fucking Eskimos sure the fuck don't.

As mentioned heretofore, "The common reaction makes the attraction" (Frank Zappa). I usually abuse this quote to infer hard nipples, steaming biscuit or handsome boners wrapped in trash bags, but I’ll oft stretch this analogy to what happens when diverse negroes suck down identical chemicals.

I've sat with all of ye fer chats, adhoc bullshit seshes, coffee, chew, cigs, and occasionally mucho glasses of liquor. Did someone teach y'all to drink like gentlemen, or is the fact that y'all have generous amounts of Norwegian genes in yer sperm? All of you lads keep a stiff upper lip, a smile on yer face and cheers in yer toasts to good health, good company and undying friendships that have stayed with me all around the world and in and out of jail.

We can debate this and any other discussions controversial at our next symposium of mutually enjoyable impairment and intellectually leveled playing field: the chemically agreeable singularity all humans enjoy when we're all retarded.

As we all regroup and renew our vows of friendship here on the rez, let us not forget our duty and obligation to our neighbors: here in isolation, and over yonder wherever you gents exist.

Tomorrow is Independence Day and we gotta pay special attention to the fact that us Alaskans are nothing like our lesser 48 counterparts. But like our fellow American, we’ve shrugged off numerous monarchies and dictatorships in order to enjoy freedoms unlike any other country I’ve shit and pissed in. Like the proverbial caged rabbit that ventures out only to return to the safety of his own self imposed prison, we too must refuse to shoulder the sufferings of our native brethren. Thusly, Hercules is a mythical figure created to remind us that the sins of our neighbors and ancestry need not visit our families and friendly festivities.

Misery is a choice just as poor is a state of mind. Repeating wisdom from a Nazi concentration camp survivor tells us that no matter how much murder and suicide we witness. We always have freedom of choice in our attitude. The misery and unrestrained carnage we witness and mop up after is merely our duties, not our responsibilities. I’m not gonna let it bother me tonight.

We may be employed in fields of public safety, public healthcare and duties to ease chemical dependencies of our blessed native brethren, but we are still free to blow the froth of a few, knock back rounds of drinks and bless our company with good cheer.

You lads take care of yourselves; we’ll all get together again, either here or hereafter. It’s this simple notion of what keeps a smile on my face, and an ever present sense of humor that I thoroughly enjoy preaching and sharing with you lot: my blessed graying gunslingers.

Hands are meant for shaking, not tying.



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