Come on down to Ewing's Slave Mart!

Top of the morning gents,

In previous postings, I’ve revealed my family’s historic involvement in the shipment of kidnapped children and women for prostitution, laudanum (opium) and alcohol from the Pacific Northwest up to the gold fields of the Klondike and Nome. I’ve also written about the Ewing business of purchasing Chinese laborers from Canada and freighting them to points of entry on the west coast for dead-end slave labor on the railroad. Another part of the Ewing business that predates these varying forms of human trafficking is my generational and historical involvement in the building of slavery in the big agriculture states of the South.

My chief detective researching this brutal nightmare odyssey was the one and only Commander Craig. Or in KPD parlance, dispatcher six: D-6. If you worked graveyard shift, you’ll remember his books and papers researching Eskimo ancestry whilst I was doing my homework studying at the Chukchi Academy of Lower Pygmy Brain Function. Both Commander and I wrapped up our studies at or near the date of our termination and departure from KPD and the Baldwin Peninsula. David accumulated a pile of documentation collated that he gave me to write about in the future. The research and homework D-6 and I accomplished started a million fucking years ago. Three decades in the future and after his death, I'm fulfilling this promise and yer reading the product.

Old men like us appreciate the saddening loss with the departure of our friends from work. Small towns, good friends and heartbreaking work become the burdens we all carry with us, and on long journeys, we must occasionally abandon our luggage. I wasn't happy about leaving, but Dave had decided to take the layoff and explained that Kotzebue would be better off without us. Both of us had many more miles to walk, Dave and Rachel headed to the Olympic Peninsula across the Puget Sound from Seattle, I had 44 trips to Europe and Russia collecting a hunnert broken hearts along the way. And a few broken bones.

Looking back, I now see that you gents knew we were heading for the door and I'm glad you all lent me and Dave a hand. I completed my first college degree with an Associates of Arts (general studies) and at the same time my lay-off was being arranged by City Manager Mike Scott (1 year comprehensive health insurance, 1 year tuition scholarship, relocation expenses and 5-figure severance pay). Simultaneously, my coworker in public safety and research colleague Mr. Craig resigned from KPD and also relinquished his position as the president of the local Church of Latter-Day Saints, better known as the Mormon Church.

The Mormon Church deserves credit for it's encyclopedic documentations of Alaska's ancestry and even called upon my bunnik for numerous consults on names, marriages, offspring and villages of origin. The Mormon Church also started the website Genealogy.com. In the early 90's before the Internet, genealogy research was done by requesting paper copies of century old documents, news clippings, vital statistics and court records. Their fee was 25 cents per page and postage was extra, but free for church members (and yer author on drugs). Mind you, before the Internet (and Gumby and Barney gay porn downloads), digging into the slave trade, capture and shipping of children prostitutes to Alaska and flooding the railroad camps with Chinese required boxes of paperwork and became our last field of study we did together.

Speaking of Gumby and Barney gay porno, Jeff Waller and Jeff Skinner and I were bullshitting about guns in the squad room, sharing gun articles and offering prices on guns we each had for sale. Jeff Skinner was picking through the pile of gun magazines and his faced turned bright red. He looked at me, then looked at Waller and opened up the magazine he was holding and showed us a fag-magazine displaying dildos, butt-grease jellies and men in weird poses. These dildos ranged in size from yer thumb, to your arm, to your leg. Pretty startling.

Jeff Skinner started shuffling through the firearms magazines and found more gay catalogs and gay men posing: pulling dicks and parting cheeks. On the mailing information label affixed to each magazine and catalog was Gumby's mailing address. I booked. Dispatch with stinky-tard Midol and rodent-rectum Rachel was better than poo-chew literature in the old jail squad room. Sniffing stereo cunt-farts is better than watching the 2 Jeffs barf and wretch. They didn't look good, puke was soon to be airborne.

Okay, 30+ years have passed and I can reveal one of my many dirty tricks up my sleeve. When Bun's brother Bobby packed up and left, he dumped all his boxed up freight on my house 420 porch and assumed me and bun were gonna tape, label and mail all his shit: at our expense. I said "fuck that." So I dumped out all of his possessions, sorted his most important personal effects like the banking, billing and native BS paperwork, clothing and hygiene products, and set aside a mountain of books, videos, living room pictures, cookware, kitchen glassware and utensils and linens: fucking heavy bulky shit.

I packed and mailed only a quarter of his stupid shit, had a rummage sale of all the rest. I might have made enough to cover the postage expenses I paid to Mumpsey at the Kotzebue Post Office.

The gay magazines and catalogs were put in Sara's closet. She was in Seattle, so this secret homo-ammo of atrocious published circulars could await my rather devious scheme. I'd collected a stack of gun mags Gumby had littered the squad room with and simply peeled or cut the address labels from the covers and carefully glued them on the covers of a few dozen gay catalogs and extremely icky homo-magazines. I then packed all these magazines and catalogs in my book bag, brought them to work at KPD and mixed them in the messy piles of gun magazines strewn throughout the Police Station upstairs.

If I could've located any mailing addresses in the Chief Jailer's name, I would've done the same. If you look closely, you all can see his concealed anti-heterosexual alter ego. Smell it too. Don't worry, paybacks are a bitch: even postmortem. I convinced Tom Gebhardt that I was stretching his mom's cervix and distending her uterus on her visits to my house. He still posts my name misspelled on his social media accounts angrily declaring I was fucking his mom while he waited out in the car. Years later, when I ran into John Erlich Jr. in Nome, he was accusing me of the same thing: that I was doing his mom between classes while his dad was in a Fairbanks jail. Of those two half-bozo dill-rods, one is wrong. One is correct.

The boxes of Bobby's hardcore gay VCR video tapes of graphic fucking, I brought to Chukchi Library during my evening Alaska Anthropology and History classes and mixed them in the library check-out section. Just to add another stick in Stacy Glaser's twat. Fuck, I'm funny.

Okay, playtime is over, settle down: full disclosure completed.

On quiet evenings during graveyard shifts in central dispatch at the Kotzebue Police Department, I'd brew high-dollar coffee chemical warfare on the hangovers of all the coppers on duty, I'd also make cocoa for church president David Craig. After I served the cops coffee, cigarettes, 222's (Canadian codeine tabs), they'd chuckle, giggle and drift off to type up complaints and reports, Dave and I would enjoy tea and crumpets (coffee, cocoa and cookies). Once we were sufficiently sated, he'd pull out his file folder and scribble notes from his copies of research into my family history.

He'd read about Senators Ewing of Mississippi, Missouri and Kansas, their battle against abolition and their vast wealth from the slave trade. but Dave never put me and that family together until I told him about my grandpa's stories of brokering slaves and hauling freight in the shipyards of Seattle. Spurred on by a solid connection with real American history and my dumb ass, Commander Craig requested and lugged evermore piles of heavy folders into dispatch containing copies of genealogical documents mailed from Mormon Central in Utah. We're talking whole forests of paper documents.

According to the Mormon archives, my family roots start with the immigration of the Ewing clan on my father’s side, from Scotland to the southern states of the US in the late 1600's with the earliest paper trail originating with the highly lucrative thriving slave markets in the pre-statehood regions of Kansas and Missouri. Complex business deals were structured to pay ship leasing and the purchase of slaves, transport, then auctioned to plantation owners like Ford or Chevy trucks and John Deere tractors.

Stock markets brokered the sale of shares of whole butt loads of niggers purchased from the indigenous black tribal slave brokers who demanded payments in cloth, sugar, tobacco and liquor instead gold, silver or paper currency. Continental African black slave brokers had little use for fancy metal and pretty paper money, but cloth, sugar, alcohol and tobacco were worth more than dollar bills. Just like Alaska. After the bargains were agreed upon, the slaves were loaded on fleets of leased ships and hauled across the Atlantic to the New World. Then they were auctioned off as house servants, human farm equipment, and sex slaves in the American States.

My ancestry was crucial to the structured financing, acquisition, shipping and wholesale marketing of slaves to America. Like advertising campaigns to sell cars, us Ewings used now-modern financial schemes to amortize the underlying asset such as zero down, zero interest and endless payment terms financing the sales of slaves, slave leasing, rentals and sale of brand-new niggers.

Imagine the hucksters like my family on TV selling slaves today. “We got a BOGO sale at the Ewing Nigger Emporium! Buy One Boon, Get One Coon Free!” Or discount sales on late model niggers, low mileage porch monkeys, clean used jigaboos, fixer-upper gimp niggers and darky-tard children with labels like “Clearance Nigra Chitlens, Affordable Negrito Midgets that are only a quarter native, discontinued cross-eyed tar babies and slow dependable brown welfare Sambos.” For a 10% discount, just tell 'em you heard it on KOTZ.

Come on down to Cal Worthington's Nigger Ranch! For the health conscious we got non-GMO high-stepping half-native hybrid niggers, 100% pure organically grown tiny-titty bone-in-the-nose slaves and for the green new deal homosexuals, we have the zero carbon wimpy chimpies that won't work a bit, just sit around and whine like half-breed fatty cunts, and for the paleo ass-suckers we offer gluten-free puny midget niggers that are faggot-boy butt-monkeys and really like to be whipped. For the vegan LBGT slave shopper we got autistic nappy headed micro-primates that when shoved face-first in meat-free cookie dough, they'll give you vegetable based gorilla cookies to feed yer native kids and dogs.

If yer 907 rural-trash wife is nearing menopause and "her pussy is tired and used up" (Alex Whiting 1992), all our keto-puny midget gorilla infants on the show-room floor are born with a pre-moistened dumper and are real good fer bustin' a nut and sport fucking. They're disposable too! After yer done with 'em, save on your dog food bill and just chuck 'em in yer KDMA dog lot. Okay, you can quit laughing so hard. My eyes are watering.

Like other cultures, continents and human history, slaves were integrated with livestock. In America, slaves and livestock were utilized in the sugar, liquor, hemp and cotton fiber and tobacco manufacturing industry. The Southern States of America, West Indies and Caribbean were the world's premier powerhouse producers of hemp, cotton, sugar cane and tobacco and for centuries created wealth unseen in the New World heretofore.

This predatory and monopolistic majority of the planet's production of sugar, textiles, liquor and tobacco were created by the perfect climate and soil and an unending supply of manpower. This agricultural monopoly was dominated and controlled by the new American super rich: the Antebellum South. The massive economic strength of the Southern States was so overwhelming that separation and isolation threatened the union of the 13 (and growing) states. The Civil War was a battle to end the creation of the new massively rich country of Confederate States. The new Confederate currency was also a financial threat to the unification and integration of currencies by the other colony/states.

The primary business plan and agricultural components were labor, capital and land. Meaning: slaves and livestock, investment capital and land seized from pesky Indians. Alas, all the great empires of the world had populations consisting of 90% slaves and 10% tyrants and the Ewings were indeed pedigree tyrant criminals. We stole everything fair and square.

No shit, the overwhelming majority of the world's manufacture of tobacco, sugar and liquor, and cotton and hemp fabric (marine sails and rope, textiles, clothing, rugs, carpets) were centered in the Confederate States. It is estimated that the Southern States produced 90% of the entire world's production of all these manufactured goods and this massive explosion of farming was the key to American colonization and the settlement of huge swaths of arable land colloquially called the land rush towards tobacco, cane, ranching and the White Gold Rush yielding cotton. We're talking Saudi levels of wealth in today's money dudes: trillionaires.

Throughout the history of mankind land was the unit of wealth. Land for hunting in prehistory like Indian buffalo hunting then later land used for farming in modern civilization facilitating the need for evermore complex social structures such as villages, towns and cities. Another outcome of social community structure was the advent of property rights enforcement and policing. American agricultural production on a massive scale was only retarded by animal and slave labor with the currently poor grades of metal and cheap simple farm implements made from flimsy, brittle, rusty low-grade ferrous metals. Before the discovery of high-grade steel all mankind's architecture (houses and buildings) were constructed with only thatch, wood, brick and stone.

Until colonization of the New World, there wasn't a single indigenous beast of burden available in America to use in farming and settlement in all of North America. All of the livestock needed for farming had to be imported from Europe, then bred for the specific needs of our continental soil, weather and crops. For centuries prior to the invention of better tools, horsepower and manpower were the only available equipment for human agrarian-based manufacturing.

All agrarian endeavors required GMO (genetically modified organisms) made possible with the importation and selective breeding of slaves, horses, cattle, ox and mules imported as invasive species from Europe and Africa and populating North America for this massive and expanding farm culture, industry and economy. Imagine North America without a single pig, horse, cow, goat, mule or nigger. Now you understand why Native Americans had developed and perfected their own slave trade and industry prior to contact with Europeans.

Simultaneous to the replacement of whale oil as fuel and light and the development of petroleum based energy, the demise of slave manpower and livestock horsepower was already in the cards and manual labor disappeared with the discovery of high-grade steel, coal/petroleum energy and electricity. This occurred with the experimental pouring of varying amounts of coal ash into molten iron, skimming the slag off the top and greatly increasing carbon, strength and quality of steel. Up until then the best metal available was simply cast iron called wrought iron, pig iron or pot metal only useful as skillets and a replacement of food containers throughout this last millennium: clay ceramic pots. The development of better grades of steel also saw the invention of the steam engine multiplying manpower and horsepower by tens, hundreds, thousands and eventually millions.

The American Industrial Age exploded with more than the invention of high-grade steel and development of petroleum distillates, it was the discovery of Lake Superior Hematite, the mother-lode and giant continent-wide deposit of iron ore throughout Canada, the Great Lakes and Northern States of America around the early 1800's. Hence, a competing industry of machine grade metals and more powerful fuels eventually rendered manual and animal labor obsolete. This resulting battle over vast dynastic wealth of Southern Agriculture and tidal wave cash flows in human trafficking would soon become the battle of wealth between the states. This money battle between metallic millionaires from the North and agricultural millionaires of the South precipitated the battle incorrectly called the Civil War.

Being full-fledged agricultural and slave magnates of the South, my family backed the Confederacy and we lost to the better equipped armies from the north. Far more coal, railways, armored ships, early medicines and telegraph communication brought the defeat of the South with a death toll that exceeded more than all of America's other wars combined. The Civil War had an estimated body count of 650,000 soldiers with even greater numbers of dead civilians and slaves.

Detailed in bogus pulp fiction and dime-store paperbacks, Frank and Jessie James became notorious desperados by leaving burned houses and farms, dead white folks and lynched slaves by the hundreds in their wakes. Fighting for the Confederacy as acquisition and commando operatives, the James Gang robbed banks, pilfered farms and raided livestock and slave holding pens. The money, food and livestock were intended for the war effort (in theory). The thousands of slaves that were lynched and left strung up hanging as decorations of stinky dripping meat were messages to the living Southerners of all colors not to sympathize with the North by providing comfort (food and lodging) for the enemy.

In the post-Civil War Amnesty hearings granting clemency to war criminals of the South, it was noted that none of the loot and treasure stolen by the James Gang made it to the Confederate war effort. The surviving half of the James Gang that Jessie James hadn’t murdered (including Frank James) testified that Jessie James horded his stolen treasure away from his crew, insisted in killing civilian white citizens and lynching hundreds of black folks for his amusement, he became a wanted man with nation-wide warrants out for his arrest. History has been celebrating a sick bitch psychopath, gambler, whore monger and nigger killer. Asshole even fucked over his own brother and crew and brought vilification upon his family.

All battles are won before they even start, and the war of the states was essentially a futile battle and anachronistic. It was a battle to preserve the millionaire plantation owner status quo, but 1850 high-tech discoveries and patents were soon to make animal and human labor obsolete.

Coal and petroleum fuels and foundries replaced the American slave trade, but at considerable cost. Lincoln's Scorched Earth policy exterminated everything leaving the metal millionaires from the North winning the cash-money war against the agricultural millionaires of the South forcing my family to flee to Washington State. The Klondike and Nome Gold Rushes were calling rich slavers west and another human traffic opportunity needed the Ewing slavery business model.

Ancestry.com has my family expediting wagon trains, cattle drives and harvesting slave profits into railroad investments as America blasted West. The yield of historical documents puts the Ewing family in the Dalles, Oregon establishing slave markets of gooks, slopes, chinks and dinks to build the railways, then expanding into Seattle to profit from the link between rail by land and shipping by sea. The Ewing's partnered with the Archer clan in a freight and shipping company called Archer Ewing Incorporated. The Archer Ewing tug and barge company exploited the need for transport of humans and cargo to the Klondike Gold Rush, then the Nome Gold Rush.

All "rushes" toward gold, land, timber and cotton were the massive migration of poor humans seeking riches. The rush was a massive wave of humans responding to bogus newspaper headlines describing get rich quick opportunities then the subsequent stampedes were barges and steamers packed full of freight such as equipment consisting of picks, shovels, dredges, pack animals and pack humans needed to haul so much gold digger paraphernalia to the mining claims. Along with mining equipment other important staples were needed such as food, liquor, pussy and drugs.

The food, liquor and pussy are a no-brainer but when Huey Lewis wanted a new drug, he wanted opium: heroin in the form of Laudanum. A mix of hard liquor, sugar and morphine, also known as Dope, a byproduct of the opium wars of the 1800's. Just like cocaine Coca-Cola, only better. Parallel to the massive Asian slave trade in the Dalles, Oregon came the tidal wave of heroin use among the miners and merchants. Wyatt Earp's first wife from Laudanum abuse as a daily analgesic. On a side-note, Asian slave importation numbers (and opium) eclipsed the nigger trade from Africa to the Southern States of the previous centuries. America’s largest opium importers were the Delano and Roosevelt mob families. Behind every family empire is a large-scale criminal operation.

The Klondike Gold Rush turned Seattle from a shitty little logging port community into the Gateway to Canada and Alaska. Seattle was the focal point for passenger and equipment freight arriving by rail and transferred to tug and barge destined to the Klondike Gold Rush. We all can easily see the need for labor and capital (men and tools) for gold dredging and mining, but ancillary freight in the form of food, clothing and shelter were a boon for get rich quick outfitters.

Purveyors of sex, drugs and alcohol earned a premium for the shipping concerns but in a perverse form of affirmative action and equal opportunity, women and children of all color were in high demand for the sex trades. Prostitution was completely legal in America and top dollar was paid for young women and Seattle's exclusive whorehouses served up young boy butt pussy and little girl biscuit.

After Soapy Smith, the mayor of Skagway was assassinated and the Klondike Gold Rush went from boom to bust, the Nome Gold Rush exploded making Nome the largest city in Alaska. Archer Ewing Incorporated had the largest fleet of steamers and freighters in the Pacific Northwest and were already in place with exclusive criminal monopoly licenses in hand. This put Archer Ewing in perfect position to expand service further North hauling miners and mining equipment to Nome.

Wyatt Earp was the mayor and crime boss of Nome, Alaska and for confiscatory taxes on all incoming freight and everything bought or sold he granted sole tug, barge and steamship concession to Archer Ewing Inc to deliver millions of tons of humans, tools and supplies to Nome. Wyatt Earp and the Dexter Clan were the top echelon mobsters of Nome, Alaska and brutally imposed hefty fees and controlled the flow of steam ships, tugs and barges from Seattle to Alaska. Being the only cartel mobsters in Nome, the orders for illicit goodies such as dope, ass, pussy and liquor were put at the front of the line.

The Gold Rushes of the Klondike and Nome yielded little gold and were in truth, a continuation of human trafficking and large-scale scams separating humans from their money. A slogan was attributed to Wyatt Earp who claimed the big money was in "mining the miners." Puffery and exaggeration is totally printable, but the bile published in the Seattle and Alaska newspapers was total butt-wipe. Journalism is a farce believable by rubes and intellectually vacant midgets. The newspapers of Alaska and Seattle were absolutely bogus with full page advertisements claiming millions in riches to any man that could pick up apple sized gold nuggets from the rivers and seashores. In retrospective these gold rushes were clever flim-flam scams perpetrated on the gullible. Fake news is as old as publishing.

The equipment, lodging and food supplies called "grub stakes" were offered at murderously high prices in the form of loan sharking with debts that were never paid. The prostitution, gambling, alcohol and drug sales were the big money earners with very little gold ever pulled out of the ground in the Klondike and Nome Gold Rushes.

Due to consumption (TB), venereal disease, poor diet, assaults and homicides, prostitutes never survived to see middle age and personnel turnover was astronomical. In both the Klondike and Nome Gold Rushes, the homicide rate was 5-10 deaths a week, and adding frostbite, hypothermia, dismemberment and disease, the death toll easily claimed 10 times those weekly rates of fatalities.

The demand for women and children for the whorehouses, hump-tents and fuck-shacks in both gold rushes stripped Seattle clean of little boy butt-snatch and little girl fish-trim leaving zero candidates in the entire Pacific Northwest to hijack northward. Every single boy and girl of any color disappeared from Seattle orphanages, foster care families and chicken hawk dating houses and forced Archer Ewing Inc. (my great grandparents) no choice but to loot every orphanage of children on the west coast. A fistful of dollars would induce thousands of families to look at their children and consider which ones they'd keep, and which ones got shanghaied to the gold fields.

Which of your children would you unload? We all got retarded children, siblings, nephews and nieces that would do just fine working up North. Family traditions are inescapable and some of our relatives are natural born meat puppets and penis holsters. If your dumber kids didn't do their chores, you could sell them to my great grandparents, and they'd get fucked a dozen times daily way up inside and way up north with Soapy Smith or Wyatt Earp earning 10% off each hump.

My old buddy David Craig of the Mormon Church passed away a couple years ago, but don't be thinking slavery is dead. There are more humans enslaved right now then in all of human history. Just take a guess at how many migrant workers cross the US/Mexico border and take jobs working as prostitutes, house servants, landscapers and untold millions employed in America's agricultural industry. Mexico's president Carlos Slim stated that "our people do the work even the blacks won't do."

To keep illegal migrant worker wages separate from our wages, the US Dept. of Labor only keeps track of "non-farm" payrolls. Yup, them Methicans aren't even included in federal labor statistics. If you allow for 200 years of inflation, niggers of the Confederacy made more money picking tobacco, sugar cane, hemp and cotton than wetbacks do picking your fruits and vegetables and butchering your meat today.

In Saudi Arabia, United Emirates and Dubai there are untold millions of imprisoned slave workers entrapped in a lifelong sentence called bonded labor indebtedness and every year approximately 2 million black children are kidnapped from the Sudan and the surrounding countries and shipped to the Middle East for house servitude, yard labor and sex trade.

I've yet to explain IBM and the Holocaust, but if your smell your cell phone you'll get whiff of chink pussy. Discussion of forced labor camps in China will be a topic for later lectures.

Since you're wondering, I kept David Craig stacked with loads of AT&T Walmart calling cards and mailed him dozens of odd bastard rifles to share with his buds, barts, ilyas and oomahs. He'd phone when he needed bun to send down tunnik punniktuk, whale muk and seal oil for Rachel.

Word is, Kotzebue held a pretty darn nice funeral assembly for Rachel Craig. Bun requested I personally see to her burial in Tikigaq soil, up in Pt. Hope, next to her father, aunts and uncles. The last name Tikik means Pt. Hope citizen, whaling crew member and sealer. Alas, that'll be a trip she'll undertake on her own. Her ancestral burial grounds are dirt this Finn fears to tread. If only the good die young, and my century plus old grandfather is any example, I'll be here decades after I ship Bunnik up North boxed and bejeweled, and after all you guys book out of here.

A while back I phoned Commander Craig to chat and catch up. He told me he'd had a stroke, asked me my name and if we worked together. He didn't know who I was. I often wonder what happened to all those reparable and cleanable guns I sent him.

A year of two later all his memories of KPD came back to him. So did his memories of all of us.

On the day he died.


Karl.

Dead friends and Mad Coffee.

Top of the morning gents,

I'm so old. I still listen to my ancient analog (not digital) multi-band radio that picks up short-wave, UHF, VHF, CB, AM and FM along with a hunnert other bands like weather and airplane frequencies. I don’t dial in any fire or police band radio; those give me a fucking headache and weird panic attacks. To increase reception, I clip dozens of wires to my antennae draping them across my living room horizontally and vertically. Some wires I run out and clip on the TV antennae up on the roof, but the best addition to all these plethora antennae is the wire I've clipped to the ground wire of the electrical outlet under my computing station. Hence using the entire building as a radio wave receiver.

I intentionally avoid any of the hot-wires, that'd blow fuses, fuck up my hairstyle, burn my fingers and stop my heart. Household 120-volt current kills more people than all the other voltages combined. Household voltage is a good defibrillator whereas 220 and 440 currents simply cook, burn or detonate yer shit out yer ass and all over yer apartment like an exploding shredded pillow. Late at night when bun's asleep I take my coffee by the living room window at my senior center apartment and dial in radio stations from Russia and Northern Europe. Occasionally I dial in stations from foreign countries like Alaska.

I gotta unclip them before grandma wakes up or she gets mad stumbling into my copper wiring like a fucking Eskimo trapped like a fly on sticky candy spider's web. On clear nights I get some seriously weird shit on the radio. Sometimes I hear women crying, gun battles or footsteps running and Eskimo dancing. A while back I heard yelling and little boys and girls crying from domestic cases and search and rescue investigating crashed airplanes between Kiana and Selawik over 50 years past. Some days are unexplainable, cuz I hear vaguely familiar voices as I dial in my old-fashioned radio and eavesdrop the nightmares of my nursing home cellmates. Yours too.

You’re all too young to appreciate this, but when you get to be my age you’ll find that old men don’t sleep. Plus, the smell of good coffee draws soldiers to my living room, coffee bar and old-fashioned radio like flies to your wives’ diapers and maggots to your mudflaps. After I lay out a shit load of guns and put on coffee, it’s just a matter of time for all the old men to wander down the hallway, knock on my door and let ‘em in. We’ll all die unloved and alone so I set up a replica squad room for old men in my building to drink coffee, listen to my scary radio contraption and talk about their stories you and I have already discussed. Sometimes I tell them some real awful stories from where y’all rut: Brown Rural Pygmy AK.

Since our banishment to the villages, old men and cops have long ago stopped being right in the fucking head. If my old pals here at the senior center have exhausted their Vietnam tales and are feeling brave, they listen my tall tales and far-fetched stories from Kotzebue and Barrow. Tales I’ve kyped from y’all. Every evening I make pots of high-grade mad coffee (occasionally coffee and medicinal whiskey), set the chairs in a masculine grouping and hand out boxes of rifles and pistols to disassemble, cleaning rods, oil and brushes to fiddle with while sharing and listening. Masculine chair and table settings are far different than vaginal sewing circles cuz most men are terrified of having doors and windows to their backs. Google the phrase, “Aces and eights.”

The long and short firearms aren't to shoot each other, they're just stage props to occupy their hands. Maybe even cover egress and exits and keep phantom wives and stinky old women far away. As women age, they transform into Grimm’s Fairy Tale bitches, get meaner and enjoy hurting old men and disfiguring and eating children. Even so far as laughing at men reminiscing their own personal heartbreaks, guilt-ridden career mistakes and regrets for putting their dicks in the women they married. Ya see, old men won't share their feelings, memories and tears if old bitches and soggy diapered wives are anywhere nearby. Just think of my late-night elders’ anonymous meetings as an Eskimo Bleeding Hut for old men. Minus that smell.

What you’ll find surprising is that the only woman allowed in our murderous chat circle is the old native woman I’m married to. Like the squad room or dispatch, she’ll wander all over the place topping coffees, whiskeys, serving pie, bread or cinnamon rolls. These old geezer soldiers, cabin psychos and grandpas chat away and don't even take notice of bun tending to the drinks and snacks. The perfect woman, she’s invisible and silent. Let’s just say serving my elderly male company is her penance for the simple sins of being female, native and old.

I wrote the book on the care and feeding of elderly native women, but I tore out the chapters that detailed the last living representatives of Alaska female twat born after 1950. Not interesting nor relevant in God’s plan fer ye. The soul of woman was created below: mother earth, father sky. She’s not responsible for the sins visited upon her husbands and children. It’s the nature of the beast. And smell. Some women live their life through love, nurture their families and radiate kindness to humanity in every action and word. Doesn’t sound like a soul kitchen we’ve ever parked wood. In a sense, purgatory is here in Alaska, yet not on Earth. Bad people and worse women don’t go to a lake of fire when we pull their plug, they come here and wander all over Alaska refusing and incapable of forgiving those they’ve hurt the most.

Before you die, simply listen to other old men’s stories, then blow ‘em out of the water with the cases stuck in yer craw and up yer ass. Let ‘em know Hell is so close you can see it from here, and they’ll be fine in the great hereafter. You, on the other hand will no longer be married 907. By yourselves yet not alone, the gates of heaven will close immediately behind you. Alaska women (fat white and mean dark) will forever haunt misery upon this state, ensnaring droves of white Christian soldiers for eternity. And stupid cops. When you dream of Heaven, you’ll already know how to navigate your way through endless European saloons, tobacconists, theaters and cafes. We will be washed of familial and spousal obligations and on familiar territory, free of memories of this frozen tundra swamp prison. Heaven is a complete universe away from godless aboriginal stubborn cruelty.

That’s my mission. I send off elderly gentlemen with cleansing and alleviating purges with storytelling and focused man-companionship. No churches needed. Churches are inside us all and my job is to warm the benches on their last days here on their Earth not unloved and not alone. That also includes you boys. I tell your police stories incomprehensible in format dispatch and case report parable: sensible, yet terrestrially nonsense. My words but a whisper, your deafness a shout. Now pay attention.

Old men love sharing hunting and fishing tales, old cars and wrecked planes and pretty girls that flirt with them. During Group, and if it’s my turn to share, I’ll start with suicide reports of cutting down hangers with Mashburn, Ramoth and Moto, finding frozen native children and shooting dogs at the dump with Byrd and Garroutte, hopefully encouraging questions and clarifications from my geezer team. Most of these tales I stole from all ye and are simple literary theft and psychological facilitation to encourage these old farts to open, allay shame and most times, elicit a really good laugh. Occasionally a good weeping.

These old boys miss their pals and buddies from work just like we do. You guys understand this, now it’s our job to help the mankind in our circles to let go of their family shackles and offspring chains, ditch the crutches, grab their go-bags, shake hands and head into the bright lights of their next stage. Dying grandpas are a blessing to the deceased, not the living. On many voyages in a long life, we weary travelers occasionally must abandon our burdensome luggage. Our arrival solitary and upon two feet and when we die, we will die young; at whatever age this experience occurs. I aren’t dumb, I’m a smart ABE GED grad from Upchuck U.

When I got company, my wife stays quiet as a church mouse. She prefers the company of men and loves hearing lower register chit-chat. On rare occasions, when she’s asked to share, her stories are of subsistence, starvation and lawlessness long before statehood. Ancient Eskimos like bun add details retrieved from her encyclopedic memory of territorial Alaska history, village names, dates, and rural ancestries dating back centuries. No shit, she’s memorized family trees of Alaska’s natives back to Siberian migration. If asked, she’ll expound upon Eskimo culinary techniques to enhance raw meat flavors, serving fresh, frozen and aged whale, seal, and caribou. Richard and Steve always compete on their knowledge of windage, bullet drop, accuracy, and bullet weights and muzzle velocities (serious yawn). After guns, refreshments and munchies are handed out, I tune in my radio and let my “Over The Hill Gang” listen to KOTZ, KBRW, KICY and KNOM radio stations broadcasted from cursed foreign cultures, like rural Alaska.

Sometimes the shit gets just plain fucking weird. We’ll hear old interviews with dead people and bun books out of her sewing room to let us know that these folks are from Kotzebue like Rachel Craig or Paul and Beula Mason. Us old men lean in, cup our ears for better reception and listen to Paul and Beula and Rachel Craig talk about church, subsistence and bootleggers like they were sitting right beside us, drinking coffee yacking all sorts of Eskimo gospel gibberish terminally terrestrial.

There’s something disturbing about hearing cranky old salmon crunchers enter in our coffee and gun oil cocktails. Shortly after I dial in scratchy recordings on my beater radio, bun started explaining to us that Beula was known for holding her old bible to her chest with her eyes closed reciting blessings to all the elders of the NANA region. Fuck me, it’s like Beula Mason was speaking directly to each of us old farts. Richard, Steve and Ron start looking at me like they’re fucking terrified, they’ve never accepted their age nor lived near Inuit geezer lovers like us. They sure got interested when Bun explained that Rachel Craig and Beula were recorded for a show at KOTZ 720 shortly after Karl busted the Capone Boys.

"Nalign! He was supposed to kill every single one of those monsters!" "We sure prayed for him to come and take these white devils up to cemetery hill and kill them." "They are an abomination upon God's green Earth." Spooky, it sounded like old Rachel, Paul and Beula Mason were in my rest home apartment to join for coffee and talk. I doubt they’d contribute to the topics of guns, cars and boobs.

My roommates at the senior center were startled to hear this religious shit about our work busting drug dealers and bootleggers. Old crusty Eskimos refused to cast eyes upon or speak to white trash druggies nor dirty their own Eskimo hands disrupting alcohol and drug sales in the NANA region. "Those cops were supposed to do it!” “They were supposed to kill them and bury them!” I know. Beula is SO old school on the sins of drugs and alcohol. She twice has ragged my shit at the post office and Paul Mason confided to me that she thought he should run me over. That is, prior to revealing my role in Nolton and Nay’s complicated plans as encore following Trooper Carl Schramm’s search and seizure warrants and arrest roundups.

I felt like a pussy because that cranky old native woman gave me a ration of crap scolding me, "Our church don't want them breathing God's air in jail." My vet buddies looked at me like I was a gutless homo. Steve quipped, “Shit Karl, I wouldn’t wait for some old lady to rag my shit. I woulda shot ‘em just fer fun.”

Some of our meetings went deathly quiet when bun shushed us to listen to old Kotzebue shows. One interview that was rebroadcast on 90.3 KNBA: a recording of Rachel Craig on KOTZ, “The Elder Speaks” by Ed Alexander. I’d heard it already, and I knew she was going to talk about subsistence hunting and berry picking. She even talked about digging up “mussu” and food caches hidden by mice. “My mother and I used to eat those and they sure tasted real good.” Bun explained to my Vietnam Vet coffee mates that mussu roots were from edible flowering tundra plants and mouse nests under the tundra were filled with seeds, nuts, roots and animal bits: crunchy and cured with vermin secretions.

The boys blanched and swallowed muke. I’m not sure any of my gunslingers anonymous talking circle would munch on urine cured granola clusters buried underground by rodents. I simply nodded my head that Rachel and Bun’s old Eskimo stories were true. Years back, when all my coffee club vets were still alive, bun told them about how I saved a native girl’s life.

I took Sara and Bun to Pizza House and on the way out a wheeler sped by, and Mary Ann Russell fell off the back, tumbled and rolled flat on her back, right at my feet. She looked like she broke all the bones in her body, and I heard her head clunk three times with each roll. Her neck was in an unnatural position but with a delicate touch I detected no sharp edges in her upper spine. I did the basic poolside lifeguard ABC’s and checked her pulse and breathing. Good pulse, but Mary Ann wasn’t fucking breathing.

If it was her brother Andrew “Thumbs” Wilson, I would’ve just stepped on his neck and croaked his nigger ass like George Floyd. I scooped out Mary Ann Russell’s gullet, checked her throat and started CPR, plugging her nose and breathing into her, but skipped the chest compressions. Three good swimmer dude lungs full of air and she erupted. She barfed Lysol and pumpkin seeds right into my throat and fucking mouth. Miss Russell coughed and spit, then started breathing and crying. At that point I wanted heave up and take my own ass to the fucking hospital. I’ve never tasted an Eskimo cocktail before. It was worse than getting gasoline in my mouth from syphoning. No tongue, just lots of nutty seeds, fuel and cleaning products like anilingus with my half-sister Thelma Ewing: yummy.

I feared my coffee dudes would never fucking visit again. Rural AK stories ain’t fit for regular people. Remembering that shit still makes me puke. Miss Russell’s stupid friend, the wheeler operator finally returned and brought her home. After me and Bun lectured them for racing Team Lysol and doing pavement gymnastics under the influence of cleaning products. “Jus junk.” Meaning “just drunk” in big lip Fort Yuk no-teefer dialect.

Many years later, Mary Ann Russell met with Bun and told her that when she flipped off the speeding wheeler and bashed her ass at my feet, she was falling into Hell. When she puked in my mouth, she thought I was Jesus saving her and that’s why she was crying so hard. That’s me: Doc Sibbuk. Of Nazareth.

Way back, decades before pavement, when Kotzebue was all mud, bugs and drugs, I habitually walked Dopey the Doberman down front street toward the airport. I’d loop past Dan Yenni’s shop, steal coffee from Cape Smythe, say hello to Arlene Zagars and imagine heaving those giant boobs down to house #321 Second Ave. I was single at the time and hadn’t had an opportunity to roll huge Inuit breasts in my arms. Yet.

On an early Tuesday morning on my day off from fish guts or tossing freight at Ryan Air, I washed down a few bowls of Seattle’s finest green bud with a pot of coffee, yelled for Dopey to get out of the old trooper building and booked down the wet rainy shitty 2nd avenue with a dog in tow. At the southern end of front street, I saw a drunken native woman beating a bundle of blankets in the middle of a big puddle, with a stick.

Yup, I was a cherry. When I discovered what GG McLuke was up to, I shit my pants. Only a little turd, but I gulped it back up. Glenda McLuke was angry at a pile of linens that swaddled a tiny native boy, half submerged in a soupy brown puddle and whooping on it with a stick, crying drunk and likely flogging a drowned river rat.

I yelled at her and asked her what the fuck she was up to. She continued crying and swinging that stick, so I did what any dumbass white guy would do. I took the stick in one hand and picked up the soggy kid in the other hand, simultaneously yelling at a stupefied neighbor to call the cops.

Miss McLuke kept yelling at me trying to take the stick back but not the baby boy and I was getting pissed off, wet and waiting for a goddamned cop to show the fuck up. It was Wallace. He was responding to a 911 call reporting that a tall white guy was fighting over a baby with Glenda McLuke: in the middle of an aromatic lake of muddy water and suspicious smells. I handed the baby over to Wallace and told him I didn’t know who the drunk ass bitch was, who the baby was, nor the lady I yelled at to call the cops. Where I’m from, we call everybody “asshole”, even police.

Wallace grinned, then asked me my name and where I was from, upon which I told him that I lived with Higbitch at house 321 on second avenue for the last 3 weeks, recently arriving from Seattle. He took the baby with Glenda fighting him for possession and went to interview the stupefied neighbor who called 911. She stated the basics of what happened, so Larry took the baby over to an arriving ambulance driven by Munson, cuffed Miss McLuke and told me to drop by the cop-shop after I get rid of the barking dog. Unlike the citizen that phoned 911, Wallace didn’t take offense to the “asshole” quip.

That was my first of many visits to the old jail. I went upstairs, was greeted by Daphne and waited for Larry to emerge from the restroom. I was betting his turds were bigger than 907 newborns. He stepped out with a cigarette and asked me for some ID. I gave him my Washington driver’s license, had Daphne run the WA DL #EWINGKF390LT, and then proceeded to interview me what occurred that morning. So, I repeated exactly what happened, and then asked him how the muddy baby was. He said it was in the emergency room with bruises and cuts, wet, muddy and cold: but in general, good health. Wallace took a phone call, then told me a charter flight was taking the baby to Anchorage because that mud puddle was full of tipped over thawing buckets. Wallace told me that Miss McLuke was downstairs but omitted what thawing buckets meant. Y’all are laughing at me, but that illustrates the fuckheads you’ve become. Assholes: all of ye.

Had I known I would be such a magnet for neglected children, drunken women and fucking cops, I would’ve packed my shit and fled that day. I’m such a dumb shit, swimming in poop and drinking muddy water was my life for the next 40 fucking years. Tim Rayburn was temp foster care for this poopy mud bather baby, and he stated that he wanted badly to adopt him. GG McLuke eventually got custody again. Go native. Fuck ICWA.

My wife likes to brag about her brain-dead fuck-ass husband. She continued telling my rest home coffee mates an old tale of a little baby crying in the 29-unit apartment rear parking lot. I’d just gotten off graveyard shift mopping puke at the Kotzebue Jail and Sara and Bun just left for school and work. I’d knocked back a couple Jim Beams and was circling the drain, heading to sleep. I kept hearing that fucking baby crying in the building.

I grabbed a bathrobe, walked the hallway listening for that damn crying baby: fucking nothing. So, I went back to the apartment and climbed into bed. I dozed off and was descending into my regular nightmares of rolling large breasts from the bank towards home when I was awoken by that goddamned crying baby. FUCK!

I stomped all over the apartment in my underwear listening for that the damn noisy infant. Nothing. So, I went back to my bedroom pissed off that the sun was already coming up and I had to be back at work that afternoon for an overtime shift.

I got back to bed, dozed, then I heard that baby crying again, but much quieter, less crying, more like whimpering. Weird. So, I opened my window and saw a baby carriage upside down in the snow. This is not good. I’m in my underwear and I gotta go out and play “Stupid fucking white man saves the day. Again.”

I got dressed: boots, jacket, hat and gloves and booked down three flights of stairs and pulled that baby stroller upright and inside was a little blue Eskimo girl: frosty and quiet. Sleeping: maybe.

This a job for Super Man. I ran up three flights of stairs and called KPD and told Kathy Elam about this fucking kid smothered in snow in an upside-down baby stroller. She panicked, yelled for my location and slammed the phone down on me. I ran back downstairs and stood by the recently righted stroller containing a frozen blue little Eskimo girl with cute snow beard and frosty eyebrows.

Capt. Wallace and Kathy Elam came flying out the cop shop and Trox came running full speed hauling balls from the Fire Hall. I did a retarded semaphore signal waving Troxell and a speeding patrol car to my location. Wallace asked me if I’d done any hypothermia exam or any inspection for any assaults. Like a dummy, I just shook my head, pointed at my window again in retarded semaphore, then back down to the Eskimo popsicle in the stroller.

Her mom, Margaret Brown (Amelia Byrd’s sister) was freaking out looking for her little girl and didn’t know she was almost dead, frost bitten on the face and refrigerator cold in her jacket. Trox and Kathy flew like motherfuckers to the MMC Emergency Room. Larry stayed around to record a parking lot interview regarding my finding the kid.

It seems the child was missing for 3 hours, in temps of 28 below, Margaret Brown shitting bricks, cops, troopers and rescue in a tizzy with a fear of possible abduction. This little girl, all by herself climbed in the stroller expecting to take a walk. She rolled across the parking lot and tipping forward, face down in the snow. That’d give me a fucking ulcer, if I wasn’t buzzed on glassfuls of Beam and trying to sleep. I recited this tale to Capt. Wallace, word for word, exactly for the report. Then felt sick.

The ER had to do the emergency warming deal on Margaret Brown’s daughter and then I got a knock on the door from Trooper Hecker and an old drunk white woman from DFYS, asking for a repeat of my stupid tale of trying to get some fucking sleep for an overtime shift that afternoon. I was asked if I touched the child in any way. Nup, I just tipped that goddamned stroller upright and saw a frozen face of a little native girl, ran back upstairs and called Kathy to report a frosty toddler.

When I got to work at KPD that night, I was advised by Roy Fields that the child was flown by Life Flight to ANMC for further evaluation due to frostbite and cold ass organs.

Here’s the deal. I almost went to sleep out in the living room to escape the irritating crying baby. Roy looked at me and told me that “you did good Karl.” “That little girl was almost dead.” “You won’t hear it from all the cops, but you saved that little girl’s life.”

After hearing this frozen child story, my rest home neighbor, old man Richard told me, “Shit Karl, I feel like I’m gonna cry now. Or puke.” “That’s some fucked-up stories.”

“I came to play with your guns, drink your coffee and listen to the radio. Then your wife tells us stories about old native women encouraging you to murder defendants in stupid drug cases, munching on rat shit granola turd balls, eating Lysol puke, poopy puddle babies, and then a frozen little girl.”

As he headed for the door with his buddies following, Richard scolded me, “I think I need a break from yer shitty stories. I still don’t believe that kid put a rifle round through his head and lived.” (Michael Mills, Alice Schaeffer’s brother).

Bun was just getting warmed up. The next week, she sickened my elderly veteran guests with the Japanese explorer that popped by to purchased cans of pepper mace but declined a shotgun or a 44-caliber pistol. He was torn up and killed by the bears he planned to photograph on the Noatak River. The story of the German hunters sitting frozen solid on a riverbank in their underwear upset Richard, Steve and Ron.

They ain’t like you fuckers, they don’t cotton to hearing AST dispatch logs. Nor Troxell’s explanation how end-stage frostbite feels like yer on fire and the impulse to strip and cool off. Join me for a cold one: minus 40, our assholes, butt cheeks and ball sacks frozen to an ice shelf bench seat.

They got over it. They returned on schedule every week. Old men can’t resist. They’ll gladly listen to Rural AK stories like Gil Hall, Dallas Hannah and Ethan Cooley: regardless of the nausea or heartbreak.

It’s been years now and we continued our coffee, gun, and radio bullshit sessions without missing a single date. That is, until all my pals passed away.

Don’t you fuckers go and die on me. You’ve got a job to do. Mankind in your midst needs your tales of suffering, companionship and bench warming. You can keep the crutches and family burdens and bullshit; they’ve got their go-bags in hand. Just hand them sunglasses, shake their hands, smile and wave.

As old men pass, they will hear you as the last voice, the intervening generation they’ll ignore.


Karl.

Issues and tissues. And the misuse thereof.

Top of the morning gents,

So many issues and so few brain cells. I’ve often told you coppers that I could’ve been born bright (but I wasn’t). One look at me and you could immediately tell that my parents were also retarded. After each paragraph I spew on all this white space you can add, “this guy is such a dumb shit.”

A battle has been brewing over whether old white in-breeds, chunky trailer wiggers and obese hillbillies (meaning all of us) should get the COVD-19 vaccinations. The reason kids call the Corona Beer Virus the “Boomer Remover” is because all of us fat fucks, lung wheezers and phlegm bubblers are the demography most likely to croak from this SARS/MERS variant (Southeast Asia/Middle East Respiratory Syndromes). If I was a tike of elementary school age, I’d be jazzed at a disease that gave me a 2-year quarantine vacation from school and only killed old motherfuckers and dust farting geezers like us. Imagine yer retarded grandchildren at your ICU deathbed waving goodbye to you and if you carefully read their lips, you’ll see them saying, “Smell you later grandpa, hope you die bitch.”

If you recall Alaska history, you’ll remember the first Iditarod Dog Sled Race was a race against time to deliver some prophylactic remedy for a newly mutated virus. Across Northwest Alaska and the Seward Peninsula, diphtheria reached epidemic levels of infection with near perfect lethality. That was your in-law gramps and grams dumbass. This Diphtheria virus had no known cure. You just died. The serum that was proposed was a dirty medicine rife with casualty and side-effects yet showed great promise battling the Diphtheria outbreaks in the Pacific Northwest. Despite his overwhelming irritation to faggots, niggers and fat fucks, President Trump’s “Operation Warp Speed” mission was much faster and safer than the treatment of viruses in previous centuries. It worked. The COVD-19 vaccine is a success that Trump oughta be bragging, instead of whining about losing an election to “woke” butt fuckers, the lefty, liberal lesbians and suburban whiny women of menopausal vintage.

You see, kids are smarter than us. I’ve heard kids call COVD-19 names like, “Marlboro Menopause”, “Emphysema Exit” “Hippy Herpes” “Geezer Disease” and “Crispy Nigger Flu.” They know that us boomers are the last of the shit-ass cigarette chokers and tobacco laxative dependent alcoholics primed and waiting for this new disease to exterminate us butt-hackers with a lethal respiratory ailment that makes pneumonia look wimpy. Did I just use the word “wimpy?”

When I was a kid approximately 75% of the American population smoked, chewed and pushed nicotine suppositories up their butts. Tobacco was marketed as good for you and healthy, never mind low birth weight, delayed infant development and leaving our children looking SO native. Now the percentage of black lung and tooth-lessness has dropped below 20% of Americans consuming tobacco products, and the remaining demographic purchasers of cigarettes and chew are minorities and poor white people. Did you get that last part? “Minorities and poor white people” Plus we’re dying of tobacco-related illnesses in droves. With a loss rate of over 1,000 tobacco addicted Americans every day, it’s not a club anybody would be a proud member of. Sick thought: it’s probably safer to smoke dick like Tubby Goodwin, Auntie Charlie and Chuck Criss. Are those faggots still alive?

I remember the numerous vaccinations that were required to attend K-12 school, travel to Europe and more inoculations for Bubosis Familiaris (bubonic plague) to return from Russia to the United States. I also remember all those goddamned flu and hepatitis shots that were required to work at the Kotzebue Jail and don’t forget the tetanus and rabies vaccinations I had to have to work in the VPSO program. Part of the VPSO duty roster was inoculating pert near a thousand fucking dogs for Parvo and Rabies and if I couldn’t catch them: they died horribly. Chase the bullet, puppy.

I still brag to my Vietnam Vet buddies of seeing Nush quick draw his 38 special and blast a vicious dog on the run around the poop barrels of north tent city: right through the fucking neck. To further illustrate my tales of you bloodthirsty rural coppers, I unleash the Billy black Byrd shotgun story of spinning Hanson’s black lab in circles with a charge of double aught buck shot in its hip. That fucking dog finally died when Byrd blasted its collar clean off. My witnesses were all them Hanson boys. Minus one boy now. They looked at Billy Byrd wide-eyed in astonishment, thinking that’s one scary nigger.

If you don’t want any of us KPD dumbasses putting a bullet up your nose, get the annual flu and fucking COVD-19 shots. All of them, including shingles. Quit whining you pussies. Regarding shingles: it’s a real bitch. Regions of tender painful blisters in large patches, and if you’ve had chicken pox, the herpes virus is already in you. Non-white dark meat sure conceals pock marks suspicious but cold sores on a bitch’s lip will give a soldier’s penis blisters. At the Thai massage parlors here at the Kenai Borough the staff hide a condom in their mouth. Clever Asian knob chewers, eh?

Speaking of spreading diseases, I’m still irritated by all those homeless Inuit ass-wipes all over Anchorage wearing those stupid baseball caps stenciled with “Native Pride.” My old boss at KPD asked me how appropriate I’d be with caps that stated, “White Power”, “German Sausage” or “Walk like a Norwegian.” I’m of the opinion that I ought to wear the slogan, “Save Social Security. Free tobacco” or “De-Worm Trump.” I have a bumper sticker that says, “Don’t blame me, I voted for Mr. Magoo.” This will make ye puke: how about a shirt that said, “Red Lives Matter.” Go stink Induns! Laugh it up faggots, but I chuckle at the potential response to my wearing a T-shirt that said, “Vote For Nixon. Author Of ANSCA.”

President Nixon created the Indian Self-Determination Act, Indian Health Services (predecessor to Alaska Native Tribal Health Consortium and Alaska Native Medical Center) and overriding a 50/50 gridlock in the Senate and House, VP Spiro Agnew cast the tie breaking vote and signed the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Bill into law. Wally Hickel was Nixon’s Secretary of the Interior and totally against ANSCA. Dumb bastard fought hard to block native land claims from successful completion and granting regional corporations subsurface mineral rights. Hickel was quoted as saying, “Just because your grandpa chased moose or caribou across a piece of land, shouldn’t make you the owner.” 44 million acres were deeded to Alaska Natives and pert near a billion dollars was paid out to capitalize 13 foundling native corporations.

Following the native land claims authorization vote of 1971, Nixon/Agnew also succeeded in passing legislation that authorized the Trans-Alaska Pipeline. On the 50-year commemoration of ANSCA and standing alone as a native with a 3-digit IQ, Willie Hensley spoke glowing praise for the Nixon Administration and everything Alaskans and Natives enjoy today. “To the liberal left Nixon was vilified, but to us Alaska Natives, he was a godsend.” Way to go Willie Hensley, mighty white of you.

I ain’t old, but I remember the ’68 election, Nixon winning re-election in 1972 and his resignation a year before the end of his second term. Nixon had a bunch of spooks just like us that got caught doing their job of locating the espionage agents responsible for stealing and selling the Top-Secret Pentagon Papers. Contrary to urban myth, the Pentagon Papers weren’t related to Viet Nam, but our strategies and capabilities related to conventional and nuclear conflict with the Soviet Union.

The evidentiary trail of breadcrumbs led to a small cadre of congressmen: one who was so plagued with terror and guilt of arrest he was seeking treatment from a psychiatrist whose office was upstairs at the Watergate Hotel. E. Howard Hunt and G. Gordon Liddy were successful in picking locks and cracking safes, eventually locating the spy ring inside Washington DC. All of whom resigned, withdrew from re-election or simply died of suspicious heart attacks and dubiously inflicted suicides by poison or hanging. Fuck I’m old.

ANSCA was a moment of genius by Nixon and Congress. Alaska Native Corporation dividends aren’t taxable because they aren’t income, they’re compensation from the Federal Government for lost land and resources. After all dividends are paid, the remaining native corporation revenues are shared with all the shit-ass loser native corporations run by butt-raping retards like John Schaeffer, Eugene Brower and Amil Notti and their ilk (These 3 drunk monkeys are banned from entering Canada and Greenland due to their sexual assault records). Yup, after dividends, 70% of all remaining revenues are shared with the other native corporations across Alaska.

Some awful 907 facts of poverty life: 21 out of 28 boroughs in the state are exempt from the federal law of a 5-year limit on welfare (DRA: deficit reduction act-Clinton Admin) and Alaska is the only state that allows poor fuckers to purchase candy, chips, soda pop and energy drinks with their food stamps. Also, to make poor white, black and yellow Alaskans feel less stigmatized as nigger trash, Alaska decided to make the PFD payments exempt from the public assistance paperwork (MMR: mandatory monthly reports.)

Alaska has a third of our state on welfare (34%), whereas the other 49 states only have single-digit percentage membership. Reggie Joule lectured at Upchuck U that the traditional subsistence lifestyle is impossible and unsustainable without Alaska’s many generous forms of welfare. Despite being classified as taxable income by the IRS, Juneau chose to classify the Permanent Fund Dividend as “hold harmless.” Our 907 runny turd slurpers on food stamps, housing vouchers, heating assistance, Medicaid and energy assistance don’t count PFD checks against their low-IQ handouts. This is a veiled attempt to make PFD payments appear like ANSCA native dividends, immune to welfare benefit eligibility. But still taxable as income.

As a measure to balance Alaska’s declining oil revenues and increasing cost of prisons, public assistance, troopers, ferries, schools, highways and the university: I say eliminate the PFD. Fuck me, I know. Just for a second, imagine all the Appalachia and migratory African Alaskans that would flee the state. Yup, in a New York minute we’d see a dirty smelly exodus out of Alaska. If all the poor black, white and blended mud racers left the state, we’d be left with the decision, “I think I’ll have a diet Coke.” A PFD check to every freeloader, carpetbagger and panhandler only rewards packing Alaska’s massive public assistance programs: welfare tourism. Dis-incentivize these beggars and watch the state population drastically drop, then watch all of our state bureaucracies shrink faster than Kotzebue’s city budget after all the bars and liquor stores were voted closed. Vacant emergency rooms, deathly quiet Search and Rescue, with a lot of cops laid off. Wishful thinking, perchance fiscal jerking material.

Most low-income PFD and Native Dividend recipients usually have their dividend payments garnished, attached and levied. The order of priority of PFD and Native Dividend garnishments, the first is the IRS, Child Support is second and lastly, court ordered collections and judgements. Native Dividends enjoy non-taxable status but are not exempt from seizure for delinquent back-taxes owed to the IRS, arrears Child Support or Court fees, fines and judgements.

I repeat, back taxes owed to the IRS will result in any and all dividends (ANSCA Native and Negro PFD) being seized, as are any delinquent payments by parents in arrears to Child Support. Lastly in sequence of seizures: restitution, speeding tickets, court and jail fees and small claims court judgements. Even during the years of 1995-1998 when the richer Native Corporations sold off their losing investments for cash and paid out dividends ranging from $65K to $85K to Sea-Alaska, CIRI and ASRC shareholders, I’ve got buddies in Barrow that haven’t seen a dime in their 60-plus lifetimes due to owing so much money to Child Support and Court Costs. Drunken monkey fucking and assaults.

Speaking of hominid intercourse and a sad fact of life is I awake every morning in a senior center, sleeping next to an attractive elderly native woman, and after a night full of dreams, I got a kickstand. Party. I ain’t shitting, my entire slumber is a nightmare of young girls from decades ago visiting me. Not exactly a nightmare, but serious wood and nocturnal flailing. Some evenings I wake myself up with gonad cramps, pillow drool or my hips locked forward. A common theme is I’m visited by girlfriends and young ladies from down the hallways in college dorms in Alaska and around the world from a previous century. Youth and beauty are often wasted upon the young and these busty 20-something vixens are now old. And ugly.

It’s always the same: I’m embracing girls with impossibly large breasts from a plethora of races and cultures, completely enveloped and smothered. Other evenings I’m conjoined by Scandinavian women sitting on my lap and face, riding atop me without spousal consent. Since I don’t require oxygen in my nightmares, I endure young ladies folding their legs over my shoulders, sucking my face off with their pussy, writhing and pulling my ears off. Don’t I paint a pleasing picture?

You killers know the syndrome: waking up with our donkey balls swollen, tongue hanging off the edge of the bed and across the floor, hips forward in a steel cramp and a tent that could kill an ice midget. You ever worry the entire senior center will wake up hearing these lovely demon girls screaming and throwing fits? We’re married, yet these busty girls will pleasantly haunt our dreams all the way to our graves. Young girls: we can only fondly reminisce hitting the bottom of the well and knocking all the mortar out of the sides: If you haven’t told yer wives: join the fucking club.

A club I’m not too keen for membership is this new LBGT thing. I still like watching girls in pairs, wrestle in mud, swim naked, share in the draining of my donkey balls or straddle double team on me. If there’s a profit in lesbian girls stepping aside for me to distend some cervix, I’m totally game. An old girlfriend of mine stated that putting a shop-vac lip-lock on another girl’s love muscles only increases the desire for a severe dick pounding. Do I hear an Amen?

Extra dudes in the picture gag me and put credence to Eddie Murphy’s claim that he’s got a sign on his ass that states, “Exit Only.” The G part of LBGT: serious ick factor. If you’ve never walked into jail cell after two men were fucking, you haven’t wretched bile on KPD overtime, gotten sick on your uniform and put a hurtful funk on yer nose and awful taste in yer mouth. Butt-pussy village romances in a native jail is the reason God created Sick Leave. It’s okay. Gay-Nativity is totally normal, just ask Roy Mendenhall, Mark Caruthers, and Rick (baby killer) Miller: all survived that HIV thing. Sure.

I’m tolerant to the L part of LBGT if I can step onto the mound and pitch wood, get my dick wet and listen to a naked girls’ choir screaming in my ear. The B is redundant in these ignorant theories I assert, but the Gay and Transgender players are so gross and can fuck themselves. Like dentists and clowns, most men are afraid of drag queens: terrified. The smaller the tit, the more the monkey, but if you spot an Adam’s Apple or find dingle-berries on yer girlfriends: pitch ‘em off the roof to pile up with Wally Carter’s cute little boyfriends and ugly underage girlfriends.

Wait a second. Gay men and drag queens don’t require birth control, nor abortions. Picture this action. I just got sick in my mouth. At least faggots and prissy sissy girly men won’t reproduce like our fetal pickle herds of maggot infested Sel-wik-miuts.

Of course, some tribes like Shovel-Head Kiana Indians follow their cultural norms and chug ball cheese out of clan asses and Shrunken-Head Noatak tribal values proscribe the chewing of scrotum seepage and sucking ass for nourishment. One t-shirt I saw at AFN declared “Native Women Can Pack More Meat In Their Mouth.” As opposed to any other orifical penis holsters. I’m lying you know. I do laugh at my own stupid shit.

On some mornings here at the Senior Center I awake feeling worse that Marylin Monroe after her 14^th abortion with dead Kennedy babies in my chamber pot, but I’ve always been under the assumption the world’s best birth control is an education. Growing up mud-farmer and hillbilly we use the inbreeds’ form of birth control: pregnancy termination via vacuum cleaner, chemicals and a slop bucket. My sisters utilized the Hoover vacuum method, one brother used the spoon method and scooped the pussy out and another brother used his pregnant red-headed girlfriend as a punching bag. My trick? High grade blow. Yup, chemical discharge. Leave a bitch unattended and let her self-destruct with a drinking binge and lots of cat-piss diesel damp cocaine. The floor was covered with piles of little red hairless mice in a burgundy wine sauce. Clean-up was a snap. I added some Purina kibble and my crack house guard dogs chowed down, then later hatched rich smelling 14-pound steamers. Most foul, and good time to buy a ticket to Kikik-nig-ruk.

As modern humans, we’re killing more of our children than in recent history, ancient history and prehistoric history. We even kill more of our children than gorillas, apes and chimps. If your zip code has the RURAL designation, ye gotta scope out the local abortion clinics cuz you don’t want more Galena or Buckland babies stealing yer cigarettes and honey-bucket home-brew. Speaking of chimps, when I was a toddler, my dad used to call me Syndrome, cuz when I approached the dinner table begging for scraps, he’d punch me and yell “Down Syndrome!” For a monkey-butt silver-back, I’m pretty funny, ain’t I?

I’m a member of a family that is the perfect reason alcoholic dickheads shouldn’t breed. If you look in the dictionary for the definition of undesirable bags of mashed up assholes, you’ll see our group picture. I also believe we should get abortions if all of us ignorant hayseed white trash refute common medical sense and continue to spooge our own sisters or bust a nut in cripples, gimps and mini-limbers. My mommy always told me to eat my vegetables, then return them to their wheelchairs.

We all chuckle at the Evans family because their grandparents were kissing cousins: Inupiaq style French kissing with a side order of retarded no-tail sperm butt-slobber. We all can look back in time and see byproducts of in-family breeding all over the AK-49 village regions. It’s gotten so bad that my Eskimo and Fort Yuk buddies see no problem taking their own uncles to the senior prom or partying in a sleeping bag with Billy Howarth. I know, that’s gross, just ask Mary Olanna. Let’s get hammered in a trailer with Billy Howarth and Darlene Snyder. Poor Mary must’ve shit her pants after the post-mortem sodomy. Richie Reich knows such pleasure: get plastered, awake to a pain the ass best described as butt-rape. Mary Olanna never woke up, she stayed dead and received an ass full of Darlene and Billy party favor jizz and shit: the scissors in the face are a bonus. Now that’s a hangover only a citizen of Kotzebue can appreciate. Whoever passes out first: gets it. Just ask Carl Ferriera.

No man likes to hump a tarp, but if you fool around at the city dump, ye better put a bag on yer trash. Abortions lower crime cuz unwanted children lead unwanted lives. America has the highest percentage of its population behind bars mostly due to poor people of color with membership to families lacking both parents: hence a 20-fold increase in incarceration. If brown, black, red and high-stepping yellow fuckheads refuse birth control, send them to Planned Parenthood. But keep all their prenatal carcasses in a freezer so we can develop a worldwide organ bank. Imagine grafting some big black breasts on yer wives with a side order of super tight Asian pussy. Now that’s a dish worth keeping. Got wood?

Fuck black slavery reparations, the world owes us. I’ve been paying income taxes for over fucking 40 years: mostly to the Federal Government, some to Juneau. When a boy in the Pacific Northwest turned 16 years old, he could take summer work up in Alaska slopping fish guts and crab slime and bring back home a tidy sum. We’re talking a couple grand for a kid who only worked 12-hour days, from June to August. We were paid a decent hourly wage with all food, travel and living expenses covered. But if you quit like a whiner bitch and didn’t work the entire summer, you were billed your airline tickets back home. Pretty nice incentive to stick it out till the end of summer and get a bonus for toughness.

Mind you, lots of girls and lightweight boys didn’t like work at all and left shortly after a couple weeks. Some left after a couple days. The deductions to everyone’s paycheck were the State of Alaska’s income tax, a onetime yearly employment tax (state), school taxes (borough), Workman’s Comp, Un-Emp and of course IRS Fed withholdings. Alaska has always had an income tax. From state purchase in 1867 all workers in Alaska paid a tax on wages. Regardless of the state yer sorry ass came from, if you earned a paycheck in Alaska, you paid an income tax. The Nixon legislated Trans-Alaska Pipeline didn’t start pumping until 1977 at 477K barrels daily and the Permanent Fund wasn’t established until a couple years later when TAPS output approached more than a million barrels daily. The Permanent Fund Dividend didn’t arrive until 1982, then Juneau eliminated the income tax. That was when bun stated, “Here come the black folks.”

After peaking in the late 1980’s to mid-1990’s at 2.2 million barrels daily, the through-put of oil down the Trans-Alaska Pipeline has steadily declined as we drain Prudhoe Bay. Adding the Willow Oil Field would add 600 million barrels of oil, but it would require 500 Willow Oil Fields to make up ONE Prudhoe Bay that contained 30-40 billion barrels. Now our TAPS production is down to 450K barrels a day and dropping 6% annually, which explains the Legislature’s discussion of eliminating the Permanent Fund Dividend and re-Instituting Alaska’s old income tax. Fuck dudes, we’ve gotten 40 years of PFD checks. Let’s let it die and let our mongoloid children pay an income tax to subsidize our comfy pensioner’s lifestyle. Silver is the new gold, and cocaine and cupcakes for every Alaskan crispy codger: free blow jobs too.

We’ve fucking paid out the ass for decades, the children and coloreds owe us: it’s payback time punks. We’ve earned PERS, Social Security etc. Plus, us boomers are due new body parts forestalling or date with worms or delaying our occupancy in a moldy pine box. Instead of paying our tax dollars on public schools, public assistance and public penitentiaries, we could make them ungrateful niggers, spics, gooks and handicaps donate their unborn babies back into the organ donor system and give us boomers new eyes, hair and dicks. God knows yer wives could trade in their catcher’s mitts for a child’s pussy and reduce that annoying echo.

Imagine all the highly valuable organs and tissue transplants that we could take advantage of by putting a price tag and great value on minority, hillbilly, trailer court and handicap abortions frozen at yer local Organ Bank. New lung grafts to repair our tobacco habits, pancreas grafts for our diabetes and new liver and kidneys for our alcoholism with a kick-ass bonus of reducing poverty. I’d happily take genetically grown organs from test tube babies. I’d look at my dick and heart and tell myself: I’m full of new body parts from a can on a shelf in a broom closet.

Janitor in a drum.

Karl.