I found 2 articles that all but said: "Graying Gunslingers" or "Uniformed Killers" read this shit right now.

Top of the morning gents,

PTSD can be easily detected by radical mood swings and
poor behavioral control often with violent outcomes.
Do you know any men that fit these fucking
occupational, environmental and chemical parameters?

Fuck you. I do.

I found 2 clippings about high stress and its
symptomatic lasting effects on the body.

The antidote? Our good buddy and mistress illicit:
ethane.

Looking around at all you smokers and spitters, I see
some pretty fucking cool customers that I wouldn't
trust with horse shoes, grenades nor atom bombs, yet
I've frequently trusted you graying gunslingers with
both my wife and my life.

Think how many times I've been in the sights of yer
guns whilst walking into drug dens, date rape dorms or
playing the Wal-Mart greeter for incoming airplanes
laden with meth, weed and bootleg booze. Every time I
fondly reminisce of previous black bag ops and wet
werks I get that warm all over feeling knowing your
killers got my shit 100% monitored via transmitters,
recording devices and of course, your rifle scopes.

Regardless of our collective syndrome of violent
dysfunction and scarring affection for our loved ones,
I prefer y'all be heavily armed with large caliber
side iron.

That does it. I no longer make sense.

What the fuck is wrong with my concept of comfort and
friendship when I can't even shake yer hand, mooch yer
tobacco and drink yer office coffee, if I am still
scared shitless to walk anywhere without a bunch of
fucking guns and shit up my ass and strapped to my
road kill.

Oh, road kill is the new hip slang for big shiny wood.
Biscuit too. Genitals are inherently ugly, unless yer
under their influence, hence origin of "mashing
nasties."

What is wrong with me? What's up with all the guns?
There ain't a soul in town that's got the gonadular
structures to simply walk up to me, call me out and
beat my shit to a pulp. Of course most of you lads
would be a nightmare to subdue and get on top of, but
that's more like sex, not physical graffiti. Any of my
former clients may wish revenge for their demise, but
none have even said boo, shit, piss or even spit on
me.

Fast Eddy Larson sent a crew of shooters to my Willow
house, but I was already back at the helm running
comms at KPD Central Dispatch. RA (Robert Anderson)
did a fine job of grounds maintenance and also showed
the truck full of hairy killers the door-from the
business end of his infamous Wing master 12 gauge and
an assortment of strap-on handguns.

I've become such a pussy, I can't walk out my front
door without habitually and unconsciously strapping on
my 2-gun rig, extra ammo clips and 2 combat knives.
Which should strike you as odd because my lethality
lies in my hands, fists and feet AND my creativity
with fertilizer, blasting caps and stove oil-not my
propensity for shooting stupid cap guns. Shit I've
made lots of things go boom with garage door openers
and selector knob assemblies from washing machines.

Someday I'll feel comfortable sharing some awful
stories of senseless horror and overwhelming guilt.
Those confessions will be posted Wednesday morning on
a January plus or minus a few decades. In the
meantime, my paranoid and spooked ass will continue
arming for violent confrontations and noisy gun
battles-that will in all likelihood never occur.

Through sharing my most honest feelings and
intelligence, you boys ought to be able to identify
with most of my troubles with God. I'll never fit in
with the marching moron masses of humanity, but I'll
happily sell them highly addictive drugs, or fuck
them. By inflicting pain on all them other monkeys, I
save my loved ones and myself from spillover anger,
frustration, worries and affective violence.

Not once have I laid hands on my blessed wife. I've
beat hell outa girlfriends, even got my ass tossed in
prison for it. I've also stomped piss and shit outa
some inmates that truly begged for it. Octuck and
Garoutte have asked me nicely how my inmates' faces
and craniums got so battered overnight in the KRJ
house of pain. Never leave a sociopath in charge of
bullies, rapists and child gomers: ain't none of their
crimes worthy of the stompings I doled out on 'em.
Native or otherwise. Talk is cheap, unless it's heard
with bleeding ears-case of Eskimo whoop ass is what
I've both given and received.

My Nordic mind ain't as advanced as you darker white
dudes. I may have souped it up via selective pruning
and massive data dumps, but it's a sure bet my IQ
falls short of yours. After all these years and
dubiously intellectual morning postings, you boys have
figured my shit out. I possess a complete lack of
imagination and cannot discern subtle shifts in heat
nor color out here on the frozen tundra.

My reptilian processors respond to movement, not still
motionless targets. My blue eyes still dilate ass over
teakettle and respond to color blind movement, not
subtle shifts in hue, skin or otherwise. Blue eyes
also indicate genetic obsolescence dooming my sodding
lineage into the honey bucket in under a century, so
stills in both paint and marble bore my shit to
fucking death.

Since all art, music and dance tickles your sexual
synapses, out here on the rez I view all movement as
sexy: even injured dying polar bears, flailing
harpooned whales and disemboweled dogs. If it moves, I
may kill it, or fuck it. Or both.

According to my drinking pal up north, Alak, I porked
my 200-pound hybrid wolf dog on my porch. In front of
his whole family.

Now that's sexy. If I've wrecked pooch rectums, ain't
nothing I can't force good looks upon. Reviewing my
abominable behavior on this side of sentience, I could
very likely be a poster monkey for the sex offenders
website.

One difference, I rape the willing. I have yet to kill
what ain't was already done dead.

I'd give an Inukun 2 points just for breathing. Okay
I've packed some cream filled donuts that hadn't
breathed since her last cocoa puff, but I got me a nut
before she went cold.

Ah Christ I'm funny.

Something inside you violent sons of fucks has truly
broken. The way I heard yer kid put it, "Maybe you
ain't right in the head pa?"

The mind rot has set nicely. We expose you to piles of
stress, make you cut down leaking hangers and shovel
and mop bits of dead shot dogs and dead shot
neighbors. Shit some we even shot ourselves.

Now add to your nightmare a visit to a prison with no
name, located somewhere in Eastern Europe. There.
You're all better now. You just needed reinforcement
recognizing ye got a heart of gold and honorable
intent: but yer fucked in the head nonetheless.

As Marilyn Grey once declared during therapy, it's
your mind's healthy reaction to some extraordinarily
unhealthy environments. Smart bitch must've visited
Lem's Mortuary and Crack House-a chemical dumpsite
inhabited by nothing but baked criminals, toxic sick
bitches and steady streams of corpses that are burned
and buried and now integrated into high-grade fir
lumber all over the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest.

There's a little Finn in all of us. In accordance with
a universe bound by 100% energy conservation, a butt
load of bullies, punks and thugs have become soil
nutrients, aromatic hydrocarbons and organic
cellulose: got wood?

So, instead of cartoons I draw conceptually upsetting
fairy tales. All made up fictitious bullshit. I've
never touched a firearm, sold anything illegal nor
laid hands on a fellow primate.

Here in the smoking section of this cat box out back
of the horse pasture apologies are implicit and
complete understanding and forgiveness are explicit.
And I thank you.

Posting really Grimm Fairy Tales that never happened
is merely an exercise in your imagination. By taking
horrid images and nightmarish day-mares and dumping
them all into this paint mixer, I can create a space
where it's okay to laugh with me at really fucking
awful events and experiences so painful that when I'm
alone and nobody's looking, break my metal and bring
me to tears.

Only you guys: and a long list of dead friends ever
seen me cry. On occasion old friends from far away and
a long time ago pop in for cold one and a smoke.
Shoot, back pert near a fortnight I mooched a smoke
from Trooper 1D25. I was sitting out here all by
myself on the Group W bench when Kim popped in and
asked how Bun was. He told me to keep an eye on his
son Nush, insofar as to suggest I avail my highly
specialized skill set and murderous tool belt to him.

"Weeping is for the living, so enjoy it while it
lasts." "Besides, you ain't broken. You and your boys
are exactly the way God created you. Broken wings and
tarnished halos are distinguishing marks so angels of
mercy can tell the difference and stay the hell out of
yer way"

Ain't nothing wrong with me, it's all them other crazy
people that don't believe deceased loved ones visit
the sins of their son's best friends. You graying
gunslingers know what I'm talking about.

Trooper Nay also told me that "ain't no living with a
gunslinger, but tell yer boys they ain't done yet."

I write fictional crap that happened before the
stroke: conceptual tapestries from absolutely painful
experiences. The hearing loss, phantom PTSD symptoms
and subsequent medications including signs of torture
inside and outside my cadaver are remnants of sores
from extraordinary empathy albeit stigmatic whilst
only in the company of you unforgiven angels. The Lord
works in mysterious ways and you heavily armed lads
are the chosen few.

My name ain't Kevin Elsberg, Musta Makki nor Karluk,
it's Leonard Zelig. After 1 Msec out here on the rez
north of 70 lat, my transformation is almost complete.
I no longer see a handsome dapper and well-groomed
devil in the mirror; I see a pathetic busted up old
veteran. I'm getting too old to carry out any more
contracts for you fuckers.

Alas, the only truth in my shit is that I'll never
refuse any request from you killers. I'll break every
law in the book, under oath, subpoena and
non-disclosure agreement; as long as I know I'm dead
center in your gun sights, hearts and nightmares.

Ain't none us are who we claim we are and none of us
ever broke any firearms laws while in the commission
of violating a fellow sub human's constitutional right
to breathe out of more than one asshole and assistance
tying sheets whilst we kick their bucket.

And ass.

Each and every one of us could quite possibly be that
guy praying ya'll think he's an imposter. We could
never take responsibility for ALL of the awful things
we've done.

"No one knows what it's like, to be the bad man." "And
I blame you" (P. Townsend).

Have gun will travel. Still too scared shitless to
leave 'em at home.

Leonard.

---

War trauma may raise heart risks
Last Updated: Tuesday, January 2, 2007 | 9:56 AM ET
The Associated Press

A groundbreaking study of 1,946 male veterans of the
Second World War and the Korean War suggests that vets
with symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD)
are at greater risk of heart attacks.

The new study is the first to document a link between
PTSD symptoms and future heart disease, and joins
existing evidence that vets with PTSD also have more
autoimmune diseases such as arthritis and psoriasis.

'The burden of war may be even greater than people
think." Study's lead author Laura Kubzansky.

A second study, funded by the U.S. army, found that
soldiers returning from combat in Iraq with PTSD
reported worse physical health, more doctor visits and
more missed workdays. The army study is based on a
survey of 2,863 soldiers one year after combat.

"The burden of war may be even greater than people
think," said the first study's lead author, Laura
Kubzansky of the Harvard School of Public Health, who
studies anxiety, depression and anger as risk factors
for heart disease. Her work, with colleagues from
Harvard and Boston University, appears in Monday's
Archives of General Psychiatry.

Their study was funded by the National Institutes of
Health and the Department of Veterans Affairs. The
army study appears in Monday's American Journal of
Psychiatry.

The possible link with heart disease didn't surprise
one Iraq veteran diagnosed with PTSD.

"It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out,"
said John Oliveira of New Bedford, Mass., a former
Navy public affairs officer and veteran of Iraq and
Afghanistan. "It should also be a wake-up call that
the cost to treat those of us suffering from PTSD
could dramatically increase as we age."

Medical authorities first accepted PTSD as a
psychiatric condition in 1980 at the urging of Vietnam
veterans.

In PTSD, the body's normal hormonal response to stress
becomes trigger-happy, scientists believe. Long after
traumatic events, people remain edgy, fearful and
prone to nightmares and flashbacks. The continual
release of adrenalin prompted by these symptoms may
wear down the cardiovascular system, Kubzansky said.

"It's not enough to simply welcome them home and do
some immediate evaluation or help with reintegration,"
she said. "They need to be tracked and watched
carefully."

Raises questions for Afghanistan, Iraq veterans
The Harvard and Boston University researchers analyzed
data from the Veterans Administration Normative Aging
Study, a long-term research project tracking
Boston-area vets.

They looked at health records of men who completed
either a 46-item questionnaire measuring PTSD symptoms
in 1986, or a different 35-item PTSD assessment in
1990. Both questionnaires are recognized tools for
diagnosing PTSD and ask about symptoms such as sleep
problems, nightmares, numbness, a heightened sense of
being on guard and intrusive memories of traumatic
events.

Over the 10 to 15 years after completing the
questionnaires, the vets with more PTSD symptoms were
more likely to have heart attacks. For each level
increase in symptoms on the 1990 assessment, the risk
of heart attack or chest pain rose 18 per cent - even
after the researchers took into account known heart
disease risk factors such as smoking, alcohol use and
high blood pressure.

Although the men had different levels of PTSD
symptoms, very few had enough symptoms for a true
diagnosis, Kubzansky said. The study needs to be
repeated to see if the findings hold true for
PTSD-diagnosed veterans, and for women, she said.

The data also didn't track how frequently the men
exercised, so researchers couldn't tell if the men
with PTSD symptoms were getting more or less exercise
than other veterans.

Dr. Gary J. Kennedy, director of geriatric psychiatry
at Montefiore Medical Center, called the study
"impressive." He said one symptom of PTSD is avoiding
activity, which could account for some of the effect
on the heart.

Kennedy, who was not involved in the study, said
treatment options for PTSD include drugs, talk therapy
and behavioural changes such as getting more exercise
and taking action to solve small problems in life
rather than shutting down emotionally.

"We've got a whole generation of veterans coming back
[from Iraq and Afghanistan] and their health needs are
just going to be tremendous," Kennedy said.

Direct Link:
http://www.cbc.ca/health/story/2007/01/02/ptsd-heart.html

---

Moderate Drinking Cuts Heart Attack Risk in
Hypertensive Men
01.02.07, 12:00 AM ET

TUESDAY, Jan. 2 (HealthDay News) -- Men with high
blood pressure who have a drink or two per day may be
at lower risk for heart attack than men who don't
drink at all, new research suggests.
The study of almost 12,000 hypertensive patients found
that moderate drinking did not affect stroke risk or
the risk for death from all causes, however.

But the good news is that "men with hypertension that
drink moderately -- one to two drinks a day -- do not
need to change those habits," according to study lead
author Joline W. J. Beulens, a University Medical
Center masters student at the Utrecht Julius Center
for Health Sciences and Primary Care in Utrecht, The Netherlands.

Because the study involved men only, it's not yet
clear if the findings apply to women, the researchers
said.

According to the U.S. National Heart Lung and Blood
Institute, about one in three Americans now struggle
with high blood pressure. Once diagnosed, this "silent
killer" can double the risk for cardiovascular disease
and death.

Excessive drinking is known to increase blood
pressure. However, a handful of studies have suggested
that hypertensive patients who consume a moderate
amount of alcohol may reduce their risk of
cardiovascular complications that lead to death.

According to experts, small amounts of alcohol may act
to thin the blood while increasing levels of HDL
("good") cholesterol in such patients, resulting in a
protective effect.

However, until now, no study has specifically explored
the impact of moderate drinking on the incidence of
non-fatal heart attacks and strokes among people with
high blood pressure.

In their study, the researchers tracked more than
11,700 men diagnosed with high blood pressure who were
between the ages of 40 and 75. The men were all
participants in a larger U.S. national study involving
male health professionals that began in 1986.

All the men in the study completed initial and
follow-up questionnaires between 1986 and 2002 that
collected information on their medical history, diets,
and drinking habits.

Those who had a history of hypertension as early as
1975 were included in the final analysis, while the
researchers excluded those whose condition had
developed earlier or those who had a pre-1986 history
of cardiovascular disease, stroke, or cancer.

During the 16 years of the study, 653 of the
participants had a heart attack, and in 279 cases, the
attack was fatal. However, Beulens and her team found
that moderate drinking was associated with a decrease
in the overall risk for heart attack.

Compared to abstainers, men with hypertension who
drank about a drink per day were 32 percent less
likely to experience fatal or non-fatal heart attack;
men who drank between one and two drinks per day had a
28 percent lower risk.

This amount of daily drinking did not appear to affect
the men's risk of death from all causes, however. And
the researchers could not draw any firm conclusion as
to links between drinking and stroke, due to the
infrequent occurrence of strokes overall in the study.

Spirits, followed by beer and wine, were the most
popular option among those study participants who
drank. Moderate consumption of spirits also showed the
strongest association with lowered heart attack risk,
the researchers said.

While the study seems to support the notion that men
with high blood pressure who drink in moderation can
continue to do so, the decision to drink or not to
drink needs to be made on a case-by-case basis,
Beulens said.

"Abstainers usually have a good reason to do so," she
noted, remarking that there are a host of legitimate
medical and social factors that inform any decision
not to drink in the first place. "So, it would not be
desirable to advise them to start drinking."

The authors noted that very light drinking -- a glass
every 2 or 3 days -- had no effect in reducing heart
attack rates among hypertensive men.

The findings should not be seen as a recommendation
for drinkers to drink more, Buelens said.

"Because drinking more than three drinks a day
increases blood pressure and risk of hypertension, it
is important to stick to the guideline of one to two
drinks a day," she said.

Direct Link:
http://www.forbes.com/forbeslife/health/feeds/hscout/2007/01/02/hscout600585.html