Sunday, September 23, 2007

You think yer the only one with an alcohol problem? We all been cuffed, thumped and thrown in the drunk tank with Ginley: quit being such a bitch.

Top of the morning gents,

First frost, first snow and I'm fucking digging life. Me and bun are seeing drifting snow at all our stops between here and hell and back. Okay, only as far as Kaktovik: same thing though.

I'll assume all yer summers were righteous and fit fer maggots, mine was. Summers suck cuz real Alaskans winter in Alaska. All else is mere playtime at the Day Care center for chubby half-breeds, porky browntards and old fat white tourists. No shit, these blue-haired seasoned citizens were even fatter'n a Gumby pre-turd cutter bypass.

The entire Arctic Slope was invaded by chunky aliens hoping to see pleasant arctic dwellers, not a mean as shit Finn with a gun, escorted by a trillion mosquito bodyguards and vampire chiggers capable of sucking fat humans dry, all from their bottom and penis.

On my 11 mile daily hikes and hunts inland or along the cliffs above the Arctic Ocean, the chiggers this year were something to be reckoned with. To extend the life of my obsolete year, make and model body I tucked my trousers inside me socks else I'd experience a fluid extraction and bloodletting out my fucking dick worse than draining the Shoreline Swimming pool with yer retarded inlaw squatting their FAS penis holster over the drainpipe.

Alas, good fishing requires good bugs. Amen, but I loathe screaming parasites and buzzing airborn catheters. The life of the retired, a year of Sundays till forever. I married smart and rich. Besides mosquitoes and chiggers, what's in your wallet?

No caribou near town yet, so I ain't punched too many tickets nor packed the furnace room with tunnik punniktuq. But, I HAVE scored a savory menu of righteous munchable meats. Bun split the sinuses of a natchiq better'n full combat lesbo porn glazing a dike's toy baseball bat. No shit, the bearded seal I packed, froze and shipped to Agent Octuck even earned a nickname: pussy face Davidovics.

Hooah! Ye like that? Just like old times mopping up dubious suicides with uniformed serial killers.

Topping off Patchuk's monster freezer with some mighty fine pink and black whale candy and bright red caribou meat and you got one dandy picnic niqipaq. If you are so lucky as to lift weights at Octuck's garage and dojo, he might let you peek at his treasure trove of ancient foods other cultures call rotten. If he shows you his gun, run.

No matter what cafeteria of drugs I chow, I'm still a hunnert percent dedicated to my legacy nickname of 'Slim' and looking really fucking good both in my underwear and out.

Since losing my North Slope liquor permit over a minor misunderstanding of local option laws, I kinda been forced into sobriety save tuppagnak y cafe. Fuck you: Coffee and bonghits, tea and toke. Meaning, I ain't drank like a fucking Finn in ages and "it's been days since I found God" (K. Cobain).

Oops, I forgot you boys are primates, I mean primitive fucking Niffs. Ye see, way up North of 70 Lat, we have to pass a criminal background check just to get a permit to order booze.

Us northern Alaskans got standards too. No fuckups can order anything alcoholic. Me included. If ye got ANY assaults, DV cunt punching or DWI (driving while inupiaq) on your record, you can't play the Ukpeagvik game of infant biscuit for brew. If I want to drink someone else's liquor rations, I gotta kill an Alaskan dime: pay $100.

I've tried sidestepping city ordinances, but a drug dog at both the airport and post office pretty much scared me straight. Pretty much knocked my dick in the dirt and forced me to shut up and sit down: on that sack o' seeds.

I haven't gotten Finnished drunk since Vance and one of our graying gunslingers spoiled me plastered. Me and bunnik flew to Shitbanks, raced to Anchoragua and back, and basically partied for months till we were trippin' balls. I owe two hard drinking OCS cowboys some of my all time 10 best hangovers.

Alas, Coffee and bonghits it is.

Sitrep (situation report for you queers): lots of physical training, lots of shit food and lots of hikes: to the tune of a weight declination plateau of a skoach under 200 pounds. Hence why I now look REALLY good in a bathing suit sportin' wood.

Every morning my bunnik orders me to "eat your mushuk" with vitamins and a couple of aspirin, for lunch it's steak and potato and for dinner it's more steak, salmon, rice and steamed vegies.

Boring. No sweets, no baked goods, just dead meat. I can count with my dick the number of times I chugged down any spirits, save a few visits from a big as shit redneck from North Carolina. I only getta chug yeast-werks if I get a visit from a giant of a man twice my weight.

On days with more blasted exertion such as hunting, hiking or running from the cops I chow mondo dried fruit, granola or even dried plums...prunes for you nimrod anal retentives past 40.

Nothing personal, but your peer group determines your obesity, so stay on the other side of the Brooks Range or you'll all start gettin' trim and buff distracting yer dumber wives from staring at me. Damn I'm good looking. It's all in my jeans.

Fat is a zip code issue, so blame yer ballooning bodies on yer wife, yer community and yer lazy nigger ass. You want a piece of mine? Ye gotta catch me before ye pound my shit.

I've held back on you lads long enough. Mr. Winter has returned to bless us pale arctic dwellers, you darky fuckers too. So I shall bestow "abrasive yet witty" parables (RA Dillon). Don't fret yer skin hue, in another 10,000 years you'll also be pale tunniks sporting big lilly white naulami salamies. Your melonin impairment is merely Mongoloid in descent.

All you Inupiaq fucking soaks gotta simmer down, take yer time, let us Viking motherfuckers die off of natural deaths due to alcholism first.

Ironic ain't it? The most vile humans on Earth are dying of diabetes and alcoholism faster than everybody.

And you thought I was talking bad about Natives.

Karl Zagars


Alcohol now Finland's top killer


Alcohol consumption has soared in Finland following a tax cut Alcohol has become the leading cause of death in Finland for men, and is a close second for women, a study says.

Figures for 2005 released by the state statistics agency showed alcohol killed more people aged 15 to 64 than cardiovascular disease or cancer.

Almost as many women died of alcohol-related causes as breast cancer last year.

Alcohol consumption in the Nordic country has risen steadily over the past 20 years, correspondents say.

About 2,000 Finns died of alcohol-related causes last year - 150 more than in previous years.

Each Finn drank on average the equivalent of 10.5 litres (22 pints) of pure alcohol in 2005.

Alcohol was also found to be a contributory factor in suicides, and intoxication is involved in nearly one in four deaths caused by accidents or violence, the figures showed.

"If the trend continues, we are talking about a significant matter even from the point of view of the economy, because people of working age pay the pensions of the coming generations, and keep the economy competitive", Ismo Tuominen, a Ministry of Social Affairs and Health senior official, told Helsingin Sanomat newspaper.

Alcohol import quotas were reduced and a 40% cut in taxes on spirits was introduced two years ago.

Parliament is considering ways of bringing alcohol consumption under control - including health warnings, an end to bulk discounts and restrictions on TV advertising, reports say.

Another proposal is to ban retail sales of alcoholic beverages before 0900 hours. Currently, stores can sell beer and cider from 0700.


A night out in Helsinki

By Dominic Hughes BBC News, Finland

Dominic Hughes accompanies a police patrol as they deal with the drunken excesses of a Friday night in Helsinki and meets a victim of the country's hard drinking culture.

Alcohol consumption has soared in Finland following a tax cut

We saw our first really drunk man at around 10pm, picked out by the headlights of the police van as it cruised slowly down the road.

He looked like an office worker in his 40s, dressed in a suit and overcoat, with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder, weaving and staggering along the pavement, narrowly avoiding obstacles like lamp posts and trees.

The two enormous policemen we were travelling with were unfazed.

They see a lot of this kind of thing on their regular Friday and Saturday night patrols.

So they ignored the office worker. He looked like he was on his way home to sleep it off.

It's Friday night in Helsinki, and the object of the exercise seems to be to get as drunk as possible.

'Drunk tank'

Our escorts had already picked up one hopelessly smashed teenager, depositing him in the grim confines of what they call the "drunk tank", the biggest in Europe.

In the morning they will be nursing what the policemen say will be their worst ever hangover

Lit by bright fluorescent tubes, the small cells smell of urine and stale sweat, with a toilet in one corner and a foam mattress on the floor.

Our teenager was like a puppet who had had his strings cut. Legs buckling, head dropping, he was moaning incoherently.

And he was quietly crying. You could see he had not planned on ending his night here, or in such a bad state.

Most people who wind up in the drunk tank are locked up for their own protection.

It is at its busiest on weekends when the drinkers of Helsinki really let rip.

But the police do not arrest just anyone, only those who look like they will be a danger to themselves or others.

Many drunks find themselves victims of crime. Others are injured in falls.

Freezing night

We came across one man with a nasty gash to the head. He had not been attacked, he was just so drunk he fell over and knocked himself out.

And passing out on a freezing cold Finnish winter's night can be lethal.

A few days earlier I had met another victim of Finland's heavy drinking culture, although Grandfather Matti, as he likes to be known, did not think he had been influenced by anything other than pressure of work.

At first he presented a slightly shambolic figure: a crumpled red jumper, a full, tangled beard and a funny little pair of pink-framed glasses perched on his head.

But after our interview he pressed a CD into my hand, explaining that it was some of his work.

When I flipped through the sleeve notes, I wished I had read them before. It was only then that his story started to make more sense.


Mattijuhani Koponen, to use his full name, has lived an extraordinary life.

He describes himself as a "multi-artist", whose life is an artwork in itself. He is not joking.

Matti became obsessed by work and found the only release was through drink. He has been a poet, a composer, a musician, a water-colour painter, a photographer, a performance artist, a gardener, an activist in men's post-modern liberation movement and a journalist.

The sleeve notes tell how, in the 1960s, he was the driving force for an interdisciplinary underground group called The Sperm.

They arranged happenings, performances and concerts. Apparently they caused some debate and public outrage at the time in Finland.

I can imagine.

Matti's most famous concert took place in December 1968.

It is described as a symphonic love poem of reconciliation made by the biblical figures of Cain and Abel, represented as an act of love on top of a grand piano.

Drinking for days

The sleeve notes say this act of reconciliation between good and evil led to a trial, which saw Matti imprisoned for eight months, the only time an artist has been jailed in Finland.

Apparently some theologians thought such a reconciliation was impossible.

In the drunk tank cells, muffled shouts and moans filter through the heavy steel doors

Call me crazy, but I am not sure that would be the reason he was jailed. It might have more to do with the act of love on top of a grand piano.

After this Matti appears to have retreated into journalism, and alcohol became more of a feature in his life.

He became a man obsessed by work.

Writing for two papers, he found the only release was through drink.

He would drink for days. The first night was OK, he says, the second was fun, the third bad.

"I had a wonderful family," he says and then sighs. "My wife got tired of my drinking and then..."

He trails off, leaving the disintegration of his family unspoken.

Back on the streets

So now he visits a suburban alcohol treatment centre for regular check-ups.

In a very Scandinavian way he said he does not drink that much any more: just a few beers and maybe a drop of cider.

Back at the drunk tank the cells fill up. Muffled shouts and moans filter through the heavy steel doors.

Most of the occupants eventually fall asleep, monitored by closed circuit television in case they fall ill.

And in the morning the lucky ones will head for home, nursing what the policemen say will be their worst ever hangover.

But for those who have been caught up in alcoholism so badly that they have lost everything, it is a return to the streets.

But tomorrow or the next day it is almost certain they will be making another visit to the drunk tank.

From Our Own Correspondent was broadcast on Saturday, 29 October, 2005 at 1130 BST on BBC Radio 4. Please check the programme schedules for World Service transmission times.



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