Soylent Green Brand Iditarod Dog Chow.

Top of the morning gents,

I like feeding my eagles. If I'm out of moose 

road-kill from the Kenaitze Indun motherfuckers or surplus product
from the area animal shelters, I'll actually spend my wife's money
(nate-buxsh) on giant family packs of discounted chicken. No shit,
2-3 large packs of slightly un-fresh meat every day. Safeway and IGA
are puzzled how me and bun eat so much stale pork and chicken. I lie
and tell them that I feed all the blue-haired zombies at my rest
home. Here at the senior center old chicken tastes just like pussy.
Sukpik pun dickheads.

Endangered species of birds such as the American
Bald Eagle prefer fresh-killed duck or geese, but leftover past-dated
and slightly unfresh meats like beef, pork, chicken and house-pets
are just as delicious and these eagles gulp down my bloody chunkage
like fucking dinosaurs. Myself, I try to avoid eating poultry necks
and backs due to the lethal concentration of unregulated growth
hormones in Arkansas chicken. 

Way back when me and bun were staying at the
Sedro Woolley Rest Home and TB Ward in Washington they served us lots
of really good chicken soup, dumplings and gravy made from cheap
necks and backs. On our third month bun started getting real horny,
spotting on the walls and ceiling, marking her territory, then
hitting her granddaughters. It also chemically re-activated the
grandma branch of the Tactical Womens Alert Team (TWAT). The gizzards
and spinal cords in Arkansas chicken accumulate and concentrate fowl
and bovine growth hormones supercharging our spouse's withered
vaginal wind tunnels and blowing the carbon out of their
mortician-bound high-mileage cooters. 

We shoulda had a clue something was goofy cuz
late at night me and bun could hear cat fights in and around the
dumpsters and over in the day room at the Women's Dementia Clubhouse.
Up and down the hallway every old biddie in the entire senior center
restarted their fucking periods, throwing tantrums and trashing their
rooms like tampon trainer-bra bubblegum girl-bitches in heat. We
ain't talking no fountain of youth bullshit, when I work up a sweat
ringing rusty bells and warming dusty cockles, my dick catches fire
hotter'n Kiana herpes and the smoke alarms wake up the coma-fossils.
Post-coitus and after the Buckland blister-smoke clears, I scrape
crust and wipe my dick on the drapes. Then grandma gets a visit from
friends like Auntie B. Itiq, Kathy Turr (catheter) and follow-up
in-home long-term visits from Arthur Itis (arthritis you dildos). 

I gotta stop fucking women my own age, they look
just like my grandma. Over at the Forget-Me-Not branch of the Post
Mortem STD Ward the undertaker told us that grandma ain't got crabs,
she got fruitflies, her cherry's rotten. No prob dude, grandma got
really small hands and can deepthroat more meat than cervix or colon.
When I fondly recall the days when yer pedo-grups were alive, I touch
myself.

You remember running yer fucking ass off to the
native store or trading post lookin' fer pads and uch-plugs for your
wives and daughters and finding the entire Bleeding Hut section
empty. Shit nigger, you just got a village dose of menstrual
synchronicity. Our wives, daughters and every bitch at work
miraculously get real warm, kind of sexy and cooperative. Even Kathy
Elam laughed at my jokes, whistled at my wood and giggled childishly
at anything penile. But as expected, shit changed. The whole NANA
region went dark as eskimo discharge, God became a transgender bitch
and totally fucked up all rational thought, safe native child-rearing
and the destination of yer HIV-OTZ hig man-goo. Effie Nelson, Edith
Melton and Diane Henry advised I stay home nights and choke fat bat
when brooms are too slick to fly. You niggers're pretty slow ain't
ye?

No shit, the sewer lift stations across the
brown biscuit region were plugged with diverted high-dollar
ball-cheese during Mad Women's Club meetings. Why do tall Finns whack
bat and drain donkey balls stink-free and solo? Yer such fucking
retards. And monkeys. Our ancient memories and moldy recollections of
romantic trysts from our mongoloid youth git wood better'n any hybrid
spouse-nate you've been shackled to since the eskimos murdered
Manillaq at Nuvruk and Christ wept Sheshalik soils.

When me and bun stayed at the Barrow Senior
Center I attended a family reunion with over a million of my closest
relatives and they were all killed, eaten alive, gulped down by an
adopted FAS knee-high ball-drainin' Pt. Lay midget-coon. "It's
not the fuck you face, but the face you fuck, right Cory?"
(Willie Hailstone). Itty bitty titty, single digit biscuit are tiny
tight and out of sight, yet real noisy when ye put it in soft, then
knuckles crack. Green un-ripened pussy and rotten baby-teeth marked
dark meat is fag shit fer Selawik river rats. Not me dudes. I'm all
about elephant ear nookie with gray pubes and denture adhesive caked
all over my pig-skin mud flaps. I may be an oldy moldy bread boffer,
but I do my best work alone and never got the clap beef spanking.

Being a descendant of NARL nativity I only eat
my own sperm but if I add drool-buckets full of cold saliva this
corpse muff-diver can easily rehydrate and reflate silver-back
nana-grand-biscuits. Most of you old coppers already lick the
frosting off gorilla flavored hairball kitty-lippy. Shit tastes 'lish
salty like tunnik punniktuk. And ass. Adii, we're so old. And mean.

Pussy our own age tastes like tire and since I'm way past having
babies I abandoned all my intimate feminine hygiene products. 

Where does this shit come from? After 15 years
in Barrow my Depends brand of post-menopausal masculine napkins
inspire me to write like old people fuck: badly. Grace Pikok asked me
and bun, "Why does my brother Percy still always call you
nigger?" Francis Mungoyuk at Stuakpuk (brw ac) told me, "My
mom always call you stink-man, we sure laugh." Felton Sarren
calls me oochuk boy and Gerald Nayakik inquired if everybody from
Kotzebue is half-breed retard. Nup, just me 'groid-man. Florence
Luther scolded me, "Dude! Y'ain't right in da head." "I'm
jus' 'junk to da max!" If you dildos ever grow old enough to see
things from inside a senior center, you'll understand why I tell bun
it's not menopause, I was always like this. I miss Flo's
contractions. And a foot of antler felt.  

Similar to healthy people repulsed by the sick
and injured, children possess tremendous fear of old people. I'm
surrounded by old people and I'm fucking terrified of them. They're
frail and angry and no longer flexible enough to give a shit nor take
one. When ye hump 'em, ye gotta hang on to the hard lumpy parts and
keep yer nose far away from the jagged holes and torn seepers. If you
suck an old pussy hard enough, their shrunken brains pop right out. I
spit 'em, wipe 'em and sell 'em to tourists on Front Street as
"artifacts": fossilized FAS baby eskimo brain key-chain
fobs. 

Parasitic geriocracy is the new reality. Within
a few short years, y'all're gonna be overwhelmed with millions of
shrieking elderly zombie-tard AK-raisin-rectums demanding you pay ALL
their bills. Old niggers'll suck yer wife's tits dry and greedily
gulp down yer kids' Cheerios, pet excrement and entire paycheck. Plus
they'll pound yer kids fer milk-money. Old fuckers got this notion we
gotta feed them, dress them, wipe their butts and cover these
expenses out of your grandchildrens PFD checks, grocery budget and
huge deductions outa yer AK cookie jars and lunch buckets. If ye let
'em gomer yer chitrens, we'll change our state's name to Camp Siv. Or
Ivik.

Welcome to the Retired Sponge District, Parasite
Borough, Everywhere Alaska: nobody wants to pay ANY taxes. It's how
all us nigger frosties roll. We've matured to the age of treachery,
which means sucking your children and grandchitlens dry like spiders
draining flies dessicated. This is the painful end to Alaska's
obsolete gold medal pensions and Cadillac healthcare plans: your
grandkids will revisit us PERS fat asses as indentured servants. Just
like the good ol' days before child labor laws, exploited children
never go missing when they're so hungry and inbred dull they couldn't
walk a mile for a camel nor flee all us elder village grand-rapists.
Us old Boomers love to see kids picking cotton, hauling honey buckets
and bagging dog-lot biscuits. Child slavery ain't so bad when it's
somebody else's FAS-grand-tardrens, and someone else's dysfunctional
state. Parallel centuries, intersecting cultures and contexts
interfaced you dildos. 

Here at the AK-Raisin-Anus Ranch and TIER I
pioneer holding pen we cultivate shitloads of vegetables. We don't
eat 'em, we fuck 'em. Hence the torn ears and pedo-fruit Pt. Hope DNA
in their diapers and drool. The plant food we feed our vegetables is
the same institutional cafeteria slop served at the Ilisagvik College
for the Mentally Retarded, PukeChee remedial nightschool, MMC mental
institution and STD infested native senior centers. Bun got big
milluks cuz she was forced to eat horse meat at Indun Boarding
Schools when she was a child. And again today if I hold her down.

I killed and ate lots of flora and fauna, but
not too many old people. To keep my hungry eagles fat and happy I
consulted the dog pounds and animal shelters of Kenai and Soldotna.
Now they donate all of their euthanized dogs and cats to me. I chop
'em to bite sized pieces, lug 'em way out to my federal land "Stone
Grotto" (Harley Bronson) and feed a hunnert eagles garbage bags
packed with "pressed rat collections", split kitty, "dog
legs and feet" (Clapton, Bruce, Baker). Animal shelters all over
the Kenai Old Folks Borough are overflowing with dumped grandma
mutts, dead cats and a few flat dry birds. So every week I get a ton
o' frozen housepets, bagged up, chopped up and piled in my car and
then I feed em' to a hunnert hungry eagles. When I clean out the car,
the leftover house-pet choogie bits make ral gud allutigak.

I'd like to feed my eagles all the
AK-raisin-rectum dotard pioneer corpsicles piling up out back. Shit
dudes, at the crematorium behind our senior center we got a microwave
built fer two and Pim Vanden Ende's industrial bong smoker that can
char-puff mucho midget muktuk munchin' baby-buttfuckers. Real
pleasant odors. Dead babies and old people take a match pretty gud,
so "smoke a bowl" (David Burnor). Shit, right. The smell of
inu-poop-smoke brings memories Kikiknigrunt flooding back and burning
us old pensioners smells like Danny Burnor setting the old Kotzebue
Air Force dump on fire every year. Fucking stinks. After decades
horking down monster bong rips incinerating corpses toke by toke here
in the mortuary, Soylent Green Mountain Brand Eagle Chow makes more
sense. 

Or at least Soylent Green Mountain Brand Dog
Chow. I'm always slipping, sliding and falling into Ambler afterbirth
consisting of rich steamy K9-sphincter-dispensed cow-pies fortified
with fecal worms, cigarette butts and loose teeth. Feeding us retired
bitch corpses to Alaska's Iditarod mushing dogs would make a superior
lawn fertilizer or kivgik lunch meats. Feeding dogs Soylent Green
Mountain Dog Chow made of elderly motherfuckers like us will
scientifically sweeten their turds. And they're tasty. Try see.

Eskimo tech dudes: feed grandpa and grandma
lung, gut and nut tripe to Alaska's Iditarod racing dogs, then feed
all that hi-pro dog poop (Kobuk stew) to our hungry brethren yonder
Interior Fort Yukon Region. See? Two birds, one turd. Good dog food
makes ral gud poo-chew for Galena too. It's so nourishing and Indun
ghosts and nigger-ravens need food, so let them eat 'real' dog shit
Made In Alaska from 'real' dead Alaskan pensioner-buttfuckers'
eyeballs and bags of mashed up ani (def: anus, plural).

Way back I seen a hunnert ravens clean Bob
Douglass' entire dog lot. No shit, a thousand Heckle 'n Jeckle
nigger-chickens enjoyed a food orgy that I call an Afro-Potlatch.
Those ravens woofed down tons of human-sized dog poop-loaves and even
cleaned the tasty frozen bits stuck around the edges of them mutts'
Idita-rectal Kivalina penis holsters. Goddamn Athabascan blackbirds
wolfed down a whole fucking dog-lot overfilled with K9-snickers till
it was totally Spic 'n Span. Greedy Huslia-hungry crows chowed down
and gorged so much dog poop and pee-sicles they couldn't fly back
home to fucking Africa. Just like their retarded descendants today. 

This got me thinking so "go with the flow
dude" (Albert Monroe). If we force-feed Athabascans warm
Idita-dog-pies and call it a Pooplatch, we're merely illustrating
what Native American Thanksgivings would be like in Interior Alaska
if Christopher Columbus was black. If you smell my in-laws during the
holidays they belch Lysol and pumpkin seeds, bad breath and bad
farts. Not butt-farts though, the other kind. Fuck I'm a funny cunt.

Elderly asshole bigots like us are best served
at room temperature as Soylent Green Mountain Brand Dog Food, then
feed all us recycled AK-nugger-fuckers to the poor, hungry and
indigenous in the form of big dog turds. Typing this funny shit only
gets me in trouble with darkies cuz nobody recycles old spics and
spans, nigs, digies and nates. There's no such thing as "Soylent
Brown" brand pet foods, dogs won't eat it. Yer such morons,
you'll soon be 14-pound canine poo-steamers fattening poor Nulato
niggorigines. I'm a much better turd-rich vitamin capsule, than a
writer. 

Back to eagle shit. I keep my bird rookery
totally confidential and I've concealed a diet of 30 thousand
calories a week. Last year we seen serious cold temps, so to keep a
whole flock of huge eagles fat, happy and alive we fed a hunnert
predatory killers TONS of store bought past-due pull-date meats and
dog pound dead pet surplus. Each gram of fat delivers 12 calories
with carbs and protein yielding 5 calories and since I fucking hate
unleaded gasoline, coffee and pussy and sure as shit hate low octane
bird food, I try to feed each eagle a couple thousand calories worth
of avian, bovine, swine, feline or canine nikipak every morning. 

Eagles are smart motherfuckers that weigh up to
60 pounds, wings 6 feet across, dive over 200 miles per hour and live
to the age of 50. Plus like most birds they got primate munching
facial recognition pre-installed software, so 7 years later they dive
bomb me and bun, land near our feet screaming and competing for
attention and treats. Don't try that in public, I've battled dozens
of honking geese and these vultures put that pussy-shit to shame.
Eagles are way bigger up close and have great fun ripping my hat and
gloves off, yanking my hair out and spanking me across the back of
the head. These ancient eaters of primitive man truly scare the shit
outa me. I like being scared so I wear Denali Man brand diapers with
the Gore-Tex brand draw-tite turd cutter.  

I took bun to Soldotna Creek Park for the fair
and saw tourists photographing my eagles out on the Kenai River, so I
whistled and clapped my hands. In seconds we had a hunnert fucking
humanized eagles bombing little kids and chasing mommies and daddies
on foot snatching their cotton candy and hot dogs. It was like that
Hitchcock movie without those shit-eating crows but with real awesome
eagles terrorizing real trailer Alaskans. Fuck me and bun were
giggling like little girls. Ain't no Hollywood raven butt nibblers
scaring faggot crybabies. Real eagles. Real funny.

I must not be smelling too gud. Writing this
lecture I peed myself laughing and my teeth, eyes and gonads fell
off. I also been unconsciously typing in retard Nirvikmee with an
extinct Teekiahmee dialect and an asshole Selvikmee accent. During my
sleep I have long conversations with deceased gunmen in a squadroom
no longer existing, yet I awake every night chained in that horrible
haunted jail hearing you coppers machine-gunning dogs, darkies,
digies and nates. 

Since moving to this rest home I don't write so
much no more but I still hear shooting all fucking night. My readers
passed away years ago and since no dogs're eagles would eat 'em,
they're buried at Squirrel Canyon in that untended graveyard.

Bun says, "Them Hansen boys still always

ride out there and put flowers on those graves." 

But only during daylight hours.

Karl.