Give it a name. Me too.

Top of the morning gents,

I’m losing my mind. Nobody calls me shithead, fuck-face or asshole any longer. I miss my cop, criminal and swim team pals and all their healthy abuse. I never hear anybody yell curses and foul names at me. Pussies. What’s worse is I’ve moved so many times nobody knows who the fuck "Karl-n-bun" are. As I rotate throughout Alaska, fewer mongoloids refer to me in the professional manner like Officer Octuck’s, “way to go dumbass.” The 907 dumps I’ve squatted fade from my memory as did local nicknames such as “white boy, white bread, white trash, and dummy.” Kotzebue and Barrow gave me the names of “Narc” and “Nigger” respectively. But the armpits and butt-crotch towns like Dutch, D-ham, Cold Bay, Galena, Nome, Clam Gulch, Soldotna, Sterling and Nikiski simply call me Karl. When did broke-back-geezers around me get so polite? So gay.

I used to hear some funny names and insults from my mates on the swim team when they arrived early in the morning picking me up for turnout. Some mornings me and Cully would be milking the goats or delivering newspapers and by memorizing our paper route, my chlorine smelling swimmer dudes would drive all over our in-bred hillbilly mud farmer trailer court neighborhood and track us down. Pim Vanden Ende, Steve Senn, Todd Larson and Eric Bjodstrup would sneak up on us in the dark and honk the horn or yell friendly obscenities at me to get my shit together and hurry up. The worst and most abrupt is if I’ve overslept. My brother Cully would kick the bed frame or throw something at me and wake me telling me Larson was out front. Mixed in a chorus of horn honks, whistles and mimicked animal sounds I’d hear my trademark, "Hey goat milker! Hurry up, we're gonna be late."

Being a team player meant busting balls and eating crap off your only friends in the universe. From the age of 6 all the way into the College Masters Swim Leagues I took shit from those funny fuckers. I also enjoyed having a whole team of boys that would come running if bullies or assholes were shoving me around or trashing my possessions in the cafeteria or on the way home from school. If you want to see some righteous paybacks and ass-stomping, you oughta see those boys ambush a fucking asshole bully and wail the shit out of him. Aside from tobacco loser welfare bullies, these assholes were occasionally football players or wrestlers receiving injuries so grievous they’d miss games. Or entire seasons. One senior football player that picked on a younger swimmer got an arm broken, shoulder shredded, and testicles mushed: ending his college scholarship and future as a bully. Plus, he couldn’t breed any mean shitty fuckhead offspring. You’d smile at that flurry of 6-to-1 ratio ass beat down by my dudes. Wouldn't trade it for the world. In return for athletic protection rackets, I had to endure healthy shit off my swim team homeboys and thoroughly enjoyed each insult, cut and josh.

A traditional KPD greeting was “how’s your wife and my kids.” But decades prior to my taking shit offa my abusive cop pals, I also enjoyed rations of shit from fellow workers in other vocations. I had a job restoring a hundred-year-old building in Seattle's University District called the Campus Apartments built in 1880. It had 40 units (4 floors, 10 units each) that were originally hotel rooms, flop house, worker dorms, prostitution hot sheets, eventually becoming apartments for students and changing its name to the current Campus Apartments.

You coppers will shit yer pants, but in the last century child prostitution used to be totally legal in Alaska and Seattle with the most expensive tricks being little boys and girls. My great-grandfather co-owned a shipping magnate called Archer Ewing Inc. and shipped “mining supplies” meaning liquor, laudanum, women and children to the Klondike Gold Rush and Nome Gold Rush. What a flight plan: load a few tons of heroin, morphine and liquor mixers, purchase thousands of kids from Seattle orphanage auctions and deliver it all to brothel cities like Skagway, Ketchikan and Nome. Gold rushes had little to do with gold, they were meccas for suckers, con-artists and places to get high and over-inflate children and young women with sperm to near bursting. Makes me puke.

The mayors and mob bosses of Nome and Skagway were Wyatt Earp and Soapy Smith respectively and they paid top dollar for barrels of fine opium cocktails and shiploads of children to stock thousands of flophouses and fuck-shacks at Alaska’s #1 drug and sex tourism destinations. There’s a fine ass itinerary: haul baby meat-puppets up north (mining the miners) and pick up gooks for the railway slave trade on the way back. Those steamers logged in a million freight miles hauling child sex slaves and opium northbound to the gold fields of Alaska with a stopover on the return trip in Canada to repack the cargo ships with illegal Chinese immigrant slaves to work in Washington, Oregon and California. To keep gooks, slopes, dinks and zipper-heads locked up in bonded railroad labor Congress passed laws banning fresh gook niggers from entering America. Hence, smuggling contraband chinks became big money like cocaine: human smuggling and slave importation just got more valuable. Liquor, under-age tiny-cooter child-pussy and narcotics up north to Alaska, chink niggers with tiny-ricey-dicks back south to Washington’s slave marts. That’s a fucking recipe for success. Bootlegging, human trafficking with a side order of dope. Family tradition.

After Kennedy Real Estate bought the Campus Apartment building, I was hired to work with Donald Heupel and Earl Tenley, better known as D-Hypes and Skeeter. We spent years going through every apartment hauling out trash and old iron radiators, sanding and varnishing floors, textured and painting walls and trim and replacing faulty lights and plumbing. We pulled out the old ten-ton iron steam radiators and then installed electric baseboard heaters sticking the heat costs on the tenant and running up their fucking power bill. After cutting up and hauling away the old coal-fired boiler downstairs, we built 2 apartments in the storage and boiler rooms, then converted the larger apartments into studios and added 6 more apartments which gave us a total of 48 units to rent.

These old hotel rooms had cupboards in the hallways for waiters to remove chamber pots, linens, dishes and prostitute wash basins from each hotel room. "Dumb waiter" is the official term, but I got the impression that stinky niggers hauled the dishes and whore slop away at night: out of sight, out of smell. These dumb waiter cabinet doors were removed and patched with sheet rock and textured over to conceal any seams. We also removed the old rickety elevator and installed floors at each level creating space for a 2 washer and 2 dryer laundry room on each floor. Punk-ass students can hike the stairways.

Another aspect of work in Seattle was battling and cleaning up after drunken homeless scumbags camping all over the fucking UW community: including the Campus Apartment building I was hired to restore. Those filthy pukes would eat, sleep and shit around the back alley and present fine ass targets of opportunity. Heupel, Skeeter and I would climb up on the roof, reach over the parapet and pour gallons of ammonia or bleach 3 floors down on them stinky fucks. We did the world a favor and improved the aroma of the Pacific Northwest as they fled screaming and crying. Just like the bratty dirty homeless drunks we see piling up in Anchorage and Kenai. Don’t claim any racist bias in this missive: these homeless garbage butts were the spectrum of colored subhuman fecal piles you’re all too familiar with: Seattle’s rainbow dispersion of piss, puke, shit and dirty clothing mirroring the composition our own Alaskan families. One dumbass white dude, 2 niggers and 7 fucking natives. Smell my finger.

We scheduled work restoration completion on Fridays, so we pulled tape and rolled up painting tarps with D-Hypes and Skeeter wiping and cleaning the new apartments to a level of cleanliness that I dubbed "cruel and unusual." No tenant could accomplish the original sparkle and shine they achieved prior to occupancy. While Skeeter and D-Hypes did the finishing touches, I was directed to the apartment at the high end of the hallway on each floor and performed tool and hardware clean-up. Since sewer drains run downhill, each hallway has a high end and a low end. My job was to report to the unoccupied apartment at the high end and clean all the paint brushes, rollers and extension poles, doorknobs, brass hinges and fixtures with gallons of solvent, paint thinner, TSP and jugs of Dawn dish soap.

D-Hypes used to yell into the designated apartment "Hey Dummy! We got buckets of bar soap scraps, shampoos and dish soaps for you to dump in the bathtub." On clean-up Friday my job was to run the bathtub, bathroom sink and kitchen sink on full hot water for couple of hours while I cleaned all the tools and trim pieces. We're talking scalding hot water. After a hundred years of poop, grease and hair slowly plugging the drains, my job was to dump buckets of bar soap scraps, shampoos, laundry left-overs, Tri-sodium-phosphate and gallons of paint thinner I used to wash my tools and hardware down the drain with a few thousand gallons of scalding hot water. No kidding, straight boiling hot water for hours at a time. To ensure that I move more poop sludge, hair and grease products downriver, I was instructed to also flush the toilet after each tool and piece of hardware I cleaned.

I'd scrub all my tools and trim-work in the kitchen sink with a wire brush, gallons of paint thinner and jugs of dish soap while the tub, bathroom and kitchen sink were steaming chimneys gushing every kind of soap and cleaner known to mankind down the drains. I scrubbed paint brushes, rollers, spackle and putty blades and every old brass hinge or old glass doorknobs to brand new condition. Imagine the loads of paint thinner, grease sludge and human goop I was flushing out of that 100-year-old building and into Seattle's sewer system.

Near quitting time each Friday D-Hypes and Skeeter used to yell "Dummy, coffee and bong hits!" at me and ordered me down to the basement for a 420-safety meeting, chug down beers and bong hits and snarf bags of blow. We'd also pull the drain clean-outs to inspect the results of my half-day sewer douche and were amazed how hot the pipes got and clean they were. I'd brag that I was a one-moron poor man's Roto-Rooter squad with those guys still busting balls and slinging friendly obscenities at me. It’s called “shooting the shit.” I sure love team abuse.

When me and bun lived in the 29-unit and 41-unit apartment buildings I followed Public Work water/sewer monkey Sandy Huss's advice for the community of Kotzebue to flush toilets hourly to move solids and frost to prevent freeze up. While I vacuumed, mopped and washed dishes I ran the bathroom sink and bathtub faucets on full hot water for about an hour a day with all kinds of abandoned laundry room soap in the tub for a foamy scalding drain douche. Jeff Skinner thought I was nuts until he was assigned by KIC to clean and inspect the sewer clean-outs under the 2 apartment buildings. He laughed and shook my hand and told me the drains were hot as hell but super clean. Apartment dwellers frequently dump cooking oil, grease and food waste down the drain which catches rock solid poop logs, toilet paper and hair balls and plugs shit up. Jeff Skinner didn't call me Dummy but he abused me in his own way. I sure miss that guy.

Goat milker, dummy, and insults from the uniforms: now you see my life. During my tenure at UAF I earned the moniker of "Soldier." Jay Gardner was in the same business/econ program as me, so he always ragged my shit to go over the reading and lecture notes with him. Did you know that the UAF Pub was a damn nice place to study for exams and oral presentations? Jay Gardner was a Captain in the US Army on leave to earn a bachelor's degree on the GI Bill and over the years became my friendly abusive squad-leader. His common insult was "What's yer major malfunction soldier?" I sure liked that guy.

Gardner and another GI Bill scholarship soldier from the Navy was a black gentleman named Chermaine Fullinck and the 3 of us dominated the top slots in the high-grade point average game and stole the tuition, cafeteria and housing scholarships away from the fatty white bitches and high-stepping yellow natives. Gardner and Fullinck also badgered me to apply for the computer lab job so that I could catch up to the 90's and leap across the digital divide that kept Alaskans sucking dirt and eating shit a century behind the outside world. I also learned to avoid using the term "nigger" when I was around such educated chaps. One time those two told me that good killers make the worst soldiers and they sure coulda used a hunnert guys like me. Compliments like that echo throughout our minds for decades.

In Finland I got stuck with the stupid name of "Uusi Suomen" which means New Finn (the implication that I was a cherry to the secret Fino/Russo cold war). Timo Aristo was in the Helsinki School of Economics MBA program and stuck that tag on me. Three other MBA students (and intelligent agents) were Dwane Welleschuck, Paul Quinn and Marku Kuusinen liked this nickname and dogged me with an additional nickname of “Neger-ensuko” meaning nigger-lover, so I guess I was on another team, again. It became a code, because when I got out of jail my boss gave me a card with Uusi Suomen and X’s and O’s scribbled on envelopes with welcome back and get well soon cards inside it. Then I was deported back to Alaska and put on a dozen “no-fly” lists. Fuck me. Flipping shit and busting balls can sure make a guy feel like part of crew. Us old men can only smile through watering eyes when we hear fading echoes of old insults from our few remaining friends. X’s and O’s: Nigger-lover, how pleasant.

The 15 years I was in Barrow I was a nobody until I got attached to a rather attractive Eskimo woman and from that point forward, we were called "Karl 'n' bun." Even little cross-eyed Eskimo kids would yell from across the street "Hi KarlnBun! Can we come over and play?" I used to let the neighbor kids come over and sit at the computer station to play games, eat fresh-baked pastries and drink coffee and cocoa in exchange for sleds heaped with muktuk. Those kids would watch me trim the pink and black whale candy, pack it up in 50-pound boxes and label it for the elder councils and schools in Selawik, Noorvik, Noatak and Kotzebue. Those in-bred semi-mongoloid kids had no idea where these shit-hole villages were located but they practiced these names and reported back home to their parents what "KarlnBun" were doing with so much fresh kilt whale.

At Cape Smythe Air a freight clerk named Alice Hopson worked in tandem with Solvieg Naylor to ship 2 tons a year at no charge from Barrow to the elder councils and school districts all over the NANA Region. Every morning Alice Hopson would greet me with "Hello Karl Ewing. More freight for Operation Muktuk?" She was trying to sound overly professional and non-native. That greeting still breaks my heart because one morning I was lugging in a batch of heavy ass boxes heading to Patrick Octuck for a big nickipaq for the Stink Induns of his peers. That was when Alice told me that Solvieg Naylor had gotten too drunk, sat down on her front porch and froze solid. Poor Alice cried my coat wet years before Patrick Octuck also went off the great ice flows in the sky.

Eskimos use nicknames far more than real names. I've heard in-laws called goony-goo and muk-muk and my pals still living on the North Slope will forever call me stupid shit. Percy Pikok called me on the phone and greeted me with, "Uchuk-boy! You fucking nigger." Felton Sarren calls me " Stink-man! You stupid fucking white man" with a follow-up clarification that “Groid-man, you’re not just white, you’re super white, but more native than my nigger ass." Beat that.

Down here in God's Waiting Room: the wrinkled 907 borough populated with Alaska’s whitest, oldest, sickest, least vaccinated and enjoying the cheapest cigarettes in the state, I get "Come on old man, let’s go to the gym." Yup, just like Kotzebue and Barrow, bun still drags my sorry ass to the gym EVERY fucking morning. 35 years ago, we walked to the Kotzebue Rec Ctr and lifted weights every afternoon when bun got off work, then we'd go home, eat dinner and I'd sleep until my graveyard shift at the old jail. This morning she did it again and repeated "Come on old man, let's go to the gym", so I drove all the way out of Nikiski into Kenai to the city rec ctr and we did all the machines. They got free weights up the fucking ass, but I still prefer the machines. It only takes about 45 minutes to an hour to do 30-40 reps on all the different lifts and presses. On rare occasions, if I feel extra-tough, I’ll go back over to repeat some machines while bun hops on an exercise cycle for a spell.

That’s my gang: KarlnBun. As women age their knitting circles, coffee and bridge clubs and gossip assemblies at the fish camp grow ever larger with each year. Elderly men like us enjoy fewer and fewer dudes, buddies and pals. Our various jobs were our social clubs. Since leaving Arctic Alaska, in an Inupiaq dialect I’m told, Eskimo men enjoy declining numbers of illyas, oomahs, buds and barts. But in clinical white man language we suffer diminishing peer groups as we age. If I lived near all ye cops, I'd be out front of your houses every morning honking the horn. Yup, it'd be me dragging yer sorry asses to rec ctr to lift weights. I may not be able to force y'all into the swimming pool, but I'd likely get you gents to the weight room and sauna.

Now that our hearing is better, you all can hear me whisper that oughta we let the old ladies chat and cackle whilst we sneak out fer beer and bong hits. Busting balls and friendly obscenities are good for both young men and old cops and just for your benefit and team spirit, I'd probably yell something stupid at you from the main entrance of our cemetery like "Hey assholes! Hurry up, we're gonna be late."

Karl.

Soldiers, cops and all our best friends have become ghosts.

Top of the morning gents,

Welcome to Geezer Town USA! You guys did it. No on-the-job suicides, accidental shootings in the squad room, work related overdoses or lethal exposure to venereal disease. Yup, y’all fucked a lot of biscuit and brown, white and red bush can conceal worms, blisters, bacteria and some foul ass discharge. Just look at our coworkers’ retarded children and worm-bait grandchildren.

I suppose congratulations are in order. When I was in third grade, my teacher asked the class what we would like to be in the year 2000. I simply wrote, “alive.” All I had to do was survive another thousand whippings, punches, alcoholic ancestry and lineal domestic violence. That’s one tall fucking order.

Most criminals arise from the ashes of orthopedic fractures and pediatric tissue damage, a few survive to serve our villages, towns and tribes and end up working with a bunch of fucking cops. Nobody in their right mind would investigate dead baby causation nor sexual predation upon infants, ‘cept you rusty killers.

Dr. Marilyn Grey counseled me that there are no bad children, just bad parents. Children love their parents absolutely but after beating number 1 million and six, the shit changes. We either join the generations of victims becoming the abusers or get real fucking proactive. That unexplainable rage and mysterious anger we experience is evidenced in the crippled inmates gimping all over fucking Alaska. When I see crutch or wheelchair-bound child abusing motherfuckers, I tell myself “I did that!” We’re 907 proud and enjoy considerable job satisfaction. Our self-esteem just needed my return to painting shit all over this white space.

I’ll take a debt of gratitude to my grave. A debt that can never be paid, except in “friendships that transcend decades.” A quote I stole from a friend I first worked with pert near 40 years ago. What most of you aren’t aware of, is I worked with some of you coppers, before you wore a badge and carried a gun. My first job in Kotzebue was sliming fish guts at Whitney Foods. Part of the job was running fish totes to the airport or fetching crushed ice. That was when an old man named Dale Walters chatted me up, asking me where I was from and who I worked for. He then proceeded to hire me to weigh and load freight at Ryan Air on a shitload of planes with Trooper Nay’s boy, Chae Yuk and a big kid named Fink. I’m astonished how many old men befriend me, then put my dumb ass to work with you lot.

My pea-brain still recoils from the lectures you gents bitch-slapped me. A bruiser named Waller would spend entire shifts reciting legally inadmissible facts and details of noteworthy criminal cases he worked. Two short-tempered sons of bitches named Nolton and Nay continually berated me statutes, regulations and procedures working for police departments. Kozloff and Dial continually reiterated firearms makes, configurations, model numbers and Tyler and Bleicher pounded drug law vagaries into my thick head allowing me to toe the line in contract work and narc jobs avoiding incarceration on soil American in the decades that followed. Public service is a fucking ball buster.

Funny how us wiggers all look alike. I arrived in Alaska with butt-loads of Michigan butt-pussy fuck-heads like white Mike Baker and Alex Whiting. I got wrangled into working public safety, public toilets (AST, KPD and VPSO) and public schooling. In time I became a 907 product of Alaska’s education system. I ain’t bitchin’ though. Looking back, Alaska has given me everything I ever received. I got hired to a broad spectrum of jobs and cash streams for the elder years I’ll fart dust. I received an Associate of Arts at Chukchi College for the Mentally Retarded and the bachelor’s and master’s degrees from the University of Alaska Fairbanks. All scholarship: zero dollars and 99 cents. The frosting on the cake is working in the computer lab and visiting numerous universities in Europe and Russia to promote UAF’s international exchange program and for research on my Nordic Energy Policy thesis. Now dig this, I was given a new sports car for my use during last 3 years of my scholarly pursuits. Lastly, the best gift Alaska gave me was a shit load of grave markers etched with the names of my best friends: you fuckers. Oh yeah, there’s one etched with my name too.

Real Alaskans winter (and die) in Alaska and every 10 years 70% of all Alaskan residents rotate out of state. Being pure trailer trash and proud in-bred hillbilly, I can’t claim to be any part of the high-class virtuous rotating military, fishing, oil and medical working white folks. I’m the shitass wigger mob that washed ashore splash-landing in Davis Lake and Kramer Sewage Lagoon. Takers get the honey; givers get the blues and philanthropic community service wasn’t my original intent. Like the HIV junky Burnors from New Yok and Montana fudge-packer Hailstones, I came to Alaska to harvest mucho dineros moving high-grade product to subhuman turd-squeezers north of the Arctic Circle.

I established business ties with various fish camps (Dutch, Cold, Naknek) years before Kotzebue was added to Lem’s Mortuary and Crack house, a den of iniquity that moved a lot of high-grade cocaine and LSD. A side gig of Lem’s operations was shipping innocuous household items from Washington to Alaska and Kotzebue: loaded with said contraband product. On some trips, dog kennels were stuffed with sheets of acid inside doggy blankets and puppy pillows. I remember DA Benedetto’s expression when I described my follies under oath during preliminary hearings for warrants. I’m such a fucking idiot: smuggling blow, acid and 151 rum packed in insulation foam should’ve changed your criminal investigations to include albino-tard-me in the cross-hairs of your targets.

What 907 mongoloids never understood was that most of us invading hillbillies and trailer niggers are a lot like First Alaskans in that we don’t marry our sisters. We’re merely fuck them. Us white trash, mud farmers and animal stool chewers home-school all our children. Not in topics intellectual but home-school topics like sex-education, genital hygiene and tobacco health. In-house sex-ed is where boys are taught unsafe sex and vaginal brain-ectomy techniques. If you see retard-bitch crews or a simple minded slow-ho herd, just say to yourself, “Karl did that.” I’m personally responsible for the world’s poorly educated fat breeding welfare recipients and the long lines at the Rotten Food Bank. My sisters and all my old girlfriend didn’t want to douche their teeth, brush their pussy nor graduate high school. Sucking a woman’s entire brain right out her vaginal gutter birth canal will bring you illiterate Stay-Puff marshmallow ass trailer bitches. A subsequent yield is yer author on drug’s shit-eating grin caked in rancid headcheese and maggot infested labial chunky crust all over his face. Okay niggers, take a barf break, I gotta scrub my poop-dick.

My bunnik recalls the first white folks she saw and stared at them in disbelief. Her mom prattled ad-nauseum of Maniilaq’s 300-year-old Eskimo predictions forecasting a major fucking butt-load of white bleached pale apparitions lacking seal oil cologne piling upon the shores of Alaska. These mobs of new smelly arrivals that deplaned in mass staffed the old hospitals, the first schools, the Air Force bases during WWII and the inevitable Cold War. And cops. She described us motherfuckers like canned milk and the cream of the crop that spoke English real perty. The Federal Government’s belief that the high dollar best of humanity was shipped to Alaska to bring relief to ancient aboriginal communities remains to be determined. Can you smell me now?

I’m skeptical invading Euro-trash have alleviated the extraordinarily violent tribes throughout rural Alaska of their self-inflicted suffering, brutality, appalling health and abbreviated life expectancies. My wife believed that tall men and women so pretty her kin folk appeared in comparison more like stunted dwarf ice niggers and her in-laws look an awful lot like North Korean chinks and infected midget butt-fuckers. Bun’s dad commented that round-eyed white people “make us look bad, like them damn Japs eating seal oil that smells like black girl pussy.”

Some racist stereotypes do come with guarantees. Eastern invaders’ promise to breed y’all taller and smarter yielding present day northwest Alaska, a notion partially realized and fate incomplete. Maniilaq predicted Alaska would be overwhelmed with stinky white trash, Nome would be the largest city in Alaska, religious faggot tribal doctors would lose their stranglehold on illiterate scralings and men would fly to the moon and bring back drawings. He also predicted that Ambler would someday become the next largest city in Alaska after the discovery of stupid fucking white man metal: gold. As payback for his genius, Eskimos banished him to Nuvruk to starve to death and turn him into a corpse-frosty fuck-toy for the Jones clan and seasoned frozen food entrees for them Wilson scab-asses.

My original intent of this article was to ridicule us all for the Sasquatch twat and aboriginal pussy we scrawged and slobbered. This idea evolved to become a How To Fart Dust primer for my coworkers, pals and sibling baby-boomers. Boomers leaking all over their cabins, shacks and shanties and refuse to admit they are old wrinkled anal sphincters and better cared for in old folks’ homes. If you’re born between 1946 and 1966, yer a member of the post-World War II baby boom enjoying large families with lots of in-house pussy.

Now that we’re all the same age as dirt, boomers are terrified of looking like their fucking grandma and tasting like dusty folds of goat prune-tang. This’ll crack you up. The most popular medical procedures for the old hags pushing granny walkers all over America is rhinoplasty and labiaplasty. Yup, big old wart hairy boozer noses are being trimmed back to petite and big old nasty baby maker pussies are being trimmed back to look like baby girl Cooter. After removing diapers, pads, scraping crust and acid bath, yer great grandma will reward yer gagging with a tiny fresh little biscuit from our college dorm memories. Sure. No warts, no wiffy sniffy, pustulating lippy and no 907 herpes blister scars. If God didn’t y’all want to eat young pussy, it wouldn’t be shaped like a taco and if He didn’t want you to put your whole hand up an old snatch, He wouldn’t have shaped it like a catchers’ mitt.

Y’all 907 fuckheads can’t ignore our own agist stereotypes. Quoting federal employment law, we’re all senior citizens at the age of 50, but most of us coppers are crowding level 60 with few besides Billy black Byrd sprinting across the finish line at 70. Mercer & Associates is the actuarial consulting firm that set the age of retirements in Alaska at the double-nickel 55 due to the lower life expectancy of us graying gunslingers and armed great-grandmother-fuckers.

Most Old Folks Homes, retirement communities and independent living apartments start accepting hell bound killers at age 55. The rents are usually 30% of your gross income with water, sewer, garbage, heat, snow removal and maintenance included at no charge. These reduced fees are subsidized with federal, state, borough, county, parish, province, township and city contributions. Adding our Tier I pension (and free medical for life), social security, free vehicle registration, free old fart fishing and hunting licenses AND a PFD, big government is now really cool. I fucking dig it.

Rest homes, convalescence homes and assisted living facilities are a different creature altogether. These usually have medical staff on hand for Long Term Care (LTC) needs of the infirmed and the buildings are located close to hospitals, fire and ambulance stations. They’re also real fucking expensive. My mom spent her last few years pissing and shitting all over an assisted living facility filled with mostly women and the price tag was over $280K annually. That’s some seriously expensive goat ass there nigger.

When we were shopping for a senior center my bunnik preferred a facility on a river, lake or ocean. We did a 5-year hitch at a place near the Kenai River with hiking, fishing and camping right out the back door. All senior centers are smoke-free and won’t tolerate marijuana because despite state legalization, federal law is still explicit in its grant compliance prohibiting ancient hippies and Vietnam War veterans from toking a doobie or PTSD cops horking down monster bong rips.

Two points to consider: married men live 4-7 years longer than single assholes and senior living offers an even longer life expectancy than home-alone homos. Shut-ins and loners living by themselves tend to drink and smoke more and die earlier and more frequently. To grannies and grandpas living alone bathtubs and kitchens are killers. Falls, injuries and suffocation toast a nigger ass faster’n eating a gun fer brekky. If grandma falls in the bathtub or chokes on her breakfast and nobody hears her crying, her corpse won’t be found until fermentation draws coyotes and vultures from surrounding states. Senior centers, retirement communities, assisted living facilities and rest homes all have walk-in showers with fold-down benches. Due to thousands of injuries and deaths, bathtubs are ancient fucking history.

When we were shopping for senior centers, I spied a tall old man with a military haircut sneaking in the back door with a coat obviously concealing a holster just like mine. I booked down the hallway and ordered him to “stop right there soldier!” He froze, reached under his jacket and turned to see me with my hands up high and my grin chunky with shit. He smiled and asked, “what the fuck you want kid? Shit-ass visiting hours are over.” He assumed I was younger due to frequent beatings, lots of drug abuse and my silver hair arctic blond. Disputing my old age, he stated “I’ll have to take a core sample and count the rings, punk.” Funny fucker, I just wanted to ask him some questions about living in this building. He soon became my best friend in the facility.

His name was Richard, a Marine and Vietnam War Veteran. He’d lived at the place since 2006 and was curious why I wanted to live in a diaper dive like his. I explained we liked the subsidized rents, free utilities and maintenance and we were bone tired and weary of living in villages north of the Arctic Circle. Old man Richard proceeded in telling us the ins and outs of senior living.

Richard lectured “old women leak, and old men die.” Most tenants at all elder-care facilities are women, the men are long gone to be with the worms. With men dirt-toast, women can now explore their repressed LBGT curiosity and choke and puke on rotten eggs and sour biscuit. He further explained that building A allows pets and B building (the one we were in) was pet free. I asked what that cat piss smell was he told me that it was the “old dike broads down the hallway.” Building A is designated for stinky old ladies that are “nose blind” and cats and small yipper dogs are permitted. Building A really smells like yer sisters’ snatch. If you walk one direction down the hallway, you’ll smell fragrant post-menopausal weaponized urine spray and if you walk the other way, you’ll draft in rich diarrhea warfare poop aroma derivative of digested canned dog food popular with elderly biddies.

Richard lectured that the smell of soggy kitty litter chunks “make a gay man horny”, then recalled a little boy walking down the hallway that had plugged his nose and said, “gross grandma, that don’t smell like no butt-fart!” Richard chuckled and told the little boy he was correct, that it “weren’t no butt-fart, just an eye-watering cunt-belch.” Sometimes late at night, Old Man Richard would call me and whisper “Grandma got poopy butt. Want some?” Real funny fucker.

Veterans tend to wax third person eloquently when describing themselves oven-bound being fitted for wooden jackets. Richard pissed off his old hag neighbors by suggesting their senior center build a crematorium in the back of the facility to create a “one-stop shop for all us frosty niggers.” He further elaborated that his girlfriends call him “Dick” because with a handful of Viagra, a fifth of cognac and disabled smoke-detector the only complaint, aside from the smoke he ever heard from his fuck-bait grannies was that having sex with him really hurt. He also stated that we all will leave this facility “toes up, tits up and Dick in the dirt.” “Karl, we come into this world bald, deaf, blind and toothless, we go out the same way.” Pretty fucking funny guy.

Richard gave me some Senior Voice newspaper articles he cut out that detailed the risks of dog bites and native Alaskans suffering with cat allergies. In Alaska, the cheapest dog bite only cost the facility management $70,000 and smaller dogs bite more than larger dogs. Another article went on to explain native Alaskans are all allergic to cats, since cats are invasive species that came with all them white motherfuckers. Senior centers in native communities ban both dogs and cats to avoid expensive dog bite litigation, burning eyes and runny noses from tasty feline urinary spray mist. I now read the Senior Voice’s every issuance.

Some tragic stories about aging, death and estate planning will slap the shit outa you like Jesus on his period and force y’all to pitch the long-held myths and misconceptions about growing old rich and healthy right down the fucking toilet. Estate planning could possibly insure solid monthly incomes for us men, but most likely the healthy revenue streams we build into our numerous retirements will likely benefit our wives. Look at our dumbass pals and coworkers, most of ‘em are fucking dead already and their wives burning wheelchair rubber up and down the streets of Old Fart Geezer-Ville.

Old age and dying is easier than our previous life changing dilemmas. To me menopause was the hardest. Not mine, my wife’s. I phoned my dad asking what the fuck menopause was all about and he told me that’s the reason he drinks in the morning. Bun kicked me out and told me to go get my GED. After 7 years I earned an MBA. I then phoned her from jail, and she stated that if I’m coming back to America, I should visit her in Barrow.

Fact 1. Nine out ten retirees will require Long Term Care. Buying a LTC insurance policy through your employer when you retire will save you thousands, possibly millions of dollars in expenses. For poor old bastards lacking LTC insurance, assisted living facilities are euphemistically called “asset vacuum cleaners.”

Fact 2. When a husband dies the increase in mortality for wives is only about 20%. When a wife dies the increase in mortality for husbands is 500%. Fuck!

Fact 3. Men die. Women can spin their odometer up over a million fucking miles.

Fact 4. 50% of all humans over 80 years old suffer from Alzheimer’s, 50% of all hip fractures result in death within a year and cirrhotic liver tissue scarring from consuming alcohol increases 5-fold for men over 50. It’s okay to be pissed off.

Richard’s USMC Rule 1. Stop sleeping with women your own age: they look just like yer fucking grandma.

Richard’s USMC Rule 2. Do no ass, and thou shalt NOT smoke bone.

Richard was full of funny old lady jokes. He’d uncork a new one each week during our gun oil and coffee cocktails. He invited me to old fart activities such as a colostomy bag food fight in the cafeteria, a catheter tug of war with old gals in wheelchairs or ask me to collect all the poopy diapers from neighbors, load them into our PVC potato cannon and blast passing cop cars on the highway.

One time he told me about an article in the Peninsula Clarion that the Kenai Borough banned the sale of coffee thermoses because so many old ladies confused them for dildos and broke their dentures. He also scolded me for tossing Tootsie Rolls out on the lawn because the old biddies confused them for dog turds and ate them.

I buried my Vietnam Vet buddy Richard. I miss his crude phone calls and shitty humor. I also miss having him over every week to drink coffee, take apart guns and clean them. His favorite discussions were the guns we were cleaning, the guns he shot gooks, slopes, dinks and zipper-heads with, cars of the 60’s and 70’s and he really liked talking about women and boobs. Sounds pretty fucking good, eh?

We can fill a hole in the ground with a good friend but crying never fills the hole left in our lives. Old Richard has been gone about a year and I no longer wanted to live in the same building. After he died, another neighbor of mine went and fucking croaked leaving me the only man left in that senior center and none of the old crispy biddies would come over to drink coffee, play with guns or talk smack about boobs and cars neither.

We pray we die easy and “the best you ask for is to die in yer sleep.” (Kenny Rogers-Gambler’s Song) My old boss at the AST office in Kotzebue passed away in his sleep and so did our dude Patrick Octuck.

Soldiers, cops and all our best friends have become ghosts.

Whilst writing your thoughts, I see those boys are still on patrol.

Karl.