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.