Thursday, December 21, 2006

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.

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