Holy cow Batman.

Top of the morning gents,

Trash day. Every Thursday, the city garbage truck
loudly idles by, bangs metal dumpster lids and hauls
away all evidence of my existence.

If a sod wished to steal my identity, he'd have to
rummage through nasty ass meat and fish wrappings,
vegetable packages, thread and fleece scraps and empty
Jacobs Creek Merlot wine bottles.

Yup, guilty as charged. Call me a dick weed. Part of
my dietary regime of basically meat, fish and
vegetables includes dodgy supplements like
multi-vitamins, aspirin, alka-holic-seltzer, smoke
stains on my teeth and 2-4 cups of red wine a day.

Oh, and a bag of dried fruit or trail mix every
weekend. After our long walks, talks and hand gun test
firings, me and me bunnik get really old and turn on
the Internet Christmas music. No shit, my blessed
Siberian Mrs. gets really fucking Kung Fu with the
scissors and fabric, whilst I bake.

Wait, my dyslexia ran away asymptotic to my
hyperactive cycling rate.

Whilst I GET baked.

The very best in old Christmas themes you recall from
your youth: Rudolph and Santa Claus musical claymation
specials and animations plus old black and white Bing
Crosby and Burl Ives tracks. All good stuff to kids
now 5 and forty, 6 and fifty years old.

http://www.live365.com/stations/rob9874

I've been through recovery and rehabilitation for my
robust eating disorder: pastries, fried bread and
frosted cinnamon roles. From my return from filling my
passport and arrest record with stamps from a million
fucking countries I've kept the hunnert odd pounds
off. Muzzle on me mouth works brilliant, giving away
all me bunnik's baked sweets and pastries: not so
brilliant.

The cost of raw materials and ingredients is a killer
and then to see bunnik give away Inupiaq methadone and
Eskimo pancreas destroyers, well, kind of pisses me
off.

I'll gladly pour the world a drink, but to see an
entire reservation gobble up my wife’s caramelized
euphoric sugar biscuits makes me madder'n an Eskimo
watching Seinfeld or a skinhead watchin' the
Jefferson’s.

Best we focus on polar fleece material, firearms and
penmanship in matters of mind failure. Genetic and
light cycle experiments mixed with Seasonal Affected
Industrial bong hits is safe, but to add bunnik's
delicious sweets and pastry sugar high blast offs is
most likely non-toxic. Horticultural and diabetic
pursuits may prove stupid.

Just a hop, skip and a jump back in time and north of
70 lat, my Barrow trash would've been fortified to
beat shit. Roots, stems, leaves and shit.

I recycle all my soil by dumping out the old pots,
glean away all the roots, mix in some new soil, wash
all the pots, then let Karluk go crazy and transplant
a million fucking decorative houseplants with weird
fucking names like "Wandering Jews", "Elephant Ears",
and what fucking not.

My whole kitchen floor is covered in a pile of rich
soils that I toss like salad. Bun brings me rooted
cuttings of her favorite Jade or Aloe Vera plants,
holds them at spec whilst I gently scoop and pack dirt
just so. Feed and water, then it's back under the UFO
landing lamps.

Only in rural Alaska can a lad have only manic cycles
yet still be dually diagnosed yet within prevailing
mental health parameters. Fuck it. We got snow all
over, bright low sun that beams through my windows and
sunglasses, and a chill that's fucking refreshing as
pickle juice douche.

Why do the most sick twisted violent fucks from the
Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest slide a
slippery slope upward to evermore lethal territory
where the soil's gone bad? I'm clueless.

We got trigger happy motherfuckers from Janton, CA and
covert militia thugs from Michigan crushing ribs and
vertebrae on lower life forms and Navy Squids mucking
about arresting all sorts of poverty and filth.

Where the fuck did all these A-holes come from and why
choose to live on Kikiktagruk spit where 3 mass graves
are packed to brim with our wives' gramps and grams?
Christians do some weird shit, but to dump a whole
herd of Inukuns in a pit sounds mighty Muslim to me.

Alaska is by default a colony and suburb of Seattle,
Washington, yer almost granted dual citizenship if yer
parents are Scandinavian Jews, or in Mountlake Terrace
terminology, Scandinegroes and Northern European fair
skinned fairies.

Don't ever forget where y'all come from. No culture
has a monopoly on beauty and no religion has a
monopoly on truth. Fuck all right mates?

I pulled a little Voltaire on yer asses. Tricky ain't
I?

From this perspective of ugly objectivity, examine the
detritus and debris that's littered all over Alaska
after a multitude of cultures collided. Such
collisions both decapitate and hobble once great
cultures. The best way to destroy aboriginal cultures
is to throw Christ and Commerce at them.

That last sentence was synthetic in derivation: I
kyped it from numerous conversations with you graying
gunslingers and uniformed fucking felons.

Don't feel bad; Christianity basically emasculated the
Nordic tribes too. Join the club.

We shant neither slaughter nor eat darker white folks
nor enslave shorter browntards neither.

Shucks.

Ways back, the doctor took Irish slaves and Inuit rump
roasts off the dinner table. This reincarnation I
forced me self to omit pastries, sweets and fried
bread from my diet.

What next, cigarettes and alcohol?

Seems best we simply eat our pharmaceuticals, smoke
our fiber and drink anything alcoholic and too thin to
chew.

Hank, why do ye drink? Why do ye smoke? Yup, not being
our parents still ain’t being ourselves. Some family
traditions are just too good to cease.

As we roll gently through impending darkness, cold and
rounds of drinks at yer friendly neighborhood Viking
bar, take time to hug yer kids, kiss yer wives and
kick the dog. Every winter is special, albeit
disruptive to your mental health and a slip in your
sobriety.

You boys behave, or you’ll find a lump of coal in yer
condom.


Karl.