Sunday, December 15, 2013

Ten Commandments Fer All Ye Retarded Commandants.

Top of the morning gents,

Even a broken clock is right twice a day, and yup, Euro-trash often tell me I'm "daft as a two bob watch." So forgive me if I'm repeating myself like a fucking broken record. As stated heretofore: retirement is a bitch. It's also a really hard time due to widely varying latent adult maturity levels and my absolute NAZI financial security we've implemented so now we gotta clip our buddies that crapped out and never chased a drug, pussy, mortgage portfolio nor academic potential. Retirement is a process of isolation and locking in a bulletproof and ironclad spousal companionship for the REAL long haul. All the way to the bone yard, squirrel canyon or boot hill. Give it a fucking name but it doesn't include dysfunctional assholes.

Watch out for inbreeding sibling traps, scam-niggers, stoner rip-offs, incestual ambushes and wallet moochers. Some folks that you've hated for years will become real nicey-nicey and fucking camp yer porch. Weird in-laws, old buddies and bucket neighbors magically remember yer email address, phone numbers and goddamned ghetto-vil house number. This will not do. Water seeks its own level and the world is perfect exactly as it is: I like life now. You fucking better start liking life too.

The rumors are true I've been a major fucking dick to my best friends from the Edmonds FAS mud farm, Lem's mortuary and crack house and even most of my tundra nigger buddies from Krotchebue and Barrow. I close down relationships as fast as I establish them: few folks get the existential picture I'm painting. You play with me and grandma ye might get raped or run over, shot or beaten up. Or worse: relapse. Our silver playpen still contains hazardous materials and people. Me and bun travel, wine and dine, bar hop, pub crawl and sponsor commercialized marijuana despite minimal chemical graffiti and carpal tunnel wrists writing you lot. The physical demands of retirement kill small children. And pussies.

Some of our best douche bag friends and coworkers that zeroed out in the financial world now look at you AK PERS TIER 1 buttfuckers with much lust and covet licking chops. I fucking get emails from up-river monkey-niggers, tired UAF pussy and all yer ex-wives with invites and offerings of freeze-dried poontang that smells like black girl seal oil. When word gets out that yer retired, wealthy and can still tear the shit outa delicate floral petal arrangements as well as mammoth uch, half the NANA Region will send you scratch and sniff greeting cards. Greeting cards odiferous and entrancing as the Kotzebue Jail: after gumby hatches aborted eskimo cow pies out his yard long distended anus.

Being retired well is never childproof. Remember when yer nugger wiffs started shitting out chimplets and y'all stopped hanging around party animals? Same thing with retirement, ye gotta stop hanging around working people or families with kids, retirement is far too dangerous. Don't hang with folks that are already having money problems. How many bozos have cashed out their pensions and now looking at all you old retards for a handout? Fuck that shit.

Me and bun are always running financial analyses on all our beer garden buddies and gooner grower dudes. Alaskans are such thieving fuckers. When bun walks down any street in Nome, Clam Gulch or Soldotna her heavenly milker milluks swim upriver defying gravity whilst rattling her jewelry, pocketbook and change purse. Fucking a-hole Alaskans only see dollar signs and start inflating their suck ass nigger lips in prep for mooching. I fucking hate moochers. Bun will deflate yer swollen cunt face with a rock and rip yer lips off when she sees ye puffing up yer ass-sucking cheeks: "Don't even start. My tits are dry!" It's also her email signatory mantra. It's no coincidence we avoid family AND village friends that can't keep their hands in their own pockets. And off my dick. Fucking aunts, daughters and single old women become evermore needy and demanding.

We already spent pert near $100K on Sara Magnum's cosmetic teeth and face, travel and schooling in Seattle, now we're discussing investing in bun's beauty: I'm thinking of wheelbarrow sized breast implants with real bourbon reservoirs. Silver hair, perfect teeth, slim figure, tighter cooter and bigger milker jugs and bun's good to come. I mean go. Fuck, I'm thinking whacking material again aren't I? Goatboys are us. Pimp yer wife, she's yer ride. New headlights and tailpipe make every man's heart fonder and dick longer. Fat dicks make post menopausal women feel really sexy. Then worried. Bun's most recent thought was I could get a penis reduction operation. Funny old nigger ain't she?

Now I hurt granny biscuits with only half my dick. Tall finns wear inflated cushions around their dicks to prevent lacerations and tearing of the most vaginally deep kind. On the good side it sure is erotic parking only half the limo in the carport at the Old Nugger Pussy Hotel with luggage stacked high and dry outside in the parking lot and all yer baggage has to hang out in the hallway.

I surely hope I'm making fucking sense. Illiterate FAS mud farmer flogged toddler finns like me use colorful colloquialisms racist, stunning imagery sexist, gross exaggerations uteral, fecal putrid alliteration and ironic inconsistencies abound to illustrate the awful fact that the hot chicks here at the senior center USED to be loose. Not no more. Every gray cloud has a silver lining, Post menopausal pussy smells way better than the roller coaster ride and blood spatter bleeding hut. Yup, me too. I let a monster into my life: an evil being that used to bleed all week yet NEVER fucking died.

My grandfathers advised me to never let a bitch break your adolescent heart, when yer my age they throw themselves at yer feet. Women are just like fucking dog doo: old ones are much easier to pick up. Deepest pussy I ever pushed the bottom out of was a petite drop-dead gorgeous tiny beauty from Ukraine in her early 20's, that darling little cooter peach telescoped all the way between her lungs prompting her to sing quietly in my ear oh so beautifully then cry out to comrade and country. Call me Alfie or Dr. Zivago but she was one of many tearfully pretty muses and alas heartbroken swollen breasted angels.

I fucking hate myself. Just last night I wept whilst dreaming about legions of naked nymphs that absolutely loved and adored me. I wept like a baby to be honest. Some jobs shorten my lifespan. I get acquainted, fall in love, arrested, detained and suffer extreme rendition. I'm an addict for romance, dubiously legal yet fresh pussy and heartbreaks: same shit different contract. Have gun will travel. I've enjoyed so much love and affection from the most beautiful women in the world and ironically fortunate for me, the darkest and prettiest one married me.

Us retired old farts got the best smelling bush in the Bush. The old gray mare she ain't what she used to be, but this retarded neanderthal sure enjoys riding her. I'll sell her to the glue factory next year.

Last year I ran into Tom Evans in Anchorage. Man sure looks different, walks different too. He lectured me and bun that being overweight plus nicotine equals double amputation. Fat fucker walks on special olympics high tech prosthetics from the knee down. Old Dispatcher #3 now books on diabetic gimper dude tennies.
As always bun shared she was retired Tier 1 PERS whereupon Evans whined he'd cashed all his out and was a "cripple surviving on disability." How depressing. Real winner that guy. Don't be that guy.

A friend in need is a pest: merry welfare and a happy food stamp ye fucking dildo. Lose the nicotine, lose the weight and you'd be surprised how much farther yer dick sticks out. And how wonderful it is to have functioning feet, toes and testicles. I've kept my weight exactly at my high school number over the last decade and now my pill cabinet contains only aspirin, vitamins and fiber caps. A few crumbs of gooner bud. Lots of KY too. Doc Sollenberger took me off ADHD amphetamines, numerous diabetes and blood pressure drugs years ago, now I just have to work on my drinking habits that are too fucking Alaskan and not enough Norse. Drink to yer health, but avoid drunks, inebriates and spin cycle dry alcoholics and twitchy bitchy nigarette smokers. Pot smokers, now that's an entirely different picture. OPEN sign on my door if yer offering green beer and green tokes.

Steer clear of silver back gorilla grunt-rut bitches whining fer dick. Drunks, whores, skanky stinkies, anal bitches, and most party goers are there to poach married men. Few people poach married women. Ick. Besides, any old gaper broads showing interest and asking if you have a twin brother or son, they're already applying bag balm to yer donkey putter.

Menopause is an easy read, makes women look evil and glowing. Down here on the KP we got lots to choose from. The Kenai Borough contains more old folks than the rest of the state, so even the druggies are old rotten blue hairs, the place is just filled with short sharp shallow grisly chewy pussy. Sort of like Palmer, but more money. Nice trucks and SUV's, pedigree dogs and ugly old white women y'all never lick nor pork. All the old KP clitoris look a lot like snapping turtle beaks that are so brittle they'll shatter on yer cervical jackhammer and glue gun.

Be ready to kill dickheads by the dozen and forgive yourself in advance. In our old age, some assholes are too rank to arrest or set up in a sting. Best ye just dump a shot gun blast in their upper torso, rob the house and grow rooms, then burn the entire nigloo. No fire crew can douse a house fire containing burning tires, sizzling man roast, pressed rat collection, dog legs and feet. Toasted nigger nuggies dude. As elderly cops and criminals, we need to choose our unclassified felonies with great care and at least keep them to no more than once a week. This means having to throw perfectly good guns on the piece of shit and walk away.

And I mean walk. Or bus, bike or cab. A car is more traceable and trackable than a cell phone. Working server admin and computer lab rat monitor we had to pencil in code assigning unique IP numbers to any available modem identified operational on our network. A network consisting of 2 Cray Supercomputers and with only 7 in existence this mug was hired to loosen up old school 'puters and get them talking to each other. As in re-writing some of the text in Hyper Text Telephone Protocol: the http part of every web address. Now servers, routers and towers in cell phone nets are used in targeting locations for almost anything, lighting your house as you drive up the driveway, parking and taxi cab apps and drone assassinations.

No shit, our old work at UAF is now used in highly sophisticated ways to keep the net up to date where you are. Location, location dudes. At all times yer cell phone is located 3 ways via GPS, hence term triangulation that determines who gets a drone missile up yer fucking ass and who's phone call is dropped to another tower, your cord free micro-modem is sought out by another router and server. If my name shows up on your old school Y1K Nokia cell phone, throw it away and run. Someone's fucking dying.

I'm no longer brilliant, that damn mouse wins me through the mazes too much and all the doctors simply thank me, shake my hand and wipe their eyes without telling me what PTSD, STD, VD and early onset concussive Alzheimers means. Bunnik is proud of me still. She tells me unbelievable bedtime stories of her husband's service to her village, town, city, state and country. Fucking stories that only serve to give me nightmares. When you have dementia like me, everybody is a stranger everyday. One guy I see every morning sure looks like Jesus. Scars don't match up though. Nigger needs a fucking shave too.

Silly me, I'm such a fucking soak and stupid old git. Despite recalling all yer gun oil body odors and tobacco liquor voices, I must beg your forgivess, for I can no longer remember your names.

I simply repeat to myself that Christmas is always just around the corner, bar's open and you soldiers are really proud of me. But one thing we all know: I don't know much anymore. Don't hear much neither. When
I reluctantly listen above my roaring tinitus, I occassionally hear someone near and dear in uniform weeping, then passing away.

I'm schizophrenic and so am I and it's sincerely been an honor and a privilege working with you all.
 

Karl.

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