Monday, July 25, 2016

All's well that ends well. RIP PW13. AK too.

Top of the morning gents,

Me and bun are sure catching up with who's dead, who's in jail and familiar village faces holding cardboard signs all over Anchoragua begging for spare change. Yesterday we saw Richie Henry begging along side of the Sears Mall with a phony Veteran's plea for change scrawled on his dirty cardboard. Pretty fucking awful fact that he's not a veteran but is a POS niff. This morning we seen two of bun's classmates (meaning old no-teefers) all dirty and nasty panhandling with goofy cardboard signs alongside Ingra next to Fred Meyers. In front of Walmarts in midtown we seen dozens of ice niggers sleeping and drinking and trashing prime real estate with major tonage o' nate good stuff. Meaning Fort Yukon Luggage fucking all over. Bags of foul clothes, rotten foods, wrappers, beer cans, empty shittly liquor bottles and wads of toilet paper near bee hives that look like lumpy pee soup. Native food and lots of booze makes for runny shits. Remember, we're experts on native poop, we're from Kotzebue.

For me, it's not too difficult a transition from rural to urban, but a very different story for my adopted rural indigents. Even I tend to drink a lot more when I return to the white man town and the white man liquor stores. This is a really important lesson we all need to teach our darker loved ones partaking the mass exodus from the vill to the streets and dumpsters of Anchorage. Alaska can't handle any more homeless fucked up browntards. Since a LOT of fighting and finally closing all the bars and liquor stores throughout bush Alaska, most of our NANA regional immiktuks have migrated to Anchorage. Yup, lots of drunks that used to scrawg yer wives, children and dogs are now living the life of city subsistence. Meaning Brother Francis (bro fro), Beans Cafe and Downtown Soup Kitchen for food, clothing and shelter, while begging, sucking dick and taking it up the ass for booze. Yup, we really should instruct our migrating nates that the big cities ain't such a nice place for aborigines to live and die. And real tough on yer anus.

The worst drunks you ever met came from Washington: me and Higbitch. I cracked up bun and told her we should drive around and look for huge crowds of drunk zombie white motherfuckers. I've lived in Scareview for 6 summers now and my fucking god, it's nasty. We ought to have a big sign that says, "Welcome to Fairview. Niggers, Natives and No Trespassing Signs." I didn't make that up, I heard a black dude we've known for years named "nigger jim" wave and yell that to us, as he rushed into the 13th and Gambell Safeway Liquor Store. Reminded me of something Harold Wells told me, "ye can't have nothing nice in the village."

Wells was telling me all about growing up black in the ghetto-hood. Niggers and natives suffer the same mistreatment as any poor colored folk: beatings, robberies and rapes of elders and children who have zero defenses until they dial 911 and you cops show up. Sounds real fucking Eskimo don't it? These are the same asshole browntard nates consisting of the demographic body odor as the scum-niggers y'all coppers beat the hell out of and jailed. The same demograph that's pissing and shitting all over this nasty place we call Detroit Junior, "Anc-hole-orage." Harold Wells' radio moniker was PW13 and worked on the dredge sucking up prehistoric sludge and greens from the bottom of Devil's Lake and pumping the bilge muke all over the tundra surrounding our fine drinking water source. He'd radio in asking for some stupid white guy who made really good coffee downstairs at the old jail. I'd dispatch back that lots of morons worked here, but no good coffee. He'd laugh and tell me that the whole town listens to our radio chatter. Guess nobody disagreed with my shit humor about morons working at KPD. A Mexican Breakfast is coffee and bonghits, and yes, I do make a really good Half a Mexican Breakfast: fucking rich coffee.

One thing Wells told me struck me as pretty fucking brilliant. Before oil, Alaska got rich off the armed forces: infrastructure, supplies and wages. Bases all over the place like the Defense Early Warning System (DEW line), the not-so secret NIKE thermo nuclear missile launcher up on the hill above Anchorage, and bases all over Alaska. Almost all of which are long boarded up and packed with garbage and every fucking village me and bun lived in has military wreckage heaped all over. Galena, Nome, Barrow, Kotzebue and especially AssAnchorHole and Shitbanks. These garbage dumpsites were the drivers of Alaska's economy. Fuck, no more.

Oil replaced these previous revenue drivers and wage payers. Ya see, back in the day, all us fishermen and soldiers paid an income tax, sales tax AND what's called a head tax. All us out of town fish processors, rotating medical staff and military personnel paid out pert near 20% in local and state tax deductions. One time only taxes like a head tax is a flat $100 fee deducted from yer pay at the first of the year or from yer first paycheck. My pay had a deduction for the PAB (Pribilof Aleutian Borough) which paid for schools. I also had Fed taxes and SOA taxes withheld. I look forward to those days again.

Sometime in the early 80's an elected retard dildo buttfucker thought it smart to eliminate taxes on out of state workers like my brethren in the military, the fishing industry and the oil industry. Real smart. Now that layoffs abound and the wages statewide are in similar decline, it's a bit late to skim the cream off the top of all our paychecks. I also like sales taxes: on everything. Ya see, when I drew pay from holding items for the mob, selling blow and stealing at an astounding wholesale level I spent my dirty money everywhere possible to clean and wash it and repaint, remodel and decorate my crackhouses and mortuaries. A sales tax would've captured a tasty 10% skim off the top and would've harvested some of my loot for better causes than lining my pockets. Black markets are eventually spent on cars, stereos, drinks and pussy. Sort of crash course MBA for you non-money moron motherfuckers. Taxes are good at scraping the upper crust like us and diverting mucho dineros to the bums, natives and homeless like all my nugger in-laws.

Ya see, I don't point a stinky finger at others, I point it at myself. I've evaded so much tax regulation it should make you sick. My father tells me that I've cheated the IRS out of 10 times that much, "so pay the bill and be rid of them." He's right you know. It's time I pay a little into the system instead of extracting from it. When I buy shit, tax me. When I draw pay, tax me. When I snort blow, chug brewkies, puff expensive cigars or burn a hooter, fucking tax me. It's only fair. Like the song from Ten Year After, "tax the rich, feed the poor, till there are no rich no more."

Well maybe not that far.

So many out of state workers and out of state visitors have come and gone, gotten rich and not paid a speck of tax revenue. Fuck us. My home town of Barrow and the north slope paid for everything that's been built in Alaska during the last 40 years. That's all gone now, so Alaska's economy will deflate back down to how it was when bun was born. Dudes, we're talking territorial grimness and getting medieval on yer ass. Serious hardships await anybody still standing and sucking on our tits like a faggot res-bitch. When bun was a kid there weren't any fat people: starvation was the fucking norm. Food was hunted and cached and wages were earned. Food was the super-unleaded premium value top shelf item and traded, gifted and celebrated exactly like the stories you heard from yer elders. Now food is free and fat people roam the res and good hunters drink. Bun seen dozens of Eskimo clans digging through Air Force garbage and lugging food scraps all the way home. Sounds yummy. If me and bun stick around Alaska, I could get used to garbage grubbage. Walk to the dump and back, then chow down dude.

The litmus test or canary in the coal mine is already ringing the alarm up North. Chatting with my friends still living in Barrow trying to unload their homes, they can't even get what they bought their house for. My tenure up on the North Slope was exactly half-way through a 30 year mortgage. Yup, on year 15 ASRC no longer needed our duplex for crew housing for slope and project workers. That was an eye-opener dude. When the state's largest oil field service employer no longer needs housing and is laying off TONS of workers, ya might get a fucking clue as what the state is looking at. We started worrying about a huge depression in Barrow so we put the house up for sale. Boy did we miss that bullet. We bought the place for $220K and sold it for $255K. We made a meager $35K but grossed a dozen years of rents at four thousand a month. Not too shabby eh barts? 

That's all nice and groovy for me and bun, but what the hell is the rest of Alaska supposed to do? Ain't none of you rusty shooters read tea leaves nor gaze into crystal balls to steer us into our inevitably Michigan state of mind. Meaning real broke. You fuckers remember the 80's when we all got laid off from the PD and took work elsewhere. I got my first lay-off from KPD when lemon pecker-head brain onion Jeff Smith was shitty manager. Mike Dennis at the District Office liked my work as inventory clerk so he hired me as janitor and maintenance at the main office for the school district. My job was emptying out the print shop and all the offices and storage rooms packed with old school shit and lug it all down to Roger Nordlum's warehose. I even emptied out a half-dozen connex containers filled with fucking every imaginable piece of bullshit ever used in the history of the NWAB school district. Nearly a hunnert truck-loads driven by Albert Monroe, Howarth and Sommerfelt were loaded by me and unloaded in Nordlum's warehouse all winter and was the site of a huge junk sale and auction the summer following. Maybe that will be the big money maker for Alaska: junk sales, flea markets and picking for food at the Kotzebue K-Mart. The city dump dildos. Imagine me and bun digging for scraps of food and sharing them at the senior center with you crippled lot.

Our retirements and pensions are looking good now, but the state has a debt of $15 billion for our programs we paid into. All us PERS pensioners are guaranteed our benefits because of a 25% hold on the Permanent Fund. Yup, all the retirees have claim to a quarter of the Permanent Fund due to poor money management by folks in Juneau. All your contributions went in the General Fund and got spent on highways, hospitals and schools with the idea that our oil would never run out. Oops.

Thinking that the Permanent Fund will bail out the rest of the state ain't happening. By law and contractually the state will be paying our monthly checks and covering HUGE medical expenses for all of Alaska's Public Employees for years to come. As the big AK Depression comes along, we've already started looking at affordable places to live. Spokane, Washington is rolling out the red carpet for all ye graying gunslingers. Nice big hospitals (both native and non-native) are awaiting your plush medical, dental, vision and audio benefits, and happy to tap your Long Term Care options with brand new old folks' homes.

As the mad rush of baby-boomers who can't see or smell their own aging processes and are dying in piles, we're beating the tidal wave and investigating senior centers all over the Kenai Peninsula. You should too. Most old folks' homes have a minimum age of 55 such as the Cooper Landing and Sterling Senior Centers, but the one we like the most is the Soldotna Center has a minimum age requirement of 62. Shit, I gotta wait 7 fucking more years to join the blue hair club. So, we've started looking at Washington for a nice place to grow old and die.

Speaking of dying old folks like us, when ye get on in years, ye start to think of better places to die. Ye all know the bad places to die: on the toilet or far from yer wife and alone. Dying alone totally sucks dudes. We'll feel the brain freeze or chest crush and fall on or faces crying without the woman that's held our hand for fucking most of our life. Years ago and a continent away I used to secretly pray that I'd make it home so bun could make me my dying bed.  Dying in prison don't have that certain cool panache that us Finns foolishly dream of. Quite the contrary, it's sickening and so, so sad. One fellow convict and cellmate of mine died in prison and he asked that I remember him and tell his tale. "Sing of the dead Karl." "I'll hear you." Alas, narcs like me seldom get a choice of where we're gonna suck a bullet or hang. I don't mind dying in Alaska as long as bun is set up well, comfortable and close to me. I pray she doesn't have the heartbreaking chore I fail to drink off my mind: the chore of burying loved ones alone. Our wives may already know this, but tell 'em you love them anyway, "tomorrow might not be here for you."

Full circle mates, I left my old self and Washington wrecked and during a horrid depression, now we'll soon leave Alaska and our bodies in the same shape. The sign on the border with Canada and our tombstones will simply state "Last one leaving this fine place, please empty my honey bucket."


Karl.





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