Thursday, December 21, 2006

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.

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