Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Did someone ring the Great Alaskan bar bell so fucking hard he hit it completely off the hook?

Top of the morning gents,

I fucking hate to awake Monday mornings to news some
baked Alaskans made some serious mistakes in judgment.
Yer chuckling, but parallel to some respectable
insanity waste deep in Kikiktagruk Spit and Bile, we
also got a slew of AK's most extraordinary behavioral
amplitude and frequency failed modulators getting
notoriety completely unaware of the devil's right hand
pulling their puppet strings.

Oh yeah, this forum expects inappropriate fucking
language: AK's best psychos with the devil's right
hand up their catcher's mitts and penis holsters.

Awakening sore and sober, I made a pot of strong,
burned some steaks for breakfast, and then took a long
stroll in the dark and cold to look for spent shells.

Folks went whack this weekend. I may have also.

I awoke Sunday morning early to gunfire. As a habit, I
look at a clock for a time/date stamp to visualize
whilst cross-examined and anal probed by sicker fucks
with law degrees. Ye never know when a warrant
convincingly invites yer author on drugs to sit a
spell and kindly tell the court how a congenitally
artful dodger ain't lying if his lips is squacking.

Berserkers and bipolar bears. That's what I see.

And feel.

I failed to find any empty shells on the frozen pond
behind Chukchi College, also none found on my return
loop back past Beuler's and Karmun's, Nelson's,
Wernecke's nor Hogan's or old man Thompson’s.

Must've been another auditory hallucination, or me
bunnik was out sleepwalking, sleep killing. Again. She
has a knack for possessed strolls and out of body
missions of extraordinary violence.

I'm betting none of ye suffer violent mood swings nor
multiple personality disorders that Finns believe are
spells when we truly aren't being ourselves, some
wretched creature with menstrual dimension weapons of
menopausal destruction.

None of ye can claim the sanity plea, cuz the fuckers
ye macked truly deserved it. In the paradigm of good
and evil, right and wrong, us and them, you'll only
meet dictators and lunatics. Or some shit. But
deserving of powder burns on their fucking face
nonetheless.

"I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die" (J.
Cash).

Like minds eventually surface and reunite, same shit
happens whenever I return to any of these remote
villages tracing the Arctic Coast of Alaska.

Here's a funny notion. I may have to return to the big
city of Anchorage just to sober up.

Happens EVERY fucking time. Whenever I get back out to
super remote villages where I can't make sense of the
language nor it's speakers for the dead, I get lost in
time and space. I loose my place.

It ain't the blackouts that trouble me, it's the
chards of glimpses of misplaced memories I pray I
ain't the guilty party to.

Since returning to isolation exquisite and magnified
despair, me thoughts decay not towards original, but
dare I say aboriginal. Ain't no fucking accident we
all blindly list back to this ancient war zone of mass
graves. I'm immune to its ghostly affect upon the
murderous tendencies and justifiable violence y'all
try so hard to conceal on soil that's gone bad.

I smell bullshit. Wait, it's my upper lip.

Okay fuckers. You tell me. Am I the only one that
barely gets through the day without studying mental
plans of killing everybody in a 1-mile perimeter?

Anger management my ass, I'm fighting every single
fucking day to balance my caloric intake with my
fueled hikes and self-induced hearing loss. My sole
responsibility in life is to walk hand-in-hand with my
Siberian Mrs. all the way to the grave: God willing at
a ripe old age.

The concepts of aging and dying is a might large to
git both hands around. Committing the rest of your
life to a partnership yielding children that are
supposed to leave you makes for feeding, clothing and
sheltering issues to and fro.

Don't get me started again. I got pent up rants
plethora in regards to paying for air travel,
orthodontic and dental surgeries. Some day our
children will thank us, don’t hold yer breath or
nothing. We’ve raised them the best way we knew how,
which didn’t exactly raise the bar that fucking high.

Poor kids have to suffer our legacies. I’m cackling
evil ye know? The best cure for sex is old age, and
the best cure for old age is death. Yer born, ye die.
In the middle you do shit. Just don’t forget to git
some humping time in.

Some of you graying gunslingers are failing to
remember some of the myth fodder and shit y'all have
been sadled with. The rumors are true, you know where
the bodies are buried and burned. That's my story and
I'm sticking to it.

All yer bad mood swings and violent physical outbursts
won’t mean shit a hunnert years from now. I’m lying,
that’s what this world will remember of ye violent
arctic dwelling motherfuckers. Hell, that’s all I know
of my gramps, and I’m pretty sure our siblings will be
forthcoming of our stupid shit, long after they pitch
dirt, pine cones and tree seedlings on our faces.

For a hunnert years now, I’ve plugged and chugged each
and every day, hour-by-hour eyes open, powder dry and
dick hard, yet the world still turns.

Sitting here at the Arctic Computing Station, I had
too much to think last night.

North of 70 lat, the pleasure is all mine.

Karl.

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