No body knows my troubles with God.

Top of the morning gents,

Spoiled son of a fuck is I.

Don't believe me? Just ask the Commander and the
Saint.

In the last 72 hours I've been on a cerebral high, or
perhaps an intellectual high. I'm still cycling and
grooving to my very own goose pimples, hard nipples
and drippy dick.

"It's been days since I found God" (K. Cobain).

Most conversations with breathing chimps are fairly
mundane, repetitive and fucking arse boring, but to
spend half a goddamned day with the Saint discussing
local history, case work and philosophical speculation
and meandering, is well absolutely fucking fabulous.

The frosting on the turd involves roughly 144 Ksec
debating and arguing in futility with the Commander.

Do you know anybody with an IQ exceeding 160? Don't
waste your nut sack periodicity looking in the mirror,
you'll only be half as smart as these two gents AFTER
you leak blood and shit in your brain and trousers:
sort of a choke and puke, but more akin to stroke and
poop.

Strong convictions in both employ and faith make these
two gents peaceful, powerful, positive-beautiful,
capable and lovable. Meaning: nothing like the rest of
us butt fuckers.

Comparing ourselves to the Saint and the Commander is
pretty fucking humbling. Examining ourselves, we all
look like midgets on the rag tripping on our very own
tampon strings. To challenge these two angels
religious or philosophical may likely result in our
ass cheeks on a milk carton or simply dead as a midget
playing ping pong-cuz we done fell off the table.

No comparison dickheads.

We got no morals nor principals-we're just ruthless
killers and rapists that married victims of our very
own crimes.

Faith in a higher power is a bitch, and has been since
we all were natives. At one time in archeology we were
all terrestrially imprisoned red ass macaques messing
ourselves in tribal unison in and around the Olduvai
Gorge in Africa.

Or so the Commander lectured sermonic last weekend.
Thus my story starts henceforth.

In adherence to wise principal or fable, our selfish
detours away from our own faith leads us to our
aboriginal sin: the rules apply to everybody, just not
me.

That's the first dumb ass mistake when we preach to
one another wonders esoteric, then slip our native
pride up the ass of a darker dullard.

Ya see, the notion of gray areas implies the rules
don't apply to us. Which is pretty fucking lame
considering all things great start with us. If we
waited on our fellow man to live up to a higher
standard, we'd all still be existing in a purgatorial
sewer surrounded by Godless FAS butt fuckers and child
gomers.

Way to go Karl, that metaphor sure backfired. I forget
where we live.

In other words, if we don't set by example, we retard
our very own evolutionary advancement.

Since Christ was a reptile, we scapegoat our own
failings onto dumber fuckers, or smarter in-laws, then
lynch them. "This will not do" (R. Waters).

I have faith in my own ass, but I worry about you lot.
Which is the crux of our own undoing. Any moron with a
Ph.D. can fold space, interface contextual
perspectives, or rationalize why we shant follow a few
simple rules emanating from the race memories stored
in our mitochondria DNA. Hence simple prophetic rules
interpreted by the region directly behind your snotter
that's as old as all life on this planet: the God spot
in your brain.

Put another way, at any time and space we are free to
intellectualize our own asses right back to
monkey-hood, grasping hand in hand with our red ass
macaques maternal. I ain't saying yer mum is a
gorilla, but looking at you lads, tell her that I'm
proud of you all and that you've grown up to be
handsome young men. Then shave her back and you'll
find my teeth marks on her.

Nup, ain't no bad asses 'round here.

This ancient faith in a superior being is likely the
catalyst that triggered our hair loss allowing us to
perspire instead of panting to cool our core
temperatures.

With a gob hole free of constant hyperventilation, we
freed our yap traps for more important things, like
verbally sharing our imaginations and mutually
inclusive religious thoughts. Once our speech caught
up with our minds, the evolutionary process
accelerated. At this marked point in human history we
were no longer merely smart grunting apes: we became
unshaven miserable heebs.

Wake up fucks. The shared belief in a higher
extraterrestrial alien power steered our GIANT
evolutionary strides far out stepping our gaped ass
chimp cousins with kissable hairy, gaped and poopy
orangutan butt pussy.

Now back track from this appallingly dismal state of
erectus homos, to this last week of high-minded
discourse with the Chief and the Craig. Us goat
fucking back biting monkeys have enjoyed a really
awesome run and reviewing our own archeology all I can
say is, "What a long strange trip it's been" (G.
Dead).

You ask where all this abstract bullshit comes from?

It ain't from inside me. I steal, pilfer and rob great
ideas from you bastards, then synthesize and execute
logical analysis-analog. Just another rewrite of
greater thoughts I fucking kyped from you lot.

"I think, therefore I am."

Nup, out here on the rez, I stink, therefore I am. The
reason I can learn so fast and formulate new ideas is
cuz I'm an Alaskan village idiot.

I have zero imagination and despite chronic drug use
along with chronic abuse of all those little sober
people, I have one fucking impeccable memory.

Karluk.

Crack cocaine is really bad for you. Unless yer dark meat welfare trash: no brains=no pains.

Top of the morning gents,

Deja vu all over a again. But this ain't Barrow, nor
is it Mountain View. Alas, just another reservation
cursed with a pervasive culture of welfare identical
to Kotzebue.

Wait, since I frequently awake to screaming drunken
natives or screaming retarded natives (I never could
tell the difference), I must be in Kotzebue. But what
troubles me is omni-present suffocating socialism very
much the brilliant way Professor Mason lectured me a
few years ago. This can't be the Soviet Union, I
thought we bankrupted them Godless dick skinners years
ago.

Public housing, public schools, public toilets, public
assistance and public medicine: need me to spell it
out?

*NW Inupack Housing builds really cool houses to pork
yer kids in and porches for monkeys to mess themselves
on.

*Our local subpar schrool-screw'll is named after a
really mean old cunt that died from a life of drug
abuse and alcoholism (Prune Nelson) and our baseball
field is further tribute (Bull Hensley) to the virtues
of porking drunk cunt with the hope of creating more
sick brown kids with gaped ass biscuit.

*Denali Kid Care is indigent health care: Medicare for
morons under a contrived title as to conceal the
stigma (stinkma) of welfare, but it is. Fuck if folks
had to pay a goddamned dime for health care out here
on the rez, we'd be overcrowded with sick 'tards. Oops
that analogy ran a wry.

What ever happened to all the hard working folks that
reveled in making real money, instead of Russian food
stamps, Socialist bread lines and Soviet welfare
checks?

Seeing droves of shit poor folks make me smile: ripe
feeding grounds for predators you all unknowingly
befriended. Especially during the holidays, they gotta
wait until next year for their next welfare check in
order to buy presents for their filthy shit ass kids.

What little money that remains got spent on good
cocaine equally as delicious and powerful as the gack
drain we enjoyed in our youth.

Ya see, public toilets, housing, assistance and
schooling is just fine, if yer darker than a turd. And
this town is overflowing with Inukun butt gushers and
rectum steamers.

Fuck, over the holidays I saw more cat piss diesel and
bubble gum paint thinner than I've seen in pert near
20 fucking years.

Poor health, poor education and piss poor family
planning make for desperate zombies: zombies gents
like me take cruel advantage of.

This town is now finally as poor as the infamous
central district on Capitol Hill in Seattle. Which
tells me this town is perfectly ripe for a snowstorm
of lethal cocaine. Not high-grade biker speed, but
low-grade negro section crack.

How do I know this? My hands are colder'n shit from
sneaking and peeking, shooting and looting all over
town all fucking night. At 28 below zero I might add
too. My guns were so fucking cold I thought my hands
were gonna fucking fall off.

A few days back, a fellow felon phoned me and asked
for help with his paper route collections, so to
speak. My job was to merely cover him whilst we drove
and marched all over little Inukun Saigon doing
collections and splitting lips.

The customer on the top of the hit list was guess
what? A fucking crack negro named Tyrell Thomas.

We'd spotted his little piece of shit Nissan pick-up
at the gook shop-sleazy fart, so I ordered my clients
to stay in the truck while I enter the premises
innocuously to verify our target's presence.

I went in, and looked around and found Mr. high
stepping yeller Tyrell in the ways back of the store
looking at the secret display of glass pipes, glass
stems and pipe screens. Nice thing about the gooks,
they know their customers and if nobody's looking both
Uutuku and EZ Mart will sell any Indun drug
paraphernalia, providing ye stink native, not stink
bacon nor piglet.

From my candy bar phony shopping I observed Tyrell
pulling a few 20's from a decent roll of bills: sweet.
I exited the gook shop and ran across the street to
the AC store parking lot and hopped into our truck.

After Nigerian Thomas drove away we followed him from
back about pert near a hunnert yards as he drove over
to Merci Ann and Shane Hildreth's place. After lots of
knocking and pounding nobody answered the door, so
groidal crack macaque returned to his little Nissan
and headed back to the 41-unit apartment building near
the airport.

We pulled past him as he was parking, rolled around to
the rear entrance that is always unlocked at night. I
entered the entry porch ahead of Niger man and just
waited. Ya see, I wanted to march him at gunpoint back
out of the building and to the dark back corner
recesses of the parking lot, which is exactly what I
did.

You should've seen the expression on his face when he
was greeted by one tall white son of a bitch wearing a
killer 2 gun holster rig with one magnum pointed at
his fucking monkey face. His guilty conscience was
overflowing, he said he was sorry for whatever he done
to me whereupon I replied that he and I weren't
acquainted and that if he didn't pay his tab tonight,
there'd be little chance we'd ever see each other
again. I also described to him that there's a sigluk
out at South Tent City with a nice warm slot for him
right next to a dead black lab. Which is fitting: 2
dead dogs not worth shovel nor dirt, just rotten
lumber, snow and ice.

I told him to put his hands in his pockets and lead
the way out to the parking lot.

He made it only part way out the front door when he
was picked up and tossed on his face down the icy
frosted metal grated stairs. Gotta hand it to Bubba,
he's stronger'n shit and performs wonderfully when
hooked up with a decent crew led by a spy only known
by me and you.

Tyrell didn't look good, so we kicked the fuck out of
him to make it all better. His fat lips softened the
impact on our boots. Fuck, despite the freezing cold,
I sure got big shiny wood.

He yelled at us to stop, so I backed away a few feet
while keeping a gun on him. He reached in his pockets
and pulled out pert near $700.00 and pleaded that we
let him go to his apartment to get his fat cunt's
debit card for the remaining 300 dineros.

I stayed in the shadows under the building and kept
watch for coppers whilst Bubba and my client walked
Mr. nig-Thomas upstairs to Sarah Lynch's apartment to
fetch her debit card.

All three of 'em returned to the 41-unit parking lot
in no less than 5 minutes. As they climbed in the
truck, I emerged from my dark crevasse recess and
hopped in the truck with 'em.

We drove directly down Third Avenue to the bank. Bubba
and punkin' raisin face got out and went to the cash
machine. The account was overdrawn but Bubba assisted
the punk in executing a direct deposit payroll cash
advance from Sarah Lynch's wages she earns working at
the welfare office. Sweet justice huh?

As Bubba and Tyrell exited the bank porch entry, Bubba
gave me the nod confirming the debt was paid. So I got
out, pointed my gun at Tyrell's face and told him that
his credit was still golden and that he could walk all
the home by himself without gloves, hat nor winter
gear.

I sure don't like happy endings, I was gittin' all
hard thinking we were gonna take a drive down to
little Kivilina and bury this bleeding turd: nonesuch.

All's well that ends well, ‘cept we dint kilt nobody.

I'm so excited. We have pert near a dozen more names
on the bad debtor collections list. My alter ego will
just have to stay put.

The next time you see Tyrell at the food bank, ask him
if he nicked his face shaving his own ass.

Have gun, will travel.

Kevin Elsberg, your friendly local contractor.

Watch me pitch one for the gipper with ever more poli-sci bullshit.

Top of the morning gents,

Alcohol is a powerful interrogation tool. Keeps my
Enquiring mind topped off with Ethyl brimming with
Texaco Super Sky Chief information. Some oversized
motors thrive on 110-octane, my roving mind thrives on
data: either in bases or brains.

And the most efficient method to extract information
from an unwitting victim, aside from delicious torture
techniques: ply your target with drug cocktails.
Nobody can withstand the rural Alaskan combo:
cigarettes, alcohol and dangerous chemicals directly
from the pharmacy counter at MMC. Once yer ass is
plied and surfeited, yer jaw will start cycling
faster'n a groidal crack macaque.

Too bad my victims of extraction occasionally end up
in the ER with head wounds yet no speak English in the
presence of bacon bit piglets and shit.

Last weekend, my retarded cousin in law Clyde popped
by to visit his Auna Bunny, buy some hats and neck
warmers, and chat with bunnik about Pt. Hope and
Barrow bull pucky. You buy that?

Since he was already tipsy and talkative, I pried his
pie hole open and poured down lethal volumes of
ethane. Then I started grilling him by gratifying his
Eskimo ego.

Meaning I paid fucking attention to him regardless of
his damaged brown brain, dismal yet normal native
compulsory education, and appallingly poor
communication skills.

As I scraped away the crust I zeroed in on the secrets
concealed within this impaired aboriginal and
dubiously titled human being.

Who'd a thunk it that a career drug dealer, runner,
mule and bootlegger would agree to work with you
killers?

I am impressed. I guess the good guys win every once
in a while.

Thusly, I was overly anxious when the 900 mhz CB and
VHF gossip channels lit up with Morse coded news bits
that someone was stabbed, or someone was stabbed and
beaten, or negroes aboriginal and plethora racked and
stacked the hallways of a mythical emergency room at
an ungodly hospital somewhere north of 70 lat.

Since I've gained the confidence and drinking status
of a medical professional I can also phone a phantom
reservation phone number for confirmation on injuries
and procedures sans identities.

Out here on the rez a lad can apply scant algebra and
deduce whom got stitched and whom is bagged, tagged
and pitched dirt upon.

My worries originated from possible responsibility for
another dead Indun: legal not moral.

Many years ago I did multiple and dandy extraction
jobs on my own mother in law.

Grandma Magdeline was one tough old broad. Meaner'n
shit, but had a wealth of stories buried underneath
her leather veneer and cuss attitude. Stories I zeroed
in on and done fetched real fucking good, and with
lots of delicious cold beer.

As a child, on a cold spring day just after the turn
of the last century Grandma Mag traveled by dog team
from Noorvik to Kiana, then to Kotzebue. When she and
her pops crested boot hill above Squirrel Canyon they
were forced to lock up the breaks and skid to a halt.

The trail down the hill to town was submerged in water
and ice. Yup, the entire village Kikiktagruk was under
water and Grandma Mag and her poppa had to camp out on
the tundra for almost a week awaiting this tidal
retreat.

When I asked how in hell she crossed Kobuk Lake, she
replied by describing how the ice was identical to the
ice I climbed and hiked all over on the Arctic Ocean
in my backyard up in Barrow. Serious fucking bitch ice
if ye ask me.

Weird to think that all us 'tard sapiens could be
douched away in mere seconds if such an event were to
reoccur.

Another file folder I retrieved from my Inukun in law
was her recollections of Maniilaq, the iconoclast and
prophet that foretold the abolition of the tribal
doctor, moon flight, and the arrival of good mojo
medicine curing ailments that've plagued Eskimos since
Christ was a dinosaur, so to speak.

She also mentioned his advice and counsel that
Kiaqpiaq-the steady stream of tall Siberian boat
people make handsome babies and that Ambler will be
Alaska's largest city when much manna springs forth
from the Earth.

Dissecting Maniilaq's forecasts of breaking the
shackles and chains of authoritarian control tribal
doctors enslaved Eskimos with, and the notion that new
arrivers will bring both salvation and vastly improved
medical care, we see heresy in its naked form. We also
now see whey he was banished and lived in exile across
the bay just a stoner's from my wife's 160 acre native
allotment: Little Tikigakmiut.

For you maggots that've fled the rez, you know how
upset my negro neighbors get when I elucidate concepts
extinct: the truth. The King has no clothes and these
niggers are fucking retarded. Is this entire culture
on drugs?

Since there ain't a scraling tough enough to banish
any of us, we can rest in peaceful disharmony in our
personal reservation, within the larger Indun dumpsite
and sewer we call home-the FAZ. And like Kung Fu, you
ass-hoppers must roam Unnuk Spit doing good deeds of
justifiable violence. My guess is that all of you
carry more firepower than I and this Finn is heavily
armed and impaired.

Ain't a one of ye that is truly part of any community.
The damage is extensive thus excluding probability of
personal or relationship development. Or as that punk
native kid advised me in the computer lab at the Tuzzy
Library, "Nigger is as a nigger does." Smart lad.

Another thought arising from Maniilaq's prophetic
prediction of Ambler being Alaska's largest city, is
how the fuck did this dude know there was so much gold
in them thar Kobuk Hills?

I mean, it don't take a fucking rocket scientist to
understand how Christianity became such a useful
antidote for dumb ass pagan bullshit like strange
elder men putting their fingers in yer cunt to verify
your time for banishment to the bleeding hut as
punishment for not getting knocked up by yer very own
fucking uncle.

The implied freedom is a no-brainer, but to encourage
breeding with the tall Siberian motherfuckers that
continually spewed out of the Siberian Mongoloid
Steppe, well is just fucking genius.

Thou shalt not pork thy own mom in the ass.
Thou shalt not pork thy own sister directly in the
biscuit.
Thou SHALL run to the beach to greet new arrivals,
then fuck 'em all, boys too.

Poor fucker was just full of good ideas. Hence why in
the land of the deaf, dumb and blind, the 3-digit IQ
smart ass is banished.

So the next time you boys feel like reclusive
isolates, you are. My wife, your wives all enjoin this
community, just not us ass wipes.

Melanin impairment aside, ain't none of ye are
natives, cuz you can read. All of you are experts in
technical report writing and emergency dispatches
synoptic, and the reason why y’all prefer to read my
stupid esoteric shit, instead of jerking off to yer
gun magazines.

Or else I made a really big fucking mistake and over
estimated all yer sophistication.

If I did, fuck ye.

Karl.

The truth is always far more intriguing than fiction. Why you graying gunslingers are exactly that is still a mystery.

Top of the morning gents,

Since none of ye have ever experienced the true joy
and happiness a well-executed felony brings to a
congenital criminal, beg my forgiveness and my
preamble.

The stress and excitement of planning a sweet crime is
second only to the successful completion of really
groovy gunplay, blood werk and flight.

Reckless endangerment ain't such a bad thing. And
since the statute of limitations long expired I can
now share it with you.

I hate pep rallies.

I hated high school more than any red-blooded and
red-eyed baked Alaskan too. Columbine faggots ain't
got shit on us.

Farm boys gotta know rope better'n dick. No shit, goat
ass milking chicken plucking and dick skinning rapists
gotta know knots better'n their own sisters' anular
glans.

And be fast as fuck too.

One stormy night pert near 40 years ago, my dad came
into the boys’ bedroom at some time round half 3 in
the morn. I heard him wake up Cully then tiptoe
through the Lego and model airplanes and nudge me.
“Karl, wake up.” “All the horses got out of the
pasture.”

The implicit agreement between fathers and eldest
sons: is that moments like these allowed for curse
words and sulk. As I pulled on my soggy boots and cold
wet work clothes I chose to sulk. I was too sleepy to
form words, nor speak them, regardless of the implied
pardon from both God and me paps.

Me and Cully slopped through the goats’ pasture to the
tack barn and fetched bridles and halters and a slew
of lead ropes. We then marched blindly in the pitch
black pouring rain and joined dad out by the road who
was warming up the old shitter national, an aging crew
cab International Harvester farm truck sporting a
rather remarkable 304 V-8.

We climbed in and asked dad why we were driving in the
truck instead of walking on foot looking for the loose
horses in the woods. He looked at us and swallowed,
then said the horses were loose running along the
highway. The highway being Aurora, or in common
banter, old Highway 99, the main drag from Canada to
Mexico long before Interstate 5 was even conceived.

I thought I was the only one secretly gagging down
lumps of bitter spit and terror, but seeing Cully weep
silently and my dad without expression nor color
confirmed we all were scared sick.

And shitless.

We growled through the gears and pouring rain down
200th, took a left on 76th, then drove the length of
196th all the way to Aurora: Highway 99.

The assorted police and ambulance emergency lights
illuminated our destination, and the remains of a
crumpled Smith Bros. milk delivery truck The emergency
lights also illuminated 3 piles of meat that once
carried me and Cully at break neck speeds all over
hell and back.

You fuckers can sob yer dicks off over a dead puppy,
dead bird or even when yer cat gets run over with a
lawn mower. Shoot, some of us were even pushing that
lawn mower. Butchering chickens, rabbits, pigs and
goats was sickening, but learnable and tolerable.
Nothing wrenches a boy worse than seeing yer favorite
horse wrapped around the axle of a wrecked truck.

Me and Cully just froze there and stared at piles of
memories blood soaked in the pouring rain rinsing down
the strobe lit highway. To this day, every time I look
to my left I see my little brother’s red swollen eyes
and trembling throat. Not a single soul could hear him
weep over the ruckus of idling trucks and speeding
traffic.

But I could. I bet you can too.

Dad nudged us along and steered us towards the 2 other
horses that were dancing in traffic, fleeing from
patrolmen and snorting snot and steam with every pass
of that chunked pile of horsemeat. That was our chore,
lasso or snare or cajole Heather and Tango running
loose in traffic while Dad and the EMS crew hoisted
the giant blood steaks into a county maintenance
truck.

We headed out into the middle of the highway with our
lead ropes and halters over our shoulders whilst
rattling coffee cans filled with molasses soaked
livestock feed and making our unique trademarked
whistled coaxes. Despite speeding cars on all sides of
those two little boys, Tango and Heather could discern
signature barn calls and saddle up signals: and
meandered cautiously towards us.

Horses are funny. Tango always fell directly behind
Cully and I and Heather skittishly awaited me to put
her halter on, click on her favorite lead rope whilst
nibbling sweet sticky feed out of my hand. As long as
we led those two horses around and fed them treats
from our coffee cans, the distraction worked. We
walked them away from the mess towards the old shitter
national whereupon they took over the lead and leapt
and bucked their own way into their stalls and awaited
us boys to finish the feeding, securing and bolt up
the rear panel doors to their stalls.

Being human isn’t as easy. Like strikingly similar
horrors you lads have witnessed, that moment of no
hope never left those two boys. A bucket of grain and
familiar barns may ease predictably healthy reactions
to unhealthy experiences, but like any elder brother
we angst over our younger siblings sufferings, yet not
our own. As the centuries pass and so do my friends
and family, some experiences just won’t fucking fade.

Whenever I hark back to the precise moments when my
younger brothers’ hearts were broken, my eyes well up
in tears. Never fails. Even today.

That’s when I redirect and divert towards anger and
hurt innocent and good people.

The only way to wash away trauma is to inflict the
equal and opposite upon humanity. Let me tell one
excellent way to wash away nightmares: replace them
with better ones.

As stated before, I hate pep rallies. They don’t do
shit for any of my Hitler Youth on my swim team,
perhaps make things worse. The best medicine for the
shits before a big swim event is to calm yourself,
visualize kicking fucking ass, and meditate alone over
coffee and LOTS of sugars allowing adrenalin to
circulate spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch.

Since scheming passive aggressiveness is by far the
most lethal and invisible kind of violence, we chose
to hurt lots of people in the most spectacular way.

Me, Pim, Steve Senn, Eric Bjodstrup and Todd Larson
all met up at the pool to ditch our gear and retrieve
the bundle of pre-cut sections of rope I fetched from
the tack barn and stashed in my gym bag. Leaving our
cars parked at the pool, we booked on foot back to the
high school to execute our plan of action.

Pim handed out rope sections and delegated a man to
each stadium exit. At precisely the moment the pep
band was loudest, we simultaneously tied off the exit
doors we were assigned, then ran full speed back to
the back of cafeteria behind the orchestra and choir
building.

Then Pim pulled the fire alarm and ordered us to walk
quickly, but not run from the building, then walk
directly to the YMCA pool. Todd Larson and Eric
Bjodstrup took off spinning tires with Steve Senn
directly behind. Me and Pim jumped into his Ford
Falcon and took off heading in another direction.

When we got far enough away from the pool and high
school, we rallied down past Scott Wade’s house and
towards Steve Senn’s for bong hits before the swim
meet.

Sitting and waiting at a red light, I noticed the
dudes in the car in front of us were turning and
looking back at Pim with angry hostile expressions on
their faces. What happened next occurred in mere
seconds but illustrates the genetic advantages these
lads possessed.

Pim recognized these guys, realized they were
unfriendly, and the second they opened their car doors
and stepped out, Pim punched the throttle and smashed
the Falcon into the rear end of the nigger lovin’
Chevy Malibu in front of us.

Their car leapt forward into traffic, their car doors
swung shut on their legs in time to get T-boned on the
driver side by a speeding car. Cripple city.

Pim reversed away from this growing pile up and
performed the best reverse 180 I’d seen in my life,
speeding away quickly so we wouldn’t miss out on
coffee and industrial bong hits with our Hitler mates.

We arrived for pine chron and Finnish coffee, got
tuned up nicely, then we all booked in Steve and
Todd’s cars leaving Pim’s mangled Falcon to be
repaired later in Auto Shop.

Utilizing surplus drugs and adrenalin, Pim, Todd,
Steve and I scored all first place blue ribbons in our
respective events. The four of us also nailed first
place in the 200-meter relay race: Pim starting with
backstroke, Eric swiftly pulling ahead with
breaststroke, I barely maintained this lead with
butterfly, Larson nailed the fucker with fury and
exploding water freestyle.

We never witnessed the hysteria inside the high school
auditorium that ensued after we locked ‘em in like
trapped rats, but read plenty about broken bones in
the papers and heard plenty about trampled faggots
from our teachers inquiring if any of us knew the
identity of the culprits. Besides, Mark Stensland
swore the lot of us were either in shower or doing
warm up laps in the pool.

I ain’t telling.

Funny, so many events in my life have been dictated by
reactionary violence from sources beyond my
comprehension.

Puppets sans strings, or merely an extension of the
cat’s paw: you tell me.

David Craig advised me that we are acting out the
roles we were cast in. We’ll never see a script and
neither rhyme nor reason. But we’ll soon see the
director.

Despite being a fucking Jew, I hear he’s pretty good
with wood.


Karl.

Some days it just don't pay to get out of fucking bed.

Top of the morning gents,

I'm not gonna get off on a rant or nothin'. Kind of
humbled and glad to be just fucking above ground
suckin' wind and industrial bong rips.

Grim Reaper is an amusing construct assembled by our
fellow macaque brothers cursed with tremendously
powerful human brains that require causality in order
to comprehend every fucking random event and
statistically impossible moments of no hope.

Shit happens. And a lot by accident.

What enhances the frequency of these events are
externalities such as weather, icing on wings and
tires, the old age of these elastic and inelastic
collision participants, and a high demand for
replacements to fill the gulf of souls.

Another random event accelerator for hominids a few
light years short of self-actualization: is alcohol.

The traffic last night on Fifth Avenue (750 ml) was
terrible. Not the motor vehicle traffic, the
pedestrian traffic. We had loud ass imiktuk runt fucks
yelling and staggering all fucking night.

I took a quick book down to AC for the Mrs. and
encountered Wally Carter staggering in front of Lane’s
bucket shack. Now that’s a pleasant sight.

Kids and good folks on foot were streaming both
directions bearing gifts and groceries homebound, and
in front of God and everybody was this drunk monkey
with a red ass singing and yelling at all passersby
louder’n a nigger on crack.

I might have a brown eye for the obvious, but
Eski-Hoes really ought not fucking drink, ye know
that? Browntard Wally was on a roll cursing pissed off
at the world worse than a red headed sister that
started her period on the car seat.

I’ve adjusted though. For every beaten and raped
Eskimo-sickle, the universe is balanced with
justification and rationale: nigger is as nigger does.
Meaning all the misery and misfortune visiting our
blessed FAZ is because we fucking deserve it.

Why the disparate suffering out here on the rural rez?
Both heaven and hell are here on Earth: so is
purgatory. Us ignorant chimps are here because we are
not worthy of a better place.

Like you sons of fucks, this monkey fucker also has
eternity to smell the honey buckets and partake in the
infected wine, women and song sans tune, pitch and
safe sex.

So to truly enjoy the wafting village bouquet of
ignorance and dysentery, I stroll like my brethren:
zombie-riginal.

Armed, yet heavily impaired.

Fuck, if me and bun decided to quit the walks far
woman club and started driving again, I too would be
like the rest of this shit ass reservation Mongolian:
driving under the influence of drugs, alcohol and
stupidity. And fatter’n fuck.

With my drunk ass behind the wheel, I bet there’d be
more crushed Inukun craniums and broken ovaries just
like Katy Norton littering both sides of this spit
soaked latrine.

You boys may be unforgiven, but none of you graying
gunslingers are on Reaper's short list. He still needs
y’all to execute his shopping list.

Keep your powder dry and yer dick hard and the world
will turn. The Grim Reaper will be truly justified to
take as many miserable shits as he pleases and our God
fearing primitive minds require a reason why.

"Everybody's got it coming" (Clint Eastwood). We
fucking deserve it.

Karl Tikik.

Read below.

---

Location: Fairbanks
Case number: 06-108733
Type: Motor Vehicle Collision - Fatality, Leaving the
Scene
Text: On 12-15-06, at approximately 2023 hours, Alaska
State Troopers received a telephone call reporting a
motor vehicle collision with injuries at the
intersection of Hess and Thomas streets near
Fairbanks. Investigation revealed that Chester J.
Druck, age 57, of Fairbanks was walking near the
roadway when he was struck by a 1991 Dodge Caravan
driven by Ilsa Burton, age 30, of Fairbanks. Burton
left the scene of the collision without reporting it
to law enforcement authorities or rendering aid to
Druck, who died as a result of his injuries. Alcohol
was determined to be a factor in the collision and
Burton was later contacted and arrested on charges of
Leaving the Scene of an Accident and Driving Under the
Influence. The case is still under investigation
and additional charges will be forwarded to the
District Attorney's Office for review.
Author: DAW0
Received and posted Saturday, December 16, 2006 5:21
AM

---

Location: Wasilla
Case number: 06-108682
Type: Motor Vehicle Collision-Fatal
Text: On Friday December 15, 2006 at 4:50 pm, Alaska
State Troopers were notified of a three vehicle crash
on the Parks Highway near milepost 51.5, at the
intersection of the Parks Highway and Johnson Rd.
Troopers, EMS and Wasilla Police responded. Scene
investigation revealed that Steven Lavine, age 53 of
Big Lake, was in his Subaru sedan northbound on the
Parks Highway waiting to make a left-hand turn on to
Johnson Road when he was hit from behind by a
full-size Ford pickup truck driven by Arnold Lane, age
76 of Houston. Lavine's Subaru was pushed into the
southbound lane where it was t-boned on the passenger
side by a large MTA box truck being driven by Kent
McMartin, age 53 of Wasilla. Steven Lavine died on
scene from his injuries. Neither Lane or McMartin
needed to be transported to the hospital, but remained
on scene. Alcohol is not believed to be a factor in
the collision. The collision occurred in the recently
established Highway Traffic Safety Corridor, which
runs from Church Road to Big Lake Road on the Parks
Highway. All occupants appeared to have been wearing
seat belts. The investigation into the crash is
continuing.
Author: SMC1
Received and posted Saturday, December 16, 2006 4:41
AM

---

Location: King Salmon
Case number: 06-108500
Type: Aircraft crash - Fatal X 2
Text: On 12/14/06 at approximately 1915 hours, Alaska
State Troopers in Dillingham were notified on an
overdue Peninsula Airways aircraft en-route from Port
Heiden to King Salmon. Peninsula Airways reported
that an ELT transmission was also received. The
U.S.Coast Guard was notified, responded to the
location of the ELT transmission, approximately 15
miles north of Port Heiden, and located wreckage that
matched the description of the Peninsula Airways
aircraft (Cherokee 6) at the location with two
fatalities. According to Peninsula Airways manifest,
the sole passenger on the plane was Renee Matson, age
45 of Port Heiden. The pilot was Andrew Simonds, age
25 of Anchorage. Peninsula Airways has chartered a
helicopter and is flying troopers to the scene for
body recovery. The State Medical Examiner has
requested autopsy of the deceased, and their bodies
will be transported to Anchorage to confirm
identification, and cause and manner of death.
Author: Bump
Received and posted Friday, December 15, 2006 11:40 AM

Location: Red Dog Mine
Case number: 06-108618
Type: Industrial Fatality
Text: On 12/15/06, at 1403 hours, State Troopers in
Kotzebue were contacted by representatives of the Red
Dog Mine who reported a fatality at their mining
operation. Jeffrey A. Huber, 51 yoa, of Anchorage was
killed when a boulder fell from the side of an open
pit and struck him causing massive head and chest
injuries. Huber was transported to the sites medical
facility where he was pronounced dead. Arrangements
were made for Huber's body to be transported to the
State's Medical Examiner office in Anchorage. At this
time no foul play is suspected. Huber's family was
notified by representatives of the Red Dog Mine.
Author: KRM0
Received and posted Friday, December 15, 2006 3:15 PM

God bless America. No other state extended so much secretive humanitarian and industrial aid to Finland.

Top of the morning gents,

Not sure if any of you graying gunslingers give a shit
about American International Foreign Policy, but this
ought to refresh your faith in our pursuits abroad.

Imagine if the Vikings were crushed by the Soviet Union, the world's telecommunications radical advances
would've NEVER occurred.

Apple introduced the GUI-graphical user interface. The
modern computer desktop display we use today.

Microsoft streamlined the world's computer disk
operation systems-DOS.

Siemens, Sonera and Nokia took a primitive Internet
and revolutionized the shit out of it leading the
world's telecommunications industry-communications
between cell phones, computers and servers.

In Scandinavia, you won't find any twisted pair copper
phone lines, nor cable TV, DSL, nor modems: everything
is wireless, hand held and FAST. Here in Kotzebue I
can download at 64K on the fastest DSL link up. Late
at night I'll watch Russian TV at 128K at best. In
Helsinki I fetched 1 Gig per second transfer rates-no
shit. All wireless, no cable, no phone modems, no DSL,
just wireless broadband speeds we have a decade to
attain.

Comparing our Internet service to Helsinki is like
comparing Galena to Barrow.

Had America pussed out and not extended aid to
Finland, Scandinavia would likely be in the same
industrially primitive shape as Latvia, Lithuania and
Estonia. Three Baltic countries called the NIS-Newly
Independent States that only recently regained freedom
from the Soviet Union.

If you want to see some surreal and ancient cityscapes
in the Baltics check out or rent the DVD movie
produced by Quentin Tarantino-Hostel.

This revealing movie is just as bizarre and intriguing
as Tarantino's movies you may have seen before.

*Killing Zoe
*Pulp Fiction
*Reservoir Dogs

No shit, Hostel is a fucking gnarly flick depicting
striking similarities to black sites of extreme
detention: NOT for any innocent souls and some of you
may not finish the movie.

The rest of you graying gun-slinging butchers will
likely sprout some serious 6Killer sized wood.

Aivar Kahar.

---

http://www.hs.fi/english/article/Hidden+help+from+across+the+Atlantic/1135223633788

Hidden help from across the Atlantic
US Army Surplus purchases were a kind of back-door
Marshall Aid

By Unto Hämäläinen

The old carbon-copy flimsies are so fragile that they
must be handled with great care. One can just about
make out from the faded printed texts that the pages
are customs declarations on imported goods, made by
Finnish officials towards the end of the 1940s.

The first such declarations date from early 1946, and
the last are from the summer of 1949.

There are hundreds of pages of them.

The temptation is great to touch them and rummage
through them and to hold them up to the light to peer
at what is written there.

Up at the top left is a space for the name of the
vessel bringing the goods, like Fennia or Kurikka, and
the date when she docked.

The customs official has also noted down where the
consignment originated from on its journey to Finland.
The port of departure in the United States was often
New York, NY, but items have been loaded on board
frequently from European ports, most prominently
Antwerp and Rotterdam.

The papers also reveal that Finland has imported from
the United States such items as locomotives, graders
for building roads, tractors, food, and - what on
earth is this: several DC-3 aircraft (the trusty
Dakota or Skytrain), with a full complement of spare
parts.

Nearly every week, for several years on end, a ship
docked in the harbours of Helsinki, Hanko, Turku, or
Rauma with American goods in the cargo hold.

This was different from the American post-war
humanitarian aid packages. This flow of goods across
the Atlantic was not extensively written up in the
Finnish press of the time - and nor was it much spoken
about.

As a rule, customs declarations found their way to the
incinerator after being stored for eight years. It is
the purest coincidence that these carbon-copy sheets
have survived to this day.

The papers have been stuffed away for decades in a
cupboard in the National Board of Customs archives.
They were unearthed only last summer, when customs
chief inspector Janne Nokki set about putting the
archives into the sort of shape that would allow for
some of the older documents to be handed on to the
National Archives.

It is fortunate that Nokki just happened to be a
history scholar by education. He was not content with
simply cataloguing the documents - he actually sat
down and started reading them. What he saw was an
eyebrow-raising experience.

"I had heard that after the war Finland imported a
certain amount of US Army Surplus stuff, but I didn't
have the first idea of the scale of it", recalls
Nokki.

It is hardly surprising that the subject was new for
35-year-old Nokki. The history of the immediate
post-war period has been much researched, but
surprisingly little mention can be found from the
literature about war surplus sales from the United States to Finland.

All the same, the consensus is that without Western
help Finland would not have been able to cope in the
years just after the war. Economic historian Erkki
Pihkala has estimated that the assistance coming from
the West in the years from 1945 to 1948 was roughly
equivalent to one year's deliveries of war reparations
to the Soviet Union.

Relations between Finland and the United States were
pretty much at the zero level at the end of World War
II. In the summer of 1944, the US had formally cut off
all diplomatic ties to Finland after President Risto
Ryti had given a personal guarantee to the Nazis that
Finland would not seek a separate peace under his
presidency.

It was a year and more before the United States agreed
to re-open diplomatic channels with Helsinki in the
fall of 1945. By that time Finland was in dire
straits.

Already battered by the war, the country was saddled
with massive war reparations to be paid to the Soviet Union. The Soviets led the Allied Control Commission,
which watched carefully to see that the terms of the
Moscow Armistice of September 1944 were fulfilled to
the letter and to the last consignment of goods.

In 1945, as much as 70 per cent of Finnish production
went in payment of war reparations. In panic, the
Finns requested help from the United States.

The initial response was blunt: Finland was a lost
cause. From the viewpoint of Washington the Finnish
position looked quite hopeless, and the only open
question was when the Soviets would swallow the place
up.

A State Department diplomat who was responsible for
U.S.-Finnish affairs, one Randolph Higgs, went further
and asked briskly what right the Finns thought they
had to assume that American policy would be to throw
good money after bad into a Finnish rat-hole.

For years, the State Department in Washington
maintained a very restrained stance. The Americans
certainly hoped that Finland would remain in the
Western camp, but they had little confidence in these
hopes. The fragile Finnish independence was not
expected to withstand the pressures from Moscow.

Professor Jussi Hanhimäki, who has written of this
period, condenses the immediate post-war American line
as follows:

"The United States had to refrain from any and all
public statements on the Finnish position, lest the
Soviet Union might interpret them as a challenge to
the policies it was pursuing in Finland. At the same
time, the U.S. nevertheless recognised a need to help
Finland invisibly, in other words in economic terms."

The selling of war surplus items to Finland fitted in
admirably with this "invisible" approach. And it made
sound financial sense.

After the war, the U.S. had a good deal of equipment
and materials in the European theatre that were really
not worth shipping all the way back over the Atlantic.
On the other hand, it was worthwhile to sell them on
to countries in Europe, if buyers could be found.

The trade was financed by loans from American banks.
The banks issued credits to Finland for the items they
bought. Even though this was normal business practice
on the surface, it could also be described as
assistance. The items were cheap and the terms of
payment were quite reasonable.

The goods were supplied by the Office of the Foreign
Liquidation Commissioner within the Department of
State, and the goods were brought in in small
consignments.

The imports did not attract much attention, which was
basically just the way everyone wanted it to be. The
Soviets knew about the import shipments, but it is
unclear whether they grasped the scale and importance
of the trade.

The forwarding of the various items was also carried
out without any undue ceremony. The then Ministry of
Supply passed the goods on to industry, to state
authorities, the municipalities, and to the big
wholesale and retail trading houses. The then big four
of SOK, OTK, Kesko, and Tuko each got their own quota
of items that they could pass on to consumers.

The customs officials granted the items relief from
any import duties for six-month periods from the date
of their arrival.

Just to do things by the book, customs declarations
were made on all items, even though no duty was
levied.

It is a good thing the bureaucracy was up to its task
- even if it was wasted work - because without these
carbon-copies of the import declarations we would no
longer have any way of clarifying the nature of the
American assistance.

Just how big a helping hand was it? Janne Nokki has
done some crude sums and has come up with a summary of
the liquidated surplus goods acquired. The figures are
impressive.

For example, around 2,000 trucks were brought to
Finland, and a further 550 Jeeps and other cars,
around 3,000 trailers, and 1,400 tons of vehicle spare
parts.

This must have been a massive shot in the arm, since
statistics show that after the war Finland only had
around 17,000 vehicles on the road.

The largest part of the imports was made up of steel,
iron, machinery, and motors badly needed by industry.
For instance around 900 tons of welding equipment
alone was imported.

The welding apparatus was more than welcome, since the
Soviet Union's reparation demands called for all kinds
of metals industry products that the Finns did not
have, and which they had to manufacture.

Finland had also had to surrender to the Soviets much
of its transport hardware, such as vessels and
locomotives. Fortunately the US surplus items included
24 locomotives, more than a dozen ships, and -
astonishingly - even nine aircraft.

Immediately after the war, Finland also received a
good deal of medicines, foodstuffs, and clothing.
Among the latter category were 200,000 pairs of
gauntlets for use in industry.

The items in question were from the Western front in
Europe, and had been used in the defeat of Finland's
erstwhile co-belligerent Germany.

Janne Nokki has estimated that the aggregate value of
the surplus items brought in to Finland would run into
the several billions of old markka - measured in the
money of that time.

Making any accurate calculations is difficult because
of adjustments in exchange rates and the change in the
value of money between then and now. It would require
some comprehensive research.

What, then, is the significance of this chance
discovery in the archives?

"The customs clearance documents indicate that a
considerable part of the aid to Finland and the
purchases of US surplus goods was intended to help
bottlenecks in Finnish industry and transport. In this
sense this was not so much humanitarian aid as
investment goods and material for the reconstruction
of Finnish industry", is the assessment of Juhana
Aunesluoma, who has researched Finnish-American
relations at the University of Helsinki.

It was in Washington's interests that Finland remained
a capitalist country, even if the Americans were
rather sceptical that some of the items they were
selling to the Finns might end up helping the Soviet Union instead.

Janne Nokki points to the fact that the cargo ships
kept coming on a more or less regular basis, even
though Finland's position on the superpower chessboard
changed several times during the same period.

Nokki is also more than a little bemused at the fact
that whilst the Soviet side kept a very close watch on
practically everything else, they did not intervene in
the import of American war surplus materials.

These imports in all quiet went some way to making up
for the fact that Finland was unable to avail itself
of more visible forms of post-war aid. In the summer
of 1947, Finland - as the only Western country in this
position - was obliged to refuse the Marshall Aid
offered by the U.S. for the reconstruction of
war-ravaged Europe.

The Kremlin insisted that Finland turn down the offer.
In the West, this was seen as the beginning of the end
for the Finns: pundits speculated over when the final
Soviet blow would fall.

At the beginning of the following year, Josef Stalin
proposed the signing of the Finnish-Soviet Agreement
of Friendship, Cooperation and Mutual Assistance (the
so-called YYA Treaty that was to last as the basis of
Finnish-Soviet relations until 1992).

On April 6th, 1948 the agreement was duly signed. In
the United States and elsewhere in the West the event
was regarded - yet again - as an unmistakable signal
of Finland's slipping into the grip of the Soviet Union.

What is doubly curious, then, is that the customs
declarations found by Nokki indicate that Western
fears of Finland "going under for the third time" seem
to have had little or no impact on the trade dealings.

The shipments kept on coming in a steady flow,
regardless of political developments. They were a
fragile lifeline for a very poor country.

The aid continued to come after 1949, but the only
customs dockets that have survived appear to be from
these three or four years.

A few examples will have to suffice: in April 1948
aircraft were flown to Finland from the American Zone
in Allied-occupied Germany; in May the S/S Clio
brought a highway grader and four aircraft engines,
and in the early summer the fishing vessel S/S Volker
was towed into Helsinki by a tug.

The customs official on duty conscientiously
acknowledged the arrival of the items, wrote out a
customs declaration, calculated the duty that was
never to be levied, and filed the dockets away in the
archives.

And that is where they remained, forgotten, for nearly
sixty years.

---

Surplus goods supplied to Finland by the US Office of
the Foreign Liquidation Commissioner, 1946-1949

Foodstuffs and raw materials for the foodstuffs
industry 2,700 tons.

Various machines 2,000 tons.

Locomotives and locomotive parts 1,200 tons.

Steel, Iron (steelplate, pipes, bars, ingots, steel
wire) 8,500 tons.

Vehicle spare parts 1,400 tons.

Welding equipment 900 tons.

Clothing, textiles, bedlinen 3,000 tons.

Rope 1,200 tons.

Cranes 1,000 tons.

Various motors 700 tons.

Aluminium and aluminium items 400 tons.

Tools, machine tools 400 tons.

Trailers 3,000.

Tents and ancillary supplies 200 tons.

Paint, varnish, and dyestuffs 100 tons.

Tractors 200.

Various electrical items, power transformers, cables,
resistors 200 tons.

Trucks, tanker trucks, ambulances 2,000.

Jeeps and other passenger vehicles 550.

Aircraft 9.

Ships (tugs, minesweepers, etc.) 15.

I must be in a really fucking good mood. Or sober.

Top of the morning gents,

Sorry for the intermittent posting. As stated before,
I've been directed by my blessed Siberian Mrs. to make
all the stops over at MMC-Manure-lick Medical Center.

This week, I hit the eye doctor, so to speak.

As protocol, I dressed up to the 9's. For you stinking
Alaskan killers and rapists present, that means
wearing a wedding tux or a burial suit.

I get great treatment! As I stroll past the Senior
Center and AC I shift out of second gear, put on my
Lord Fauntleroy campus personality and glow, and
"shove it on down into overdrive" (Hotrod Lincoln).

I don't know about you ugly fucks, but I get big shiny
wood whenever I abort my normal hung over, drugged out
and miserably angry village personality. I strip,
scrub my bottom and penis, and put on a coupla grand
in clothing. I then chow a PILE of Ritalin, look in
the mirror and tell myself, "This is a job for
Superman."

In my old age and fit as a fiddle, I can attract the
world's most beautiful women. Shit, I even married one
of 'em.

Advice: as menopause torments yer bitchy wives, take a
drinking vacation in Scandinavia. All you boys would
return home with a skip in yer step, head high and a
smile on yer face and a mysterious confidence around
really pretty women.

I know you boys are all married, or neutered, but
before you die, buy some non-Alaskan buttfuck
haberdashery, and spend these next menopausal years
truly enjoying your wives' mid-life exile to the
bleeding hut. Both of ye shant be miserable.

Besides, men your age are in such short supply in
Europe. Hot commodity due to a baby boom and surplus
of gorgeous girls ages 20-35. It's so cool for young
girls to score an older wealthier sophisticated
gentleman.

If any of you are game, let's set up a reunion in
Tallin, Estonia or Helsinki. The money is cheaper'n
shit and so is the liquor. The pussy pays for itself
with monetary dividends you don't gotta share with yer
cranky wives. You Alaskan boys would be so popular
there.

Okay, back to misery and this blessed FAZ-fetal
alcohol zone.

The eye doctor gave me some rather difficult news.

He stated there is ZERO alcohol, cocaine, diabetes and
blunt trauma damage in my eyes. ZERO. Wouldn't even
prescribe me glasses so I could look even smarter.

I reiterated my propensity for varietal abuse plethora
chemical and sexual, whereupon the eye doctor restated
that I was healthy, wealthy and wise.

Fuck me in the goat ass.

And now, page 2.

Alaskan humor is a unique blend of trauma and
hilarity. Jan Shackles explained ER humor to me and
ever since then I've tapped into a collective genius
and plagiarized some really comic shit.

Remember my quip about sneaking out of the placenta
bucket? I don't care which hole yer born outa, that's
funnier’n a cluster of grapes bigger'n a plume of
hemorrhoids in a baby carriage.

As expected by you blessed graying gunslingers, I
found some really weird, funny AND dumb crimes
reported on the AST PIO web page.

http://www.dps.state.ak.us/pio/dispatch/index.asp

One pair of fucking geniuses is now behind bars for
mailing drugs behind bars. Now that's both yer brain
on drugs and similar to Roy Mendnehall's ass in
prison. Some shit never heals, and death is the best
cure for stupid: that shit is forever.

Fucking geniuses.

Another posting is of a 15 year old girl that reported
she was sexually assaulted by a male from within her
community. What's left out is that the rapist is MORE
likely a member of her own family.

"What does a 6-year old native girl yell when she has
her first orgasm?"

"Ease up dad, yer crushing my smokes."

Don't believe me? All of us have tasted our wives'
pussy on our father in law's dick. Hence why all of us
have married rape victim squaw scraling biscuit, cuz
we're all rapists. Hooah!

Sexual assaults are funny stuff. Especially out here
on the rez. We can't stand the heat of Africa. Nor the
dysentery flavored AIDS.

*I now have figured why so many Eskimo chumps leap the
rez and chase white pussy.

It's cuz melanin cursed bitches got biscuit that looks
like yer grandpa's wallet.

*What's the difference between a white trash
Washington bitch on a horse and searching for lost
golf balls?

One is a hunt on a course.

*I was never much to spank my children.

They get the message whenever I just wave my gun
around.

*I was down at Auntie Charlie’s getting my hair done.
During my haircut, Charlie went to the corner of his
shop, dropped trou and took a piss. I asked him what
the fuck he was doing and he stated that his lease
expires soon and he is vacating premises in 2 weeks.

So when he was making change for me, I dropped trou
and crapped a handsome 12-pound steaming turd on his
floor.

He asked me what the fuck I was doing?

That's when I told him, "I'm leaving right now."

*This morning the doctor asked me how I got this huge
bruise on my forehead. So I told him.

I was fucking my wife doggy-style and she ran under
the neighbor's porch.

Fuck I'm funny. Only in Alaska.

"God is a comedian." "We're all too stupid to laugh."

You've heard that quote before, but during last
night's banter and abuse with Commander Craig, he
reminded me how truly smart he is.

Another quote from Rachel Craig made me proud as a
peacock. She truly loves my tunnik punniktuk: spicy
dried caribou.

"Adii Karl" "I didn't know our food tasted so awful."

The years they lived outside of Shelton, WA me bunnik
pressed me to send Rachel and David lots of black
meat, muktuk, dried meat and all the leftover
surveillance and phone tapping gear I kyped from all
my contract narc jobs with Statewide Drug Enforcement,
the Finnish Police Authority and Estonian Passport
Kontrol.

I also sent him a bunch of other shit from my work
overseas, but since you guys are cops, I won't detail
a comprehensive list aside from pistols, rifles and
micro cameras and half-watt transmitters.

Fuck yourself. Spy, spook and narc gear makes for much
fun in the hands of a former employee of OSS.

Mind you maggots, I'm still on the hook for his Arctic
Sounder subscription and long distance phone calls.
Commander Craig is my surrogate dad. I'd like to spoil
my own parents, but their net worth exceeds this
entire gang of killers. No shit.

Carry on gentlemen. Thank me later for the funny
fucking posting.

Besides, I owe you. Let me repay you by being your
tour guide overseas. You boys really and truly deserve
at least a fraction of the joy I've received here on
Earth.

But leave the bitches back at the bleeding hut.
They’re menopausal survival rates improve if you leave
a plaid dildo (thermos) in the freezer.

Karluk is the best luck.

---

Location: Palmer
Case number: 06-98243
Type: MICS II, III, IV, V, & Promoting Contraband I
Text: On 11-6-06 Alaska State Troopers received a
report from Palmer Correctional Center that drugs were
mailed to inmates. Investigation revealed Daniel
Jackson, age 27, and Sarah Odman, age 23, both of
Anchorage, were involved in the drugs being mailed to
Palmer Correctional Center. Daniel and Sarah were
arrested on 12/13/06 and charges are being forwarded
on both for Promoting Contraband I and, Misconduct
Involving a Controlled Substance in the II, III, IV,
and V degrees for introducing contraband into Palmer
Correctional Center. Daniel and Sarah were remanded
into Mat-Su Pretrial Facility where they are each
being held on $100,000.00 bail, plus a court approved
third party custodian.
Author: ATM1
Received and posted Wednesday, December 13, 2006 1:58
PM

Location: Mekoryuk
Case number: 06-107988
Type: Sexual Assault
Text: On 11/11/06 at 2030 hours, VPSO's in Mekoryuk
received a report from a 15 year old female reporting
that she'd been sexually assaulted by a male subject
in the same community. The investigation is
continuing.
Author: MJD1

Location: Bethel
Case number: 06-107991
Type: Theft
Text: On 12/8/06 at approximately 0850 hours, AST
received a report from the Clerk of the Bethel Court
Complex of missing funds. The investigation is
continuing.
Author: MJD1
Received and posted Wednesday, December 13, 2006 5:13
PM

**Is Blanchard now working in Bethel?

In the shit brown eyes and shrunken brains of retarded natives it's open season on fucking gooks, slopes and dinks. Again.

Top of the morning gents,

Racism is always downward.

Norse find natives disgusting for fucking and eating
their young, and natives hate gooks for equally puny
dicks, and working hard.

Logic? Fuck you, this is Alaska. It's perfectly okay
to smoke anybody lower on the totem pole of
sub-humanity.

In this racist paradigm and prevalent peasant rural
thinking, ain't nothing wrong with killing niggers of
any color, provided the village consensus tolerates
murdering lesser primates.

A completely native jury found both FAS’ tard punks
responsible for killing that rice nigger in Barrow:
not guilty. Same outcome for the teachers selling meth
at the school: free walk.

As now exemplified in Bethel: a barrow pig is a
castrated pig and Bethel has further illustrated
rationale behind it's slang city name: Butthole.

Remember when Captain Wallace recommended we NOT
Tabor-ize each other in the patrol car? He was smartly
reiterating that a stigma of a whole police department
as nothing more than armed dick skinners, chicken
chokers and mutual goo slurping cum guzzlers, pretty
much renders our constabularies local as inept.

One time I was partying with a slew of Bethel cops I
was contracted to do a narc job for. Some were in the
hot tub and a sperm spill spread across the bubbling
water.

The chief then yelled out, "Okay, who farted?"

In Nome, a rookie cop entered the BOT (bottom of the
toilet) Bar and Saloon and ordered the bartender a row
of drinks cuz he just had his first blowjob. After a
dozen shots and brews, he declared ain't nothing gonna
get that fucking taste out of his mouth.

I'll reserve my criticisms of the Nome Police
Department, no reason to hit a lame bacon bit piglet
when he's down; it's much easier to kick him.

Ya see, in the view of roughly half of Nome, killing
scraling biscuit is legal too.

The second I detect open season on darker white folks,
I'll happily poach white trash niggers sub par to the
Viking at the top of the totem pole (Hope I hit a
nerve there).

If you're upset at my banter and pissing yer panties,
ye best clench yer butt cheeks too. Racism has zero
upside, unless you're culture is a highly tuned
killing machine. Know any?

I do.

Hitler would be so proud of Alaska: Barrow mulattoes,
Butthole sniggers too.

While this mixed bag of graying gunslingers is
partying in either the smoking section of this cat box
I cordoned off in yer minds, or Valhalla, we can watch
in amusement as our fellow primates fail to see genius
and beauty in all culture and races.

We don't gotta kill anybody no more, but we will. The
eternal virus of natural selection and genetically
superior preferences will forever be unknowingly
exerting influence from the race memories contained in
our mitochondria DNA. It's their nature. Not ours. Our
propensity for injury and death has no racial
preferences.

Some of you are suspected in the deaths of numerous
colored monkeys. Me too.

Ain't no livin' with a killer. So we moved here.
Sucking on Kikiktagruk Spit ain’t living: just a neat
place to run and hide from child support (rape
byproducts) and our creditors.

Happy to be your neighbor and proud to have made all
yer acquaintances. I'm getting better. I now only feel
that uncontrollable urge to destroy life once or twice
a day.

The next time yer feeling that urge to go Sugvik,
Janton or squish the shit outa lots of human wastes of
skin, phone me, boobus or Kid 1D25: we wanna play too.

You lads are my secret star chamber. I'm sure we can
put our heads (and guns) together and create many more
masterpiece crime scenes. One creation yielded a
suicide hanging with only subtle marks on our victim's
wrists. The size 6 Sorrel boot marks in the snow all
around that conex container may or may not have been
made by a short runt fuck scraling, but likely someone
much taller and smarter.

Another directed culpability towards Carl Ferreira
because our victim took part in Mr. Ferreira's gang
rape. Now all we see is a broken lad walking 'round
the post office or airport wearing more coats than a
nun walking through a field of cucumbers. A tight wrap
of wire 'round the neck of a past out Joojoo makes
everything better. Seldom death be not proud. Besides,
if push comes to shove: Jarvis will also hang himself
too. He also gently placed his native pride inside Mr.
Ferreira’s penis holster thus illustrating why ass
raping faggot Inuit prefer man ass over microwaves.
Microwaves won’t brown yer meat.

Lynching is such a cool MO since so many Alaskan
retards hang themselves.

Too bad we can't lynch any more kid barkers in Reich's
garage: that site is used up. So are all the trunks of
the frozen cars out back. Additionally, we can’t
create suicides out of our respective in-laws, else
we’d be repeating genius and returning to scenes of
criminal artifice. Let’s swap in-laws, you guys smoke
mine, I’ll shatter yours. Looking around the room, I
see your respective marital ties are rife with butt
fucking child gomers. Fuck all mates. You boys shant
behave. It’s morally acceptable to beat bullies shitty
and assist in the suicide of folks I find unworthy.

Nobody wins in this skin game of extermination: just
boners. Either everybody counts, or nobody counts.

Who’s on yer list today? Have Romex, will travel.

Kevin.

---

Bethel in disbelief over cab driver's slaying
SHOOTING: A trooper will assist police in the
investigation.

By KATIE PESZNECKER
Anchorage Daily News

Published: December 13, 2006
Last Modified: December 13, 2006 at 07:29 AM

Bethel police made no arrests Tuesday in the weekend
shooting death of a cab driver, and an Alaska State
Trooper was en route to the Western Alaska village to
assist in the investigation.

Wally Baird, Bethel city manager, said authorities
were following leads, including talking to people who
may have witnessed portions of the events that led to
the death of a man whom friends have identified as Ju
Young Joung, better known as "J.J."

Joung, 45, worked for Taxi Cab Company and had lived
in Bethel for more than 10 years. Baird said the
shooting occurred after midnight Saturday when at
least two snowmachines pulled up on either side of the
cab as it idled in front of a video store.

The cab driver was shot in the head with a shotgun,
Baird said.

It's the second killing of a rural cab driver in the
last two years. Two Barrow teenagers were arrested for
the November 2004 shooting of Sangkhom "Sam"
Promdongloi. He was found robbed and lying in the
street outside his cab just after 5 p.m., shot in the
abdomen. He later died.

And the Bethel killing was at least the third known
assault on cabbies in that town in recent months. Two
gunpoint robberies of cab drivers remain unsolved.

Whoever committed this crime thought robbing the
driver was "easy money," Baird said.

"There are people kind of in disbelief that something
like that would happen here," he said. "But it did.
And the police are following up on it."

Bethel has a "significant" Korean population, and more
than 100 members of that community Monday gathered
near the taped-off crime scene, singing hymns and
sharing prayers. Elsewhere, Korean-owned cab companies
closed down out of respect for Joung, said Peter Kim,
one of the man's close friends.

Alaska State Troopers initially sent a crime-scene
technician from the state crime lab to Bethel.

That person later accompanied the body back to the
state crime lab in Anchorage where an autopsy was
performed, said Greg Wilkinson, a trooper spokesman.

On Tuesday, troopers were sending investigator Eric
Burroughs from the Alaska Bureau of Investigation to
assist the Bethel Police Department with the case,
Wilkinson said.

"But the Bethel Police Department is maintaining case
responsibility," Wilkinson said.

Mums the word. Secret Hitler Youth teams and NAZI operations existed in Finland. Edmonds, Washington too.

Top of the morning gents,

For you longer term readers you may recall veiled
references to growing up in the Boy Scouts, a hunnert
different symphonies and a shit load of swim teams.

The rigor of that life mirrors insanity and equally
distasteful as animal husbandry and child hobby labors
such as morning paper routes and goat milking.

Now add another cultural and indoctrination context
like, how can I put this gently. Fuck it, I can't. The
Edmonds Hitler Youth Chapter in the early 60's was
sort like Boys Scouts, just without all the Jews.

Not a Christmas tree burning kike in the crowd.

If a Scandic boy wasn't hanging winter decorations or
building nativity scenes, he was sliding a Volvo or
Karmun Ghia over the top of them. Me, Stuart Frost and
Pim Vanden Ende filled the backseat of our respective
Dodges with kyped Jesuit shwag, only to throw them at
other motorcars we deemed rakish and un-Detroit.

Fuck, we built snow forts proximal to the 200th street
south of Everett and west of Aurora, with the sole
intent of trashing motorists.

The fatal hour of random victimization and vandalism
comes on space influenced with substantial abuse and
misuse of tissue. If a driver exited his car
foolishly, wave two of many bombardments ice and snow
surely pegged face and groin.

Since none of you boys ever suffered from excess
imagination just melanin, let me tell you how your
brothers from albino mothers fucked shit up.

Hanging cars, batting practice out a car window,
lobbing rotten eggs and pegging cars with potatoes and
apples ain't rural warfare, it's called partying.

Fuck you, ye kill off all the Induns and ship in more
slaves to the Dalles, Oregon Slave Market and Auction
than any other human traffic and brokerage firm in the
country, well it tends to have manifold ramifications
on kids forever. My meanness will die with me. Yours
is forever.

Ultra nationalism only makes me puke if yer German, or
Native. Over and over you'll hear how wonderful
Scandinavia is, extolling the virtues of zero
corruption and egalitarianism blond and beautiful.

What's cool is how bogus folks tout my ancestors for
inventing all kinds of great shit, spewing
ethnocentric praise better'n any fucking Finn could
make up.

Finns may be good looking, but contemptible. Our
arrogance is second only to our impatience. Despite my
rich and diverse sense of humor I've a shorter temper
than my paps AND grandpaps. By projecting fictional
tales of their violence back in time, I void possible
disgrace and ingenuity for partying in ways other
cultures consider hate crimes.

Ya see, as with all conquests, Finns realized they had
the upper hand: an ethnic card to play and
collaborated with the Hitler Administration. It's not
like a bunch of NAZI and Finns couldn't blend
indistinguishably. Besides, we had Russia hacking off
continental limbs from the map Suomen and Adolph
Incorporated was in cahoots with Switzerland and
France, so we reverted to our berserkers from back
before Christ was a corporal, and killed fucking
everybody.

Us Finns concentrated and starved to death primate
meat freeze dried: general carnage without
discrimination. Those Finnish berserkers that vanished
and reappeared elsewhere spawned a generation of
Washington serial killers like no other state or
country. You may have even met one yourself.

Ye can’t have a beach party without lots of guns and
drugs and it’s best to have 2 kegs for every dozen
albino hellions per lynching, strike break, and
bootlegger dispute.

I’m fascinated with extraordinarily intelligent
psychopaths. Underneath such a pristine façade veneer
we conceal monsters legion. I used to gaze at my
grandparents and wonder how they could carry out such
monstrosities, yet be so kind to us, and tell us such
great stories of homemade explosives, liquor
monopolies and human trafficking. I get that same
fascination looking at you lot.

Is it just me? I thought every kid was forced to learn
how to play cello, milk a goat and blow up stumps.
Nup, I now know it was all programming.

Don’t look so surprised. Super educated half alien
half-breed albino motherfuckers even tricked me. By
constant repetition of virtuous Nordic egalitarianism,
we trained you to believe us Scandinavians were better
than ye.

Bogus virtue conceals hard truths that Finland ain’t
any better than France or Switzerland.

World War II was a bitch and we all lost sight of our
better angels.

You boys can rest assure that your suspicions were
accurate; you ain’t the only murderous motherfuckers
in the world. Finns are the worst life forms on Earth,
except for all the rest.

Karl.

PS. I’ve attached some photos I fetched from a family
archive. Not pretty.

---

Finns resentful over Swedish author's claims of Nazi
sympathies in war

The Swedish history enthusiast and journalist Henrik
Arnstad's recent book about the Swedish wartime
foreign minister Christian Günther has become a cause
of annoyance in Finland.

In his book, as well as in two opinion columns written
this autumn, Arnstad says that Finland keeps quiet and
lies about its relationship with Nazi Germany during
the Continuation War between Finland and the Soviet
Union from 1941-1944. Arnstad is of the opinion that
with its expansion endeavours, Finland eagerly
supported Germany's aggressive war tactics and that
Finland carried out ethnic cleansing, for example, by
allowing 3,000 Russians to starve to death.

"Finland was the only western democracy that
voluntarily joined forces with Nazi Germany", Arnstad
wrote in the Swedish daily Svenska Dagblad last week,
and added that Finland is keeping quiet about this.

Arnstad also dismisses the notion that Finland and its
armed forces would have protected Sweden. "With their
opportunistic and criminal aggressive war tactics the
Finnish leaders caused security policy risks to
Sweden. The convicted Finnish war criminals, such as
Risto Ryti, are to be considered accountable for
this."

Arnstad's aggressive article was a response to
Secretary of State Pertti Torstila of the Finnish
Ministry for Foreign Affairs, who criticised Arnstad's
book in a speech he gave in Sweden a couple of weeks
ago. Torstila described Arnstad's book as "a sad
example of lack of historical perspective".

"I am shocked by Torstila's reaction. It is not common
that a Ministry for Foreign Affairs should react to a
foreign book. It annoyed me, and I offered my opinion
column to a paper", Arnstad commented from his small
Stockholm office, from where he supports himself with
various Internet projects.

In his speech, Torstila said that Finland ran out of
choices between the two opposing superpowers. Arnstad
sees the situation in more simple terms. Finland's
joining forces with Hitler was more reprehensible
than, for example, Great Britain's alliance with the
Soviet Union. He argues that Finland should have
remained outside the later conflict, or should at
least have confined itself to taking back the
territory lost after the Winter War of 1939-40.

According to Finnish historian Markku Jokisipilä,
Arnstad presents notions that have been discussed in
Finland since the 1960s. "I wonder if Arnstad is at
all familiar with the debate that has taken place
within the Finnish history research on the subject",
Jokisipilä ponders.

"No, I am not", Arnstad admits.

"The entire spat has a distinct smell of formaldehyde
to it. Both parties are presenting arguments that have
not been relevant in the past 20 years", Jokisipilä
concludes, in reference to the fact that Arnstad's
comments are no different from those presented by the
left in Finland in the 1960s and 1970s, while
Torstila's response only reinforces the idea of
"official Finland" still adhereing to the old
"driftwood" theory of the Continuation War.

Socialism ain't dead, just hiding over yonder. Thus adding legitimacy to a town's name of Shitbanks.

Top of the morning gents,

Maybe I should change my greeting to "Top of the
morning heads." Fairbanks voters overwhelmingly
refused a property tax increase and in spite of
bloated wasteful municipal and borough (analogous to
counties) government, they went two steps further.

One measure slashed property taxes and the other
eliminated sales taxes as an option until at least
next fall.

I love Americans, but I got amusing wood with just a
whiff of an Alaskan. The infamous Kiana 6Killer once
told me three words why folks north of 70 lat prefer
to live on the dole. "The BIA handshake" is what he
called it whilst holding his hand out.

Handouts. That's gonna get us in the end.

Our unique and individual geniuses disappear off the
face of the Earth the second our thought paradigm
shifts from a policy of 'everyone counts' to a policy
of 'nobody counts.'

Mozart complained that France's intellectual elite was
non-existent. His primary bitch being France’s zero
contribution to music simply complacently lazing
around cafes at the expense and exploitation of other
cultures and continents. If a layperson knew the
political beliefs of Twain, Mozart or Hendrix, their
material would no longer be available at public school
libraries.

Oops, fate a compli, their shit is already being
stacked and burned. Twain railed away at slavery;
Mozart railed away at the colonial version and Hendrix
volunteered into the Air Born Rangers, totally backed
Kennedy's mission in Vietnam and extolled Nixon and
Kissinger.

3 truly talented men cursed to be iconoclasts obsessed
with all men NOT created equal. Human beings are a
genetic and statistical toss of the dice at each and
every conception. All aspects and attributes of
humanity vary so goddamn much that if you say to my
face that all races and genders are comparable: I'll
fight ye with both apples and oranges.

Our physical features, our actual structures vary
radically compounding diversity with ever more
varieties in function.

This collection of graying gunslingers possesses DNA
from almost every culture on this planet. I see
Japanese, Chinese and Mongoloid genomes, German, Irish
and Nordic DNA with a good dose of spermatozoa African
and Middle Eastern.

Unique and amusing differences: word of the day.

Our internal organs operate differently from one
another as with our central nervous systems. Even our
immune systems are vastly different. Some of you have
a natural immunity to AIDS if your ancestors were
exposed to the bubonic plague and some of you killers
possess unique enzyme complexes allowing you to digest
sea mammal fats and oils complimenting an immunity to
botulism, trichinosis and salmonella. For the life of
me I can’t masticate nor safely metabolize most of the
ethnic foods my blessed Siberian Mrs. enjoys. I’ve
wretched up a shit load of good subsistence foods
other cultures call rotten. My Nordic disability to
gulping down stink flipper and rancid whale blubber
and blood has its own silver lining. My liver
structure, function and enzymatic composition has one
more secret weapon: alcohol dehydrogenase. Unlike most
of you lads, I can drink like a fucking Finn.

So what? This simply means some of us can safely
indulge, over indulge and drink to excess while others
of us will survive the next scheduled holocaust
slurping down seal oil that smells better’n pussy and
gorp down fermented meats and greases. If you are
blessed with super hero abilities to kill and eat raw
smelly meats and fishes, I suspect alcohol hasn’t
played a very pleasant part in your life. Pick your
poisons carefully.

I just illustrated that rude racist line drawn in the
mutually exclusive sand.

Uniqueness is both curse and blessing. I’ll NEVER be
able to go back in time and survive side by side with
you crazy fucking Eskimos, and likely you’d expire in
Scandinavia minus a thousand years, we’d eat you.

Parallel cultures, worlds apart and almost separate
species. Scandinavia has the world’s highest incidence
of Diabetes and Inuits have the highest incidence of
alcoholism. I have a duty and obligation to myself to
be careful in watching my weight, blood metrics and
ignore my sweet tooth’s craving for the rest of my
fucking life.

You lads are in the same boat, but I shant proscribe
dietary, drug abuse or health recommendations because
ya’ll are so fucking different I ain’t got a clue what
works for you. If you all mimicked my dietary and
chemical intake, you’d all be fucking dead: really
stoned and drunk and really annoying, but fucking
dead.

Just last Monday I went to hospital for my 45 year
annual tune up. Picked up another jar of rich man
speed, gave a bucket of piss and bled in a cup. I’ll
visit the eye doctor next Tuesday and the dentist
shortly after. The face a man has when he reaches 40
is the face a man deserves.

We’re all crowding the big Five O and we should be
happy. My father in law died at the age of 50 and a
century ago Eskimo life spans were little more than 35
years. Big deal? Think about this: my father is 72 and
my grandpa is over a hunnert.

Will I live so long? I’m clueless. “I don’t like the
drugs, but the drugs like me” (Marilyn Manson). Just
last year I likely drank, smoked and snorted more than
you have in your entire life.

What, too honest? Go fuck yourself. The rule here in
the smoking section of this cat box behind the goat’s
pasture is No Cunts Allowed. Do a self-check, and then
get yer rusty ass back to the bleeding hut.

As mentioned heretofore, I’ve been a multi-vitamin
junky since I sneaked out of the placenta bucket. I’ve
also been exposed to far more infectious diseases than
any of you.

You lads look pretty good for a bunch of heavily armed
corpses. My wife thinks the same of me. Had not been
for that blessed Siberian angel you fuckers would be
forced to only read the stupid shit you write
yourself. Boring.

I’m still searching for literature as abrasive as
this, but no such luck. Guess I gotta type with one
hand and jerk off with the other.

You boys behave. One of the precipitates from this
collective experience is uncontrollably radical mood
swings effectively disabling your behavior control.

If you do succumb to our mutual compulsion for injury
and death, call me. 2 murderous motherfuckers can kill
3 times more people than 1.

Can I play too? Have gun will travel.


Karl.

Get pissed off and read how Shitbanks is pulling an
end-run and taxing everybody exactly the same:
millionaire and fry cook alike.

---

Fairbanks council approves $20-a-month job tax
SHORTFALL: A property tax vote leads the city to
extreme measures to maintain government services.

The Associated Press

Published: December 6, 2006
Last Modified: December 6, 2006 at 04:13 AM


FAIRBANKS -- Workers in the city of Fairbanks will be
assessed a $20-per-month tax to help fill a revenue
gap created when voters approved a decrease in
property tax.


The Fairbanks City Council approved the head tax
Monday and warned that a business tax also is likely.

The employment head tax will be assessed to anyone who
works in the city and earns at least $500 per month or
more than $10 per hour. Employers will be required to
withhold the money from paychecks.

City officials acknowledge that details and rules
surrounding the new tax ordinance must be ironed out.
The vote was 5-1 to approve the tax.

"It leaves an awful taste in my mouth," said
Councilman Don Seeliger.

He said the city still faces a significant shortfall
in the proposed 2007 budget. The council must balance
and approve a budget by mid-December.

Councilman Chad Roberts said city officials are
meeting regularly to research and discuss options for
raising revenue next year.

They estimate 20,000 workers in the city but
acknowledge that's a rough estimate. A $20-per-month
tax would collect about $4.7 million annually.

However, even when added to an increase in residential
garbage collection fees, the tax still would not erase
an estimated $10.3 million budget shortfall that
resulted from a property tax decrease approved by
voters in October.

City Council members said a business tax, possibly a
gross receipts tax, can be expected. That also could
be an option instead of the head tax.

Active military personnel will be exempt from the jobs
head tax. Workers will be taxed only for one job.

To prevent tax evasion, however, the city will levy
the tax on each job a worker holds, said city chief of
staff Pat Cole. At the end of the year, a worker who
paid more than $240 for the year can present copies of
tax records to the city and apply for a refund.

Mayor Steve Thompson said the city needs to work
closely with state, federal and borough governments to
ensure payment.

City finance department head Ron Woolf said the city
needs to clearly define what it takes before someone
is defined as "working" in the city. He said the city,
for example, has not decided how to treat workers if
their company is located outside the city and they
spend one hour a month handling business transactions
in town.

"The code will need to be ... fine-tuned as problems
come up," Woolf said.

City officials continue to accept resumes and
interview candidates for two tax-collector positions
needed to help administer new taxes, Woolf said.

The council rejected a proposal to require employers
to partially match the $20 monthly tax with their own
$10.

Other measures discussed by city officials include a
motor vehicle tax and a special election, where voters
would have a chance to overturn tax measures approved
at the Oct. 3 municipal election.

One measure slashed property taxes and the other
eliminated sales taxes as an option until at least
next fall.

Opportunities abound. The reason I see them is cuz I'm a fucking Finn. Little more.

Top of the morning gents,

This is something ya'll might understand: community
mental illness.

Yup, I knew you boys'd know what I be squacking about.

A few weeks back I spotted an advert in the local rag
about a new UAF/UAA Ph.D. program: Clinical and
Community Psychology with a rural indigenous emphasis.

Now doesn't that sound like an academic pursuit right
up my alley? I thought so too.

So along with all the other irons yer hyperactive
author on drugs is fiddle, fart and fucking around the
fire with, I'll toss my hat in the ring for this too.

Fuck, as long as we're above ground instead of sucking
dirt, I might as well keep on plugging down this
bizarre path I dubiously call life.

What do you graying gunslingers feel? Ya think my
family could use another doctor in the house? Imagine
upgrading my title to 'doctor' instead of my usual
monikers of nigger, oochuk boy and stink man...God I
love Eskimo slang, it sticks and its spot on.

Looking around the smoking section of this cat box
filled with admirably violent killers and rapists,
you're acknowledgement is readily apparent.

The program is offered at both the UAF and the UAA
campus sites. I'm leaning towards Anchorage for the
simple reason it ain't fucking Fairbanks: a really
shitty town all together TOO Alaskan and ugly.

BUTT, the UAF campus is so darn nice and tight with
the Anchoragua campus spread all over hell and back. I
rather enjoyed my arrogant walks across campus. Shit,
I'm such a whore I'd put on at least a thousand
dollars worth of dapper wear just to check emails and
drop off assignments.

One problem I may encounter is the possibility of
running into the Logan man himself, or his Alaska
Independence lunatic party fuck head minions. Alas,
even white shitbanks negroes bleed and die just like
the rest of sub-humanity. Contrary to my existence out
here in the FAZ, I can't carry a concealed weapon on
campus.

My criterion decisive puts my preference towards the
Fairbanks campus, verso the city of Los Anchorage.
When push comes to shove, I'll take either place but I
have substantial political infamy and academic capital
at UAF.

Seeing me again (Agent K160, N606 etc.) and the legacy
of the Logan bust may spook my former professors, but
I won't be in the same building with them, so fuck
'em. Another feather in my cap is the fact that Logan
was much loathed on campus cuz he was the last man to
fuck Sophie Serge, yet much loved 'round city hall and
borough chambers. The date rape narc job Nasruk
facilitated my expertise for delivered me much praise
and pats on the back: aptly so.

The double standard you'll discover amongst white
negro Alaskans is that it's no big deal to sell meth,
weed and booze to the natives. Cuz they're fucking
natives. But the threat of GHB to all that lovely
white pussy scares the shit outa the parents that own
all that white pussy.

Remember the advice given to me by Beuler. "If you
want to find the truth, it's most likely in the back
pocket of the liar." Despite rough language I seldom
tell lies, aside from the bogus disclaimer I used to
post with my writings, I just tell the truth with that
disingenuous context and painfully jarring tone.

Now think back to all your morning postings over the
last hunnert years. All I ever did was assign code
names to you killers and steered culpability for my
felonies and responsibility for my sins towards my
criminal pals still suffering in the Killing Fields of
the Pacific Northwest. Some shit we did far exceeds
the horrific tolerances you boys have developed over
the years, but if I still wince at my deeds of ill
repute, I won't write about them.

Some of you sneaked away, but fate bumped you back
into my address book. I've added and subtracted a lot
of readers and some of you pussies receive sheltered
anonymity in the Blind Carbon Copy-BCC slot.

Ya see, I fucking hate posting 2 am cop-talk and
crime-time articles everyday: one for cops Alaskan and
one for criminals Nordic so I dumped you lot into one
big pile of ruthless humanity and scar tissue.

After I pass on, you'll have thousands of pages of
this shit to re-read every day. With Alzheimer’s and
Diabetes stealing head and toes, each day in your
wheelchair will be like a totally new experience.

Just keeping busy. I'm hyperactive and bright so I
gotta keep reading voraciously and writing like a
fucking lunatic. Practice makes perfect and writing to
all you killers makes for great reading and even
funner story telling. The best part about my story
telling is the context interfacing truthfully between
concept and experience so as to create an illusion
that the menu tastes like the meal.

You boys ain't got a clue yet do you? The falsity lies
in the fictional redress obfuscating truth.

After yer kids leave home or die, all that's left to
fill up yer vacuous lives is staring at yer wives.
Pray she will be a decent human being despite
menopause and the shrill feminine histrionics that
inevitably arise.

The Sgt. scared me a few nights ago when he advised me
that our kids will have kids, and that we'll have to
take care of them also. Fuck that.

The only way I'll be taking care of my grandchildren
is over our daughters' dead bodies. This too can be
arranged by simply contacting yer local gunslinger.
Look in the mirror: any of us will assist you; we all
suffer poor behavior control. Just ask.

I find great comfort in surrounding myself with
extraordinarily violent men. Women too. In my mind's
eye, I can see each and every one of you slash a
throat, break a neck or dump rounds into hominid skull
buckets. It's your nature. Mine too.

Late at night when the village closes in on you, just
remember my sins far outweigh yours, nobody fucks up
as good as I. The burdens of guilt shant be yours
alone. I'm quite aware of the nightmares all of you
have, cuz I'm usually in them witnessing some
God-awful acts of inhumanity, and I thank you.

I seldom awake with a piss hard on, more so erect from
the sheer joy of being in your nightmares.

My thoughts of you lads, this weird holographic and
broken culture and all the abundant rapes and murders
are what kept me insane when my body started hinting
to me I’d be better off dying. Some injuries
psychological and physical just simply NEVER heal. I
seen lots of fellow primates hang themselves, shoot
themselves or die trying. The reason I'm alive today
is the chards of conversations with all you murderous
motherfuckers over the last couple decades have kept
cycling and echoing through my mind. Hence the ruse
behind continual communications due to the possibility
I’ll again really need the recollections.

When mortality posed the notion to cease and desist, I
simply promised I'd get back together with all of you
lads and discuss it with you first, pick up your
laundry lists, run your errands, then draw yer fire.
Easy as mu, the symbol for pie 3.14159267...I can't
remember the digits past that, my physics professors
beat me silly, yet only out 8 significant digits. The
ninth digit and life is the one you boys are granted
permission to take from me after I run your errands,
and vice versa.

As with each and every new day, I'll remind you
gentlemen that none of ye will get out of this cat box
alive, or dead.

Where do bad folks go when they die? No, not to a lake
of fire to fry, but right here. This construct is a
paradigm of imagination and relief. I don't want ANY
of you spiraling out of control: that's my job. By
putting a voice to violence, you have been allowed to
see greater degrees of intimacy and honest intellect,
and after you hear all of my problems, you should be
happier with your own.

My promise has been kept. If I do get accepted into
this doctoral program I’ll likely continue
conversational and theoretical intercourse with you
murderous motherfuckers. Tarnished halos be damned.
You killers are exactly the way God made you and I’m
pleased to accept you exactly as you are: filled with
rage and endless propensity for injury. You boys have
always been lucky when it came to killing. Curses and
blessings are identical in you bloody angels.

Despite minimal sunshine, it’s another glorious day
out here on the rez. You’re alive; give yourself
credit for staying above ground this long, if not
forgiveness.


Karl.