Tuesday, December 05, 2006

God bless you merry gentlemen, go as armed as ye please and drink to your health. Oh yes, shoot to your community health too.

Top of the morning gents,

Some of us won’t be seeing us next time ‘round.

Some of you will die at your own hands. Some of you
will die at your own dicks.

Over the years my pals have split in only 2 ways:
suicides and accidental suicides.

I came up this far north to cheer up MicroDot, and
convince him that no nasty ugly cunt was worth biting
barrels and bullets over. Fuck that. Besides,
Higbitch’s wife scored pert near man beast trophies.

Next time, I’ll encourage a pal to eat the fucking
gun.

What a fucking idiot. I had a tanked Mick on the
phone, depressed and describing the gun he was gonna
use to kill himself: and I fucking got all clinical
and thoughtful. I should’ve started programming right
then and there.

Decades previously, one of my best buddies in the
whole world touched off a magnum in my front yard,
without coming to me first to ask me if I had a
goddamned list of folks I’d like to see missing limbs
and organs.

Fucking Keely Jones must’ve gone deaf shooting a gun
that big inside a sealed automobile. Oops, I forgot,
bullets move through viscous tissue at 2-5 times the
speed of sound. That means long after the brass jacket
has already peeled back like a half-inch wide drag
chute and his eyes ballooned forward like tennis balls
stuck in Trudy, powder, sparks and hot winds burnt his
face.

Fuck, no brains, no pains and no earaches from self
inflicted cannon ballistic headshots. Yer shit is
already done smoked before the first sound wave
tickles blood soak tympanic.

As the years pass, so you will you graying
gunslingers. Few of ye might not get the draw on a bad
guy; few of ye just might be that bad guy too.

Since April 15th is already known as Tax Day, how
about I assign a unique day for each of you: a day
we’ll chuckle latter day covertly, Death Day. Don’t
look at yer heels for yer pull date, like freezing
high performance film, ye done voided yer expiring
with chemicals. Drugs saved your life. And dicks.

1D25’s quick-draw kid escorted another of my hopeless
and imbalanced criminals to the padded section of
Fairbanks Mental Bin. Yup, Nasruk picked up my physics
lab partner, coworker and drinking and driving partner
Jared Hope and personally delivered the disintegrated
remnants of a beautiful mind to hospital for tune up.
At the recommendations of myself and in contradiction
to all those little sober people, he rejoined his
family in Whitefish, Montana for further treatment by
his father, Dr. Chet Hope.

Years later, after he was all better, he met me at my
father’s Snohomish farm for mucho brews, pine flavored
smokes and a few weeks of dump runs, lawn mowing and
pitching bales of hay. Mr. Hopeless even told me he
was diagnosed rubber gun. I advised he take out any
motherfuckers that deserved their teeth and sinus
cartilage blended with their hair and upholstery.

Then he returned to Montana and killed his family.
Then himself.

I fucked up. I should have sent him on errands first.

I seem to surround myself with highly destructive and
explosive lunatics: present company included.

This time I won’t fuck shit up. Since none of us stand
a popcorn fart’s chance in a Kikiktagruk hurricane at
dying of natural causes, take a good inventory around
you. There’s gotta be a hunnert primates that need
extermination voiding recessive traits criminal,
faggot and asshole.

Then on the day you know yer in need of a permanent
solution to a permanent problem such as divorce or a
child that won’t leave town, we got all yer shit
figured out.

Kill them. If you don’t I will.

You poor bastards have taken shit: from the community,
yer wives and ex-wives, and the fuckers our
unmentionable bastard kids call dad. Out of this
magnificent collection of rapists and killers, our
progeny are far and wide.

Wake up fucks, do the math. Looking around the smoking
section of this cat box I cordoned off in yer minds
there’s likely THOUSANDS of impregnated girls
anonymous, unconscious or postmortem.

Ya see, if both combatants are unconscious, it ain’t
rape. You fuckers wake with kickstands, piss
impossibly with iron rod, passed out and awoken to
fucking a native from the wrong tribe. Shoot, I must
have fucked a hunnert girls whilst sleep raping. You
too.

Give it a name: whiskey dicks are binocular; they
shred taint and remodel basements vaulted. The smaller
the tit, the more the monkey, but the party bod
recalls no core samplers by face or name.

The next time you get drunk and are feeling maggy,
remember all them primates that just fucking don’t
deserve to breath God’s air.

We now should understand why one of us may stagger up
and down these streets armed, fucked up, and with
murder on our minds. Shit Jack, just running errands.
Didn’t you get the email?

Ain’t no livin’ with a killer. Hence why we all should
expect one of us to come pay us a visit before our
time. Sleep tight gentlemen, all your best friends are
killers and rapists.

And assholes: just the way we like ‘em. Those blessed
graying gunslingers will take a whole fucking village
with ‘em.

God bless you merry gentlemen, go as armed as ye
please and drink to your health. Oh yes, shoot to your
community health too.


Karl.

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