Friday, January 25, 2008

Smoking bugs and turds in the Industrial, and burning piss at Lem's Mortuary and Crackhouse. Pranks are way kewl dude.

Top of the morning gents,

I love fucking with people. Which means I gotta take
shit and eat it too. Part of the game of "get fucked
up" or in Alaskan parlance, "get fucked over." We all
dun what Archie Ferguson and Charles Frasier (Reggie
Joule's father) announced to the lesser 48: "Please
come to Alaska and breed these people upwards."

That's why yer all here: spread your heaven sent sperm
all over these half-Earthling fucking freezer neegros.
Just imagine how retarded yer half-nugger kids would
look like, if yer dumber wives continued to fool
around within their own aboriginally wreathed family
tree? "Ye can't fix stupid" (Ron White), but we can
breed some brains into most stuttering ice cocoons.

The way agent Octuck explained it, "stupid sticks to
Alaskan bitches like Kiana herpes to a native."
Besides, once ye dunk yer dink in darky pussy, you'll
forever smell like Kudo Kenworthy. Laugh it up
faggots, just look at me. I can't wash that smell off
me fer shit. I even tried to scrub my stinky donkey
with a hunnert white skankies: no avail except the
world is now populated with a hunnert more bitches
that stink worse than second hand Schaeffer pussy.
Remember seeing that nasty gaping oochuk hole in
Sheila Romaine’s head? Why the fuck do you assholes
always make me lug yer corpses to the meat wagon AND
haul yer shot up dogs to the dump?

Fuck me running. Y'all taught me ral gud. You bastards
are the fucking masters of remote arctic public safety
and drug enforcement. Ye also dun learnt me how to
spot village idiots, FAS nugger twat poppers, and
non-sentient dildo buttfucks in a Nutsack minute. All
ye have frequently separated whole flocks of FAS-tards
from their health, wealth and beauty. And their
cervix. “Alaska” in rat speak means, fuck us in the
goat ass.

Wake up fucks. I ain't dumb, I just learnt we're
related to entire communities of cross-eyed,
pockmarked child gomers AND yer fucking jail is full
of 'em. Fart Yukon drunks and Eskimo bake heads create
really dull inutards thus spinning the revolving door
down yonder KPD/KRJ. A veritable SAM's Club of canine
anus and sphincter mashers. Metaphorically speaking of
course. Only thing we humans are left to do. We gettoo
fuck with the retarded.

You see where this article is heading now don't ye?
Okay, on with my Edmonds language tale of abusing
drain bramaged retards like us.

Now imagine wearing yer beards, sportin’ wood,
tripping balls, and drinking like us tall alcoholics.
Now add destructive shred music with Scott Wade, white
Mike Peterson and Cully neutralizing our last
remaining brain cells by means of concussive arpeggios
and fucking Tinitis level sound pressure levels. I
ain’t shitting. Volumes so damn high, yer hard nipples
and drippy dick fucking hurt.

If Callahan loads you a bong hit, dig out the bud to
make sure he didn't load anything surreptitious. He's
notorious for letting unsuspecting dickheads smoke
bugs, flies and wasps. Matter of fact: I seen goat
turd pellets horked down by white niggers that show up
at my mortuary empty handed.

Don't get me wrong, we fucked Callatard back with
karma like me wife, grams and mum: bitchy and unfairly
menstrual. I got his shitty 66 Dodge beater truck to
turn into a monster smoke bomb by running on cooking
oil. His Dodge 318 already had failing oil control
piston rings from a million years of operator
malfunction smoking ‘em in all four gears: neutral

After I poured some good 20W/50 oil in MY car, I
refilled the Mobil 1 synthetic containers with cooking
oil. Lo and behold, around the corning comes a
rumbling beater driven by a hairy ass fuck Mick. He
usually motors by on the way to work at NW Steel
Rolling Mills: swing shift 3pm-12midnight but
detouring to my place-coffee and bong rips.

As usual, Callahan bitched that his leaky smoky junker
was running low on oil and that the oil light came on.
I shrugged and told him to look around Cully's green
van: grab whatever was lying around.

Mike climbed in the green van and spied the oil
containers and yipped happy to snag synthetic oil for
his piece of shit. I smirked like a motherfucker as he
poured that shit down the oil filler cap atop his
junker motor.

When he started up his truck to head off to work, his
beater smoked shitty garbage plumes like all get out.
That piece of shit almost completely disappeared in
its own shit cloud. Y'd think he was already fucking
gone by now, except for lacking mufflers and until he
revved the motor again.

I died laughing, pert near wet my trousers. Callahan's
junker spewing nasty rotten pollution blinding traffic
like a smoke bomb. Fucking gross.

Fun. Fun.

I munched on a sandwich in the old KPD jail once. Not
pretty. Joe Garoutte made me a quick snack from the
kitchen. Real nice guy. I wretched and puked my dick
purple inside Central Dispatch. I had to spit and
chuke in the KPD waste bin cuz he packed 2 pounds of
salt in my sandwich. I suspect he also jizzed in it,
half-runt first turd Nigerians are like that.

Word: don't eat ANYTHING handed to you from a
Kikiknigrunt Half-Citizen, even if really fat jailers
order you bent over for a hat full of bull semen.

Some stereotypes DO come with guarantees. This lesson
told me not to bend over within grope range of a
half-primate that looks an awful lot like an anal baby
Tabor Ryder. Ask mUtT and jeFf what getting Taborised
is all about: they'll fucking kill ye. Besides, yer
shitty peninsula needs more ghosts, demons and dead
homos. These thugs will wail the piss outa you, then
deliver you to the caring hands of the jailers
employed in the KPD/KRJ house of pain.

The old jail may be long torn down and the AC Marina
may be long gone washed out to sea, but my deceased
party mates and the ghosts of the raped and freezing
still contribute to Nigloo soil that's gone bad
directly under yer stumpy nugger feet.

Heck, some of them ghosts are dead cuz we poured the
drinks or doled out the beat downs. I mighta downed
bottles of 151 and snorted piles o' tootaine within 8
hours of Bull Hensley croaking, but I never humped
June Nelson into her pine box. Me and that Janton
motherfucker merely dumped the junky bitch in it. I
sure miss shooting dogs, loading the meat wagon and
kicking shit outa drunks.

Now I gotto entertain myself in other ways.

Another really fucking great prank is to pop the hood
of any car, tie a piece of twine to the throttle
linkage and tie the other end to a heavy brick placed
on the ground under the car. When yer sucker bitch
pulls forward or backward out his own driveway, the
rope pulls the throttle linkage wide open blasting the
car backward and full throttle into trees, kids or
minorities, while still dragging the brick.

Oh yeah, more good advice from Pransker Rapist #1:
Don't eat yellow snow from inside my meth lab and
don't drink the bong water from any Green River crime
scene carpet cleaners.

Ye don't gottoo be so native. Y'all can drink Lysol
and hairspray if ye wanna, but yer author on drugs
recommends yer upcoming retirement AND misspent youth
be wasted gacking down gnarley grawlers, choking on
Cubanos and pine plumes and gargling down gallons of
foamy keg beer better than fucking Benny Hill.

Just not me, I'm on restriction. I never gettoo
consume any illegal drugs, nor lay hands on any
minority buttfuckers.

I'm all-better: I'm married now. Landed gentry got a
lot to lose and when it comes to crime, I'm pure as
the driven snow.

Funny fucker eh? I got all new drugs now, legal ones
too. Liquor for my heart: 4 million ounces daily,
Methylphenidate: Ritalin amphetamine recipe for
cocaine with a PG rating and medical marijuana for the
tumor in my mangler. "Weeds, whites and wine." (Lowell
George-Little Feat)

I seen you fuckers in the surveillance tapes, ya'll
got big dang mud flaps. Donkey porn scrotal cancer
actually. Since we live on a reservation fer ice turds
and since we're all Alaskan immiks (drink native), our
feet and head are on backwards. Ye see, it ain't a
tail, it's yer dick. Y'all should take a peek at my
date rape surveillance tapes. The bleeding and
bruising goes away.

Plus, you've got uncontrolled cell division in yer
dick. Ya bastards git wood more often than a dike in
Auschwitz and baby-hungry as a Camp Siv Convict.
Painful swelling needs fucking something, unruly stink
eskimo lives in yer pants.

On really slow nights I used to beat on convicts,
watch porno upstairs in the old jail, then go home and
spank the shit outa bun with Mr. Wobbly. Sharing hard
porn videos and spanking natives. You boys are to
blame for my being a little hard on the beaver.

If ya'll would fucking share your Viagra with me AND
if you graying gunslingers stay at work, I'll let yer
ugly retard in laws climb my dick. Then kill them if
you like. Goddamn shrunken head Inucoons, don't they
just make ye want to pinch their fucking heads?

Oh yeah, my story about my retirement and health
benefits of managing a crack house and mortuary: a
Washington drug infested cemetery with a NO VACANCY
sign out front. Mountlake Terrace got its name from
being the highest point in Western Washington allowing
remarkable LSD views from the top of the water tower.
Fucking GREAT place to set up a drug pit, latrine and
wrecking yard.

That's Lem's Mortuary and Crack house. I owned my very
own crematorium, gooner bud grow room and grand
central backroom alkaloid bourse. "Nau mi na ha
Kiaqpuq." For you non-neegros, this is Inupiaq for
Callahan's oft gripe and scolding "Way to go Karl."

One of the chapters in the book, "Care and Feeding of
Eskimo Women" is devoted to nugger mind reading and
learning ghetto slagger dialects. I still can't read a
women's mind, but I can sure decode inflamed gorilla
pie from a mile away (thou shalt rape the willing). I
also can write pert near fluent Eski-Lish, the Chinook
Jargon our local groidal frozen ice coons jabber on

You boys have been to my crack house keg parties:
they're invigorating, but bad for fuel mileage. In
mine, I simple set the keg on the hood on one of my
junker parts cars out back. Let all the piss foam,
puke foam, cup spills and foam over feeds the lawn.

Another reason for mandatory keggage outside is due to
Cully's PA gear and stadium lamps. This ain't no
fucking reservation, this is Terrace dude: white punks
on dope. Ya see, cocaine and keg beer kills most
minorities but only disables behavioral control in
Edmonds Hitler Youth.

ALWAYS put the keg outside and fucking NEVER let yer
nigger friends bring them inside the house. Unless you
like to wake up swimming frozen in pissy wet carpets.
Piss is good for my mortuary landscaping, but sure
makes a car run terrible. Even yer author on drugs
gets punked once in a while.

For fun, a dozen dirty white boys stood by a keg of
Rainier Dark and chugged gallons of sweet froth, then
whizzed in the gas tank of my car parked in hiding out
back. Franky and Arneson estimated my best drug
buddies pissed more than 30 times in my tank. Probably
5 gallons of toxic trouser monster drainage.

Laugh it up faggots. The next morning my AMC barely
started up for work and and coughed and stumbled all
goddamned day. I almost didn't make it to the U
District to gorp and mop big caulk at the Campus
Apartments: 4210 Brooklyn a block off University Ave.

Besides running a crack den, I also gorped, caulked
and painted a million fucking apartments near the UW
campus 20 minutes south a' Terrace. We'd already
revamped the H&K Apartment Building (4701 15th Ave NE)
but the Campus Building located at 4210 Brooklyn
Avenue was our masterpiece.

Me, Heupel and Skeeter converted 36 rezzed out lefty
liberal college trashed apartments into 44 pimp-sweet
suites. We worked from 10am to 3pm so the tenants
wouldn't complain of paint fumes and sawdust, but also
it allowed me to avoid Seattle's famous road rage
head-rush hour traffic jams.

Heupel and Skeeter managed the H&K Apartments and the
Campus Apartment building. Pert near 100 rezzed out
shit ass dumpartments and of course, Dummy in charge
of the finishing touches: paint, clean and spit shine.

I got the nickname "Dummy" from a slur that popped
up-and stuck. (I wreck a lot of cars-crash test dude).
Even after 30 years, nicknames die hard. As recent as
10 years ago, me and bun sat and chiefed with Skeeter,
his bro and Franz. To bun's amazement, they still
called me Dummy.

Oh yeah, the short 5-hour work-jag from 10am to 3pm.
The bankers’ hours Indun work schedule is like
flextime work scheduling for the proprietor of a
mortuary and crack house: yer author on drugs.

Looking around the smoking section here in the cat
box, I recognize a few of ye that were there. Remember
yer first Grawler Gack boner? That was me, Higbitch,
240 Gordy, Joyous Troyous and Cully, the graying drug
slingers that fucked yer shit up for the better.

Welcome to Lem's. Live band out front: seriously
packed beaks in the back rooms and kegger in the
backyard next to my parts cars and delivery beaters.

Not a bad work schedule. Work from 10am-3pm, then
hustle back North. I'd take orders, weigh up packets
and boxes and then make my runs. I usually finished
'round 7pm or so, leaving me a nice profit margin. Me
and me crackster gangsters Hitler Youth pals were then
free to snort the cream, smoke the gravy and wash it
all down with a pony keg of Rainier Dark. Also
explains the late 10am narcotic banking hours.

I always kept a few treat packets from the previous
night's vampire distribution work shift to share with
Heupel and Skeeter. In my line of work, a little toot
and bongers REALLY gets a Nordic workday started with
a bang. Nowadays, them little sober people just
mainline Starbucks. At 3000 calories per serving,
there's a shit load of fat motivated and diabetic
people yonder Seattle. Drugs saved my life.

Wake up fucks. Ye think ye gotta clue? I grew up
steam-cleaning drunken carpets: selling drugs to niger
mukes and pockmarked Induns. And being such a Jewish
money saver, my multi-tasking hyper shite drug dealing
paying is still paying today and supplementing a
fraction of my current retirement.

How does it work? I'll tell ye. Ill-gotten gains self
clean themselves at any hardware and auto parts store.
Laundered drug money and sweat equity is the invisible
profit margin that rolls over into the next project.

If you ever chased mud and paint on hunnert year old
buildings in Seattle-without coffee and 'treats', you
understand. Work for 5 hours straight, bill for 8
hours, home in time to fill the fridge with Washington
beer, cut trailer buds, scale up packets of lumpy fuel
cocaine and start another second work shift.

Except this one day, my car plumed foul sewage scented
exhaust bringing me horn honks and waves of stubby
dark middle fingers. My visual retort involved
brandishing weapons or swerving directly at bitchy
cunts and whiny wiggers.

Cully snagged an old steering wheel from the wrecking
yard for me. For shits and giggles and look like an
out of control gimp, I'd wave that old steering wheel
out my window.

Get it? Traffic all around me locked up brakes
yielding to a loony with no control of his vehicle.
Just when traffic got a clue, I'd swerve back and
forth across the entire freeway screeching tires and
smashing Japanese beer cans into piles. I could wreck
'em by the dozens.

Fenders and tires flattened from Karluk Puk's
concussive smash-ups: I cackle at the pile-ups I've
left way back in my queer view mirror. I ain't afraid
of no MVC's, I'm from the BIA.

Come on fuckers, look back in time minus 30 years. Can
you see me back then? I drive like a fucking dick in
big ugly cars that run REALLY shitty on white nigger
piss. Auto insurance and accurate registration ain’t
this dirty white criminal, it’s for all them little
sober people.

Not me. I like crashing shit up; can I borrow your

Since my first arrival in Alaska every summer since
1979, I'm happy to see y'all drive just like me.

Oh yeah, crack head urine in the tank. After a day of
varnish fumes and installing really old doorknobs I
finally puttered home later in the day, Franky and
Arnie-girl pulled up to see my dick skinners under the
hood checking spark plugs and vacuum hoses fucking
trying to repair the stalling, sputtering and shitty
smelling contrails out my ass end.

Franko and Mark Arneson were fucking cackling like
cunts on fire finally confessing and telling all about
the 10 gallons of high proof drug addict urine over
filling my gas tank. Funny fuckers eh? I was baffled
how my gas gauge went from 3/4 FULL to running down
the side of the car.

Arnie-girl drove me down to R&R Automotive to grab a
couple pints of Ban Ice alcohol de-icing fuel

I grabbed a gallon from Tib and Keely, booked back
home and dumped the whole fucker in. Like a gimp-wop
Spanky jumped on the rear bumper to speed rank piss
and alcohol dilution. Arneson yanked the fuel filter,
and then had me crank the motor. He sprayed the watery
pissy gas all over until he smelt booze in my bright
red Union 76 leaded premium, then yelled, "Kill it!"

He reattached the fuel filter and fuel line back to
the back of the carburetor then gave me the nod to
fire that mother up. It ran perfect, albeit with loads
of steam in the exhaust and pervasive ammonia urea

For a fucking week my car plumed steam. I even had to
open the floor vents and open a rear window a crack to
escape the ammonia whizz ripe fume gaggage.

Ain't no treat to be behind me either. I drove
heavy-footed all over Hell clouding the entire freeway
with my piss-drug smoke screen: like I give a shit
about another asshole that drives like me. PUnch it.

I've matured now. Now I drive like a pissed off
Alaskan on meth. Or Ritalin and cigarettes.

Humans may believe they're reflective of the image of
God, but not us Alaskans. We’re evil on all levels.
We're drunken fools proud we ass-fucked slagger
biscuit with tails, rows of nipples and anal molars.

If ye can't join 'em, beat 'em. If ye can't beat 'em,
fuck 'em. They're kids will love ye for it. Go West
Young Man.

Nup. More like mass infectious destiny. Up here, way
north of 70 lat. we need more fucking squaw boys.
Please come to Alaska and help us breed these ugly
peoples upwards.

Kiaqpuk Nigluk

PS. As far as my abusing retard niffs, simply share my
missives akhaa with your most loathed coworkers and
dumber friends.


Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home