Friday, November 09, 2007

FTW. Fuck the world. This Christmas ye best spoil yer s'elves.

Top of the morning gents,

I been spending money out my ass like "hot and cold
running dysentary" (M*A*S*H 4077th). Also, my pops
always lectured me that it's easier to clean a clean
house and a job well prepped is a job half done.

Smart fucker. So accordingly, in my old age and
advanced wisdoms I best stop acting like a complete
fuck-wad.

Let me rattle off the repairs and upgrades I stole,
installed, schemed and negotiated: then sprayed or
stapled onto this behemoth duplex artic.

*new stackable washer/dryer for Apt B-$1200
*new super cool compact flourescent light bulbs
throughout both apartments upgrading some of the light
fixtures: pitched the scorching hot small decorator
lightbulbs and socket fixtures
*replaced a large living room window-stress cracks
*complete interior paint job on the rental
apartment-bid the job out $3600
*reconditioned the carpets-multiple steam cleanings
*oiled all the woodwork
*natural gas furnace-seasonal service and repairs
*new bladders on the gas water heaters
*new filters installed in the air conditioning/air
handler
*replaced 2 loose and rusting doorknob/lock assemblies

"It's just a spring clean for the May Queen"
(Plant/Page) and I got nothing but 66 days of darkness
ahead of me, so I blast Christmas toonage and do more
chores.

http://www.mikesradioworld.com/xmas.html

With pert near free utilities, everyday is Christmas.
There's a little known fact that I enjoy the cheapest
natural gas in the entire country and the cheapest
electricity in the entire state. Fuck me in the goat
ass, only a fool would buy heating oil, gasoline or
diesel.

About half the automobiles on the Slope are fitted
with CNG tanks: warm up on gasoline $5.00/gal then
switch over to CNG 80 cents/gal approx. Every new car
made has automatic tuning adjustments (spark timing
and cam lobe adv/ret, fuel injectors) for variable
octanes, fuel type, temperatures, and workload so why
not tear up the tundra with natural gas and save the
petrol for you zeroes down South.

Instead of crushing, chopping and snorting piles of
Viagra or Cialis, I just take a look at my utility
bills. Instant wood dudes: big and fat Mr. Wobbly with
the thought that my utility bills are pert near an
eighth of yours.

"Addii, big kuku" (Fanny Howarth). I ain't the only
person in the whole world that goes sleep raping
instead of sleep walking. Dude, where's my pants?
Whose false teeth are these, and why are they gagging
on my grisle?

Laura Frankson always keeps an eye out for me, but I
gotta put it in soft. Ever skull fuck an old bag? Them
ain't halos, they're steering wheels. No runs, no
drips, no errors.

Fuck I'm funny. At least I didn't pork Bob Douglas'
gimp boy in the feeding hole in his head. Now if any
of you graying gunslingers go in for surgery, we could
pop a few stitches and do a Ted Bundy on yer ass.

Christmas toonage keeps my mind straight, my back
limber and keeps me from going berserk: just like all
yer goddamned clients, customers and prisoners. I bet
the Sgt, Squish plus yonder OCS dildos got their hands
full right 'bout now.

As my Inupiuqe 'skimo neighbors go native during the
holiday season I merely wish them a happy welfare and
merry food stamp. I'm not smart enough to work the
poverty system and don't have any niggupiaq blood in
me: at least since breakfast. I just work all damn day
thus my failing to git niggy wit it. I'm such a
fucking Finn.

We just completely refabbed apartment A to brand new
luster then signed in a plumber dude from Anchorage.
We kept the place vacant for a month losing 30 days
worth of rents ($1250.00), but the place now looks
fucking killer.

The rents go directly towards the mortgage, insurance
and property taxes. Instead of dirtying my bank
accounts, I divert all ill-gotten gains and crooked
dollars into utility bills, maintenance, upkeep and
repairs. And trips to visit retarded coppers in
Shitbanks. Dirty money from illicit gun sales can only
be spent: easy come, easy go. I even consult you lads
on brand name, models and calibers, and y'all have
handled most of the guns I sold. Ain't no secret
there.

I've made a FEW mistakes in my gun dealings.

I sold a box of 6 Tech-9 machine pistols to the gooks,
slopes and dinks running Bayside and Mario's. Cheap
chinese shitty 9mm ghetto mod sissy guns. Ye can bet
yer dick they were out of state within a half dozen
sphincter clinches.

I sold a 44 special to Mark Essert, a kid in the biz
minor undergraduate program at UAF. He and his buddies
were chuggin' brews and horking bong rips at
Earthquake Park in Anchoragua. Yup, there was more
than 3 wiggers in a car. They were doing drugs and
playing with a loaded revolver.

The gun went off thus listing a gun fatality to my
conscience. On top of the shotgun I sold Edward Wayne
Henry. "Hey man. Nice shot." (L. Downing).

I'm pretty sure Sheila Romaine ate somebody else's 44
magnum. I worried shitless until Higbitch found my
gun. Goddamned drunken Irish dumbass (redundant?)
forgot that he took it to a party. When he finally
returned the damn gun, it smelled like salmon cruncher
biscuit. Or maybe brains.

You guys remember that 357 I showed you last winter in
Kotzebue? I sold that to Peter Williams, a felon who
then took it to a party at the Brower's house. Freddy
was on probation and not allowed to drink alcohol nor
chase a party outa the house and into the street with
loaded firearms carried by loaded ice nigger convicts.


I never learn. Way to go Karl.

Fuck it. There's gold in them thar hills: odd gun
sales, mondo fleece sales and lawful sales of items I
can't remember nor recall. With such selective memory
y'all can call me 'bitchwerker' or Mr. Mom cuz my
memory doesn't grasp anything remotely felonious. No
shit, my mind is that of a woman's: just like Joe
Garroutte. I change my mind as often as I pitch toxic
tampons into my neighbors dog lot.

All my crimes occurred before the stroke and after my
menopausal ovarian rot and drop. Note to my readers:
you ain't got a clue what changes yer cranky wives are
now experiencing.

It's okay to kill a bitch over menopause. In Alaska at
least. Some herbal and vitamin supplements alleviate
some symptoms, as do the hormone boosters like
PremPro. The best cure for menopause is time. As in
time spent in foreign countries. Ya see, the mad
women's club requires a passport, lots of liquor and
brass knuckles for your fucking dick.

The bleeding hut doesn't help much, cuz even mean old
ladies can't stand bitches on the rag. Plus Eskimo
culture usually banished or ate their barren blue
hairs. Hence the comforting myth about Two Old Women.

Sure. Do ye fucking really believe them old Inuit
naggers survived and the fresh meat dad just brought
home is really chicken of the tundra. Code for old
pussy caulq and seal oil on a grill.

"Even if there were no God. We'd be forced to create
one." (J. Lennon). I like myths that tell a good tale,
the truth is always shit. Wake up fucks. How many more
dead babies, dead drunks and dumpster solid grannies
do we gotta thaw, straighten then re-freeze for
viewing?

Eternal optimist ain't I?

Been a damn fine 3 decades mates. From running crack
houses plethora in Mountlake Terrace to cutting down
hangers, shooting dogs up the ass and loading the meat
wagon destined for ER mastery vintage Troxell and Jan
Shackles.

I seen all ye smoking cigarettes to cancel gag reflex
heavage, plus it smells a fuck lot better. As long as
you old cops keep jailing the likes of Richie Reich,
Machine Gun Tony, and my niece's slackmaster loser
boyfriend, y'all won't git no more corpses to process.

My money is on the side of birth defects. There is a
retard born every minute. Wake up fucks. Take look at
all yer friends. Better yet, take a look at all the
genius Einstein's we married into. Jesus fuck. It
takes a whole village to reach the 100 IQ mark.

We coulda been born bright ye know. Goddamned grunts
is us. Married to dark-skinned aborigines that treat
us worse than natives. Can you guys even remember the
last time you defrosted and seasoned some damn fine
and tasty young white pussy?

Me neither.

One way to make this appallingly painful point of fact
more bearable: repeat what my wife tells me, "All
white girls got AIDS." Super Dad from Unalakleet oft
reminds me that "white chicks' pussy sure smell
funky."

I've made these my mantra. Helps keep me from crying
spontaneously.

Next time you start gittin' flashbacks of naked white
girls, march yer stinky donkey into the nearest native
bar. Look around, take a deep breath, the go home and
strangle yer mangler.

You boys have a good weekend, I gotta go get some new
gun magazines. To jerk off to.

Karluk.

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