Please protect me from myself.

Top of the morning gents,

Tighten yer sanitary feminine napkins, and yer sanitary masculine napkins too, this is a side of yer author on drugs that I've never displayed to a bunch of fucking cops before. I was complimented by a rather chubby, tattooed and partly bathed clerk at Walmart's yesterday and it stuck in my craw. She'd stated that my daily morning visits to the bakery, picking up and purchasing a lot of donuts or pastries, "for them old ladies", after the 5-8am rush, was really nice. Have you ever associated me with the word "nice?"

I explained to her that what she's seeing is my vicarious enjoyment of deadly pastries I deliver up and down the Kenai Spur Highway to all my vendors and service providers. I sure remember wolfing down deep-fried, frosted and sugary cakes, pastries and cream filled gut bombs, I just haven't eaten any in a million fucking years. The gals at all my morning rounds love the shit out of me and if ye ever humped a really old fat special-needs woman (besides yer wives), you know yer gittin' lucky.

Every morning after I scribble down my waking blood pressure and fasting blood glucose, me and bun do our 2-3 cups of strong gourmet coffee, set the table for breakfast, and pile up our meds (cholesterol, blood pressure), multivitamins, aspirin and fish oil capsules. Some days I burp a fish oil sewer belch after a breakfast meal composed of a bucket of old fashioned oat meal, cream, yogurt and peanut butter, and a shit load of pills. I've blown the drapes off the windows prompting bun to ask me what my middle name was, and recommend I wipe. My episodes of throat chanting and gut-bag yelling loud air barfs really sounded like there was water in the mouth-piece, wetter'n a spitting anus. My retort is my fishy smelling roaring air pukes are how I scored so much trim on the rez and that my loud wretched sonic belches were my secret to being such swinging nate bait.

On days when I'm particularly humorous and barking fish oil belches, bun shows her irritation and jams my Lantus (24 hour) and Novolog (mealtime) Insulin epi-pens into my arms and shoulders REAL fucking hard. My insurance covers the $100 cost per epi-pen, freeing us well-to-do diabetics from those scary syringes. Yes, I know the traditional injection sites for old fashioned hypodermic syringes filled with insulin was the stomach, but seeing tiny purple bruises on some of my Scandinavian swim team mates' stomachs made me cringe. Scandinavians that immigrated to America, lead the world in Type I insulin dependent diabetes. Tall white blue eyed motherfuckers didn't evolve quickly enough to metabolize America's amber waves of grain. The pancreas of a Norseman simply poops out when confronted with 16 tons of sugar and carbs. Daily.

We're the skinny diabetics, whereas Type II insulin resistant, latent adult diabetes is a result of being overweight. Type II diabetics have a perfectly functioning pancreas, but heavy glucose and insulin loads have left their muscle and fat cell walls unable to absorb calories, hence the insulin resistance. So to lower blood glucose, Type II diabetics take medicines that stimulate the liver, pancreas and kidneys to eliminate the sugar load. Of course, the first battle weapon is a low carb diet, a shit-load of exercise, then medicine.

We all have friends and loved ones that have a battle with high blood sugar and it's our duty to understand this disorder. Fuck COVD viruses, diabetes is the real epidemic modern man battles, we consume a surplus of calories instead of starvation that all us homo-sapiens have suffered for the last million fucking years. We'd be angels for our loved ones if we could lend a hand, hide the sweet carb-loaded goodies and team up with 'em at the gym, yoga studio, karate dojo, or together, walk yer dicks off strolling up to first bridge or little Kivalina (south tent city). I've watched some good dudes lose limbs and pass away leaving us alone and heartbroken. Don't do that to your family.

I thought I'd outrun my ancestral affliction, but a decade ago I got sicker'n a fucking dog, puking up everything, including air and water. I was in the DKA penalty box: Diabetic Keto-Acidosis, rocket high blood sugar and a deadly emergency medical condition. After a 3-day, $30K stay in Central Peninsula Hospital's ICU, a pretty elderly doctor, that looked a lot like Helen Mirren, announced that they'd misdiagnosed my shit, and that I was part of a micro-small population with Adult Onset Juvenile Diabetes.

She was reading charts she'd pulled from the last million fucking decades of medical treatment in Rural AK, then looked at me and asked me about my native blood quantum: meaning how much native blood I had in me. My response was, "none since breakfast", all the native clinics and hospitals yer seeing on my chart are the only game in town. Thus, the misdiagnosis of Type II, common with Alaska Natives.

I could've had a fucking clue you know. My grandpa had diabetes, my dad and my younger brother did too. Call me a dumb ass, cuz as I approached 50 years old, my thirst for liquor increased and my hangovers got worse, and I couldn't put on any weight. I come from a long line of tall alcoholics, diabetics and ADHD motherfuckers that step in front of high velocity fists and bullets: it's a family tradition.

Yeasts, fungus and molds convert millions of tons of sugar from malts and barley into delicious alcohol. This creates a dilemma for our liver and pancreas functions: fucking overload. By unlocking the alcohol molecule, we're forcing our bodies to reverse alcohol back into sugar, flooding our bloodstream with fucking glucose. My diabetes and heavy alcohol intake drastically increases the stupid factor of death for a pea-brained retarded motherfucker. That being me, the dildo in the mirror.

I didn't need any explanation why gramps dropped all his tobacco and alcohol at the age of 50, except that his decision allowed him to live well beyond the age of 100. Fuck me, huh.

Every morning me and bun drive in to Kenai and do our shopping at Walmart's and grab a few sticks of groceries and dry goods for our apartment at the old folks' home. We also have a mission of mercy on our shopping list, we wander through the bakery and look for mark-downs on pastries on sale after the 8am hour. Baked goods after the morning rush are discounted by about half, so I can afford to be generous. I'm such a cheap bitch.

My donut deliveries are mostly targeted to the big old special needs gals at the thrift stores. I frequent the Kenai and Soldotna Salvation Army (salivation armpit) stores on a weekly basis and peruse the old jewelry section. Once in a while I find old watches and jewelry. A Rolex jumped into my pocket, as did a Movado and Tag Heuer, and with a new battery installed, I've pulled some serious dineros at various jewelers in Anchorage. We've also snagged poundage of old bent jewelry, then let Oxford Metals sort and pick through them all and make an offer for the different gold (14K and 18K etc) and silver.

Nobody gets rich on these larks, but after months of collecting, I've been surprised at the money we've been paid for old timepieces and scrap gold and silver jewelry. The watches don't fluctuate much in price, but since gold and silver is bumping up near record highs, I'm keen to unload our loot. Beside, if I gotta burn 4 gallons of Super Unleaded and drive the 160 miles over Turnagain Pass up to Anchorage for bun's ANMC appointments or Alaska Retinal Specialists, we might as well have some fun. And pay me back for all the donuts I bribed the thrift store gals with.

In keeping with our paying back what Alaska has given me, I deliver jumbo bags of chocolates to the Chiropractor, Subaru mechanic, and Denaina Native Clinic (Denaina Vagina) on our monthly or quarterly visits. The chiropractor pours the bags of chocolate candies in a big glass bowl for the patients, but the staff really light up bright when I drop off boxes of wine. What the fuck. I can't eat the shit anymore, nor drink the wine, but working gals love it. The Subaru mechanic also prefers bags of chocolates like Easter and Halloween offerings, but if ye want to score big, bring cases of Coors Light Beer.

All the gals at the Denaina Native Clinic like bags of chocolate so if I see big discounts, I'll drop off a jumbo bag at the dental clinic, the front desk and the pharmacy. Oh, I also hit the eye clinic and say hello to Dr. Megan Lincoln from Kotzebue and chat local vil gossip. Despite suffering drain bramage, I wouldn't think of bringing beer or wine or whiskey to the clinic if I want continued treatment as a retarded spouse of an IHS beneficiary.

You should see their faces light up. Me and bun stroll in with arm loads of chocolates, candies and sweets, and I'm the sexiest man in Alaska. I ain't kidding, its now expected that when I enter an establishment, "it's peanut butter jelly time." Even the mechanics at the Subaru shop get all happy shit, horny and sexually receptive. Okay, that's gross.

It ain't my job to feed and clothe these folks that I do business with. My job is merely bringing my money to their business, receive a service and settle up. Simple. Except, when I was working at my various vocations, I saw gaps and holes in peoples' days and routines. At the KPD and VPSO cop shop, I procured, illegally, dozens of jars of codeine from my good friend in Bellingham, Washington. He'd drive up to Vancouver, British Columbia and buy cases of 222's. They're aspirin or Tylenol mixed with a hefty dose of codeine and sold over the counter for common ailments, injuries and pains. All legal in Canada, but felonious in America and our colonial possession, Alaska.

I used to buy them for my younger brother who had migraine headaches and keep him stocked. I'd also keep them on hand for bun when her migraines hit, but they disappeared after she quit smoking. Fuck that was back in 1990. Wow. I also kept a stock on hand for when I had super awful hangovers from staying up for days selling blow and drinking too much. When I moved to Kotzebue, I saw a need in my coworkers for wife and child related aches and hangover pains just like mine. I'd brew gourmet coffee for the cops, hand out cigarettes and make sure everybody got sufficient numbers of 222's to remedy their accumulated and multi-layered hangovers.

Speaking of funny things that happened at Spit Nigruk. One day, years ago in Kotzebue, Eli Williams, his brother and that Malcolm dude (Astrid's husband) jumped me behind Hanson's on the way home. I was returning towards my house at #321 2nd ave. after dropping off a couple jugs of Bacardi 151 at Gilbert Schaeffer's (the gay one). As I walked around the back of the Yamaha shop, Eli and his brother jumped me and tried real hard to punch the shit outa me while Malcom just smoked and watched. I took some good hits, but was able to push, kick and stomp on the Williams red road turd squeezers. When I was done kicking and stomping, and those 2 Williams stinky niggers stayed down, I turned to Malcolm wheezing and asked him if he was next. He just shook his head, toked on his cigarette and said, "we cool." Another witness was a joker kid we called Spasner (Frank Hasner) and he arrived in time to see me kicking my downed opponents. Spasner stepped right in saying, "Fuck Karl. What did those guys ever do to you?" I just stormed up the trail to me and Higbitch's house, next to the old Trooper building.

Years later I was booking in Eli Williams into the Kotzebue Jail and he sure as shit remembered me. He was "jus junk" (just drunk) and looking to kick some ass, even in cuffs. He tried some Drunkpiaq high kicks and spitting, then put his head down and ran at me. I stepped aside and shoved him head first into the cement wall. My contribution was merely to steer him and help achieve ramming speed. His forehead, eyebrow and cheek tore like paper, but he didn't bleed much. At first. I reviewed the video surveillance tapes and the angle blocked my culpability and funny assistance in tearing this asshole a new face. I then left him locked up in the drunk tank until he stopped his fighting, so we could continue the prelim book-in.

Octuck came in for coffee, cigarettes and a handful of opium derivative 222's, then walked the jail inspecting the night's catch of drunk ass-piaq motherfuckers. When he saw Eli Williams, he exploded and assumed correctly that I beat him up. Well, sort of. Patrick reviewed the video and then contacted the next in command. After Wallace and Ward reviewed the tapes, interviewed me and Eli Williams, they concurred that it looked like I stepped out of his way, but shouldn't have let him run his numb skull into the cement wall of the booking room.

Eli wasn't helping his case much, he just yelled at the cops, kicked at the door and raised fucking hell when they tried to ask him what happened and if he needed medical assistance. Patrick had covered his butt, and the brass decided that Eli was major pissed off, way fuckered up and in no shape to be in the ER making a loud ruckus. We phoned Steve Troxell and he tried to treat Mr. Williams, who insisted on yelling, shoving and taking swings and kicks at the Trox. Nobody punches, spits and kicks the Trox, so he pulled the jail door closed and came into dispatch to join me and Octuck fer smokes, really good coffee and space music. I didn't offer him any opiate laced aspirins or Tylenols, he'd a-busted me fer sure. Then Eli started to piss and heave all over his jail cell, so we put him up on the big screen and jerked off.

Not. We just laughed, till the smell fucked us up. To survive the Kikikspit, I had to practice patience when I'm surrounded by puking and drunk Noatak unnuk butts in stinking clothing. To pay for the treatment of chronic alchohlism, we oughta sell tickets, like heave porn with midget nigger fight club seats. I could dress up tourists in dirty jail poop caked clothing and let them old white people sing, stagger and dance puking drunk and pretend to be natives. I might have a copy of Tilmer Black's jail surveillance video playing the human punching bag and wearing his own angry butt explosions and crap smears. We could dress up old white tourists in ungodly caked jail garb, then punch the shit outa them like brown-tard mud-fuckers. Speaking of a life support system for anal porn, where the fuck is Fernando Robles? I miss that asshole bootlegger and tiny cooter brown girl porker.

If I had a magic wand, I could fix everything. Good fucking luck. I've joked about a remedy for the devastation that alcohol has befell rural Alaska and our blessed native villages. When I first started my studies at Chukchi College, I was assigned a paper on the effectiveness of damp, dry or totally wet villages. The primary source for my paper was the Anchorage Daily News 6-part series called, "A People in Peril." The authors of this publication followed villages that went from wet to damp or wet to dry, then surveyed the VPSO's, Troopers, ER trauma surgeons and the Seach and Rescue callouts. All the data supported the decrease in domestic violence, child sexual assault and homicides.

One figure that didn't change was the astronomical levels of suicide. The dry, damp and wet status didn't play a noticeable role in suicide amongst native men. The criteria that affected native suicide was the lack of employment and wealth creation. The more traditional, cultural and subsistence driven villages were plagued with young native men killing themselves due to nearly non-existent economic opportunity to "make bank", "get paid" and "score some fucking cha-ching." A successful hunter was a rich man: 200 years ago. Any kid watching movies, TV or has access to the web will be sorely disappointed that bodacious babes and fine tasty pussy won't be thrilled with seal oil, whale muk, stink flipper, vagina-scented racks of fish or a yard caked with a team of dogs' poop.

The premise of my writing assignment wasn't to address or evaluate suicide levels so I left that topic untouched, but the decreases in overall crime rates were notable and statistically significant. A small part of the native community that the authors called chronic alcoholics continued their consumption of alcohol, but substituted their purchases from liquor stores, to bootleggers. By far, most of the populations in villages that reduced or eliminated the access to convenient liquor experienced substantially decreased drunkenness, public intoxication, CINA interventions (child in need of assistance), custodial safety referrals to battered woman's shelters and recidivist offending native men in custody. But, the chronic alcoholics continued drinking, even hairspray, mouthwash and Lysol household cleaners. Oh, and lots of Mashburn's really good home-brew.

The functioning alcoholics simply left town and migrated to Fairbanks, Anchorage and Kenai. Remember after the closure of all the bars and liquor stores in Kotzebue and NANA Region? Most of my friends pulled the pin, put in resignation papers and drifted away. My drinking pals like Brian Higman, Edith Honeycutt (Twiggy), Dan Newberry, Shirley O'Neil, Linda Kramer, Skeeter Jepson, Trudy Kenworthy, the Sidoris family, the Quinn family and a lot of social drinkers headed to Anchorage or Outside. You guys remember the families that moved to the Valley (Wasilla and Palmer), such as Ron and Peggy Brown, Jerry Covey, Jake Rogers and numerous others that found employment opportunities and wages insufficient outside of rural Alaska. A common tactic to maintain higher wages and benefits was to live in town and fly out to Red Dog on rotating shifts. To accommodate this migration out of rural Alaska, Red Dog flies all it's city resident employees to the mine site and port site for free.

Aside from my many years at UAF, Europe and Russia, I stayed in rural Alaska, but Barrow had a far greater battle with alcohol restriction. Native population in Barrow is less than 50% with whites, gooks, samoans and niggers pulling a cunt hair over half, thereby swaying the votes to keep a minimum of alcohol available: 12 bottles a month purchased from liquor stores down south. Another vote arose to go totally dry and alcoholic white supremacists calling themselves Barrow Patriots started suing the shit outa the efforts, so the City of Barrow dropped down to only 6 bottles a month. The rest of the North Slope, which included all the villages and all the oil fields, continued and reinforced a total ban on all alcohol. Similar to Red Dog providing free airfare to its work sites, all the oil field workers get free airfare from Anchorage at no charge, so does the rotating work crews working for the NS Borough and UIC.

At Stuakpuk (AC store) and gook shops in Barrow, I saw lots of colored folks buying a dangerous bleaching cream that lightens their skin making the wearer appear whiter. I thought this ludicrous. But I've been corrected in my dumb ass white trash understanding of being colored. A black girl named Kinshasa in my business classes at UAF was originally born in Central Africa, Congolese by descent and a naturalized American citizen after serving in the Army and pulling the GI Bill. She told me that the most popular make-up skin care product sold in the entire Central African Region was this fucking bleach cream that caused cancer and weird Michael Jackson blotches.

She laughed at me and told me that her whole life she wanted to marry a white man after she migrated to Europe or America. I blushed. I'm not always a caustic motherfucker, so I asked why. She looked at me with concern, then told me that women of Africa will even settle for "coffee brothers", meaning lighter black men. Her analogy was no upstanding black girl was gonna marry a "yard nigger" with all these fine white men crowding her marriage proposals and sexual fantasies. She called these marriages "hybrid hook-ups." I asked her what she thought of the white men in rural Alaska marrying native women and she glared at me and said, "Honey, you be stepping in the wrong direction." "You're supposed to marry up, then fool around and fuck down." Meaning scrawging and tossing brown poontang on the side. I sure fucked up. So did you nimrods.

Fuck it. I'll get back to my alcohol trades and barters on remote work sites. On my work jags in Dutch, Naknek and Cold Bay, I'd keep $20 dollar half-gallons of whiskey in my duffel bag and make sure my colored roommates took big gulps before or after work. I'd even hid these big whiskey torpedoes on the docks or in my 10-ton duelly flat bed truck I hauled frozen pallets of product with and pass a jug around between ocean going freighters we loaded with frozen crab.

My coworkers were usually black, mex, or nate, but were happy to take a toke break or chug offa jug. They also became good dudes to have around when the Filipino toughs wanted to mouth off and fight us niggers. This is way before breath-analyzers or drug testing and most of my bunk mates and coworkers were alcoholics, so on cigarette breaks, downing a large bottle of Beam, R&R or Canadian Mist amongst beat ass tired dock and factory workers was a welcome relief.

Plus I owed 'em. I learned that when a dude does you good, you do 'em better back. These old beat up men were more than generous with their weed and blow, so it weren't nothing to kick something back. You know, contrib nigger.

None of you coppers worked 16-hour night shifts on shitty jobs at fish and crab processing factories, but in the same way, we really needed friends we could count on. One of my dudes at Pan-Alaska Fisheries in Dutch Harbor was a big Indian I fondly called Chief. He looked just like that big motherfucker on Cookoo's Nest that suffocated Jack Nicholson with a pillow after the lobotomy, torqued that water fountain out of the floor and heaved it through the grated window. That was my buddy Chief, big fucking Indian. Real racist rez rat, but one of my best friends in Alaska at the time. Chief even tolerated the blacks and bikers as long as we shared cigarettes, bomber joints and my half-gallons of whiskey.

I sure looked for him on my return for crab season next year. I missed having him around, making shitty white trash and nigger jokes as we all laughed and smoked and drank. He oft repeated the joke that niggers were proof that Mexicans fucked the buffalo. I also missed him sticking up for me. I was an illiterate kid, alone and vastly outnumbered by older and meaner toughs and knife toting Filipino motherfuckers. We all stuck together, put in long hours on graveyard shift and took home our meager pay. To think any of those beat-to-shit buddies of mine are still alive is folly, but way back during the Carter Administration, as long as I begged, borrowed or stole a half gal, I was more than welcome to join this fish slime prison gang of older bikers, niggers, and one big Indian. Plus a white farm boy.

After 6 month work jags processing crab and salmon three years in a row, I swore I wasn't gonna do that back breaking manual labor ever again. I was gonna be a drug lord and get rich. Sure. After a shit storm of trouble with an overdose, a suicide and a break-in by a trio of bad African motherfuckers from the hood, it was getting clearer that the best I could do in life happened in Alaska, covered in guts, hauling garbage. When Brian Higman phoned me and told me there was work in Kotzebue slopping and sliming fish guts, I knew things were looking up. He was psyched about ICC, but didn't tell me about some weird fucking upcoming alcohol restriction vote.

I worked a whole summer in Kotzebue, made friends with a lot of the same type of beat-up alcoholics. We took frequent breaks while local fishermen offloaded their period's catch and boy was it good to pass a jug around, chief up mucho bowls of bud and pass around cigarettes. How I avoided an arrest warrant from Carl Schramm is beyond me. Higman insisted I work with him doing inventory on every piece of furniture and equipment in all the schools in the NANA region. He also made sure I got in the PERS system early on. Funny, he cashed his pension out, flew to Bemidgi, Minnesota and after a million fucking years, me and bun are still here in Alaska. I'm still "married down" but not "fucking up."

You all know my work for the NW Arctic School District, KIC and NANA, AC Lumber and Hardware (Tupik Lumber) and my work stints with KPD, VPSO, AST, the welfare desk and accountant at KBRW. At each of my hunnert places of employment, I easily seen opportunities to grease the wheels and chip in extra goodies when the need arose. Dennis Jennings and Glenn Lodge sure enjoyed gourmet coffee and Crown Royal as did the DJ's at KOTZ and KBRW when me and bun delivered music that didn't smell like vampire tea bags. Bleeding tampons you dumb asses.

The crew of drunks at Whitney Foods explained to me that the shitty music on KOTZ is all they got, bitching won't make anything better. Next time you throw shit at the radio because the menstruating announcers played whiny bitch tunes from chick flicks or dance music from shitty dances at Lyons Club, or awful disco from Pondu, round up a box of CD's from the British Invasion or southern white blues guitar artists and drop 'em by the radio station. Living with natives in rural Alaska doesn't have to suck all the time, all they need is big ass donations of music to play on the radio. You know, rock out with yer cock out and enjoy public broadcasts like a poor man's rock concert. You'll feel better, delay yer inevitable mental retardation and improve yer speech: "to da max dude" (Albert Monroe).

In essence, find what's needed or wanted, then produce it. When entire native communities teeter on the edge of a massive episode of PMS, phone all yer dudes and call for a meeting of the "mad woman's club." That's white man code talk for drinks and smokes at Brian Higbitch's, Pete Lambert's, Albert Monroes's, Wade Laws', David Burnor's cabin dump or Ray Blanchard's bar uptown. Leave the newly fanged brown women to their own devices like bubble baths and nuclear douches while all us swinging dicks book out to the Men's Bleeding Hut fer drinks and shit. The only places in the village, after Prohibition, you could sit down, smoke some bowls and down glasses of liquor.

From memory, and prior to 1988, the places in Kotzebue that working folks could go and confer, commiserate and drink beer was the Ponderosa (Pondu) across from AC. Another place that comes to mind was Stubby's located next to OTZ telephone. A coffee shop where you could buy bootleg liquor, cigarettes and coffee, toss coins in a juke box and keep a jug under yer coat to purify and boost the kick in yer mates coffees. It wasn't a bar, but it was a good place to get warmed up and imbibe fixer-upper liquor, caffeine and nicotine. Another beer joint was the In-Between with Rotman's on one side and Walker's liquor store on the other. The NANA hotel had a full service bar and restaurant and further down Front Street, the Top of the Whale was a popular two story drinking joint. The Whale later become the Bayside Restaurant, which burned to the ground last year, with the owner in it. No, I didn't kill him.

Between 1988 and decades later when the City of Kotzebue opened up their own liquor store, the only places we could gather fer beer, smokes and jokes was in private homes. Not the best places for wound-up cops and overworked assholes to relax, but we all had our favorite get together allowing us to re-join the human race.

Going postal won't do you or I any good. Besides, people get killed. I also insist on y'all planning and doing something nice for your community, instead of letting piss-offs build up and going fucking 420 Columbine: practice philanthropy. The popular 420 holiday arose from white supremacists celebrating Hitler's birthday: 4/20/89. Speaking white trash mental illness, I've got a couple stupid examples that should've been treated with a damn good party, smoke sesh, mushrooms, or lobotomy. Fuck it, LSD is a nice break from this inescapable structure of relationships, obligations and stress. When hatred and anger start to build up, don't do a Karl Ewing. That's simply retarded.

Way back in high school, I was getting a ration of crap from the other teams like the wrestlers and football players, to the point that I was dreaming of crippling them, even killing them. Me and my childhood pal, Pim were scheming shit like another pipe bomb or even shooting them, you know, just for fun. We'd already gotten in a ton of trouble back in junior high for trying to blow up the Meadowdale swim team by putting a pipe bomb in a locker with a really long slow fuse, timing our detonation to match their arrival at the YMCA for their turn-out after ours. The stupid thing exploded too soon and got us a visit to the police department and banishment from that pool and that swim team. Really risky venture for Team Hitler Youth.

So, the pipe bomb thing might lead the cops right to our front porch, so we needed another stunt. So us two mental midgets dreamed up a stunt: rope off all the main entrance and exit doors to the high school gymnasium during a wrestling match pep rally, then pull the fire alarm. My two other buddies, Jack Jorgenson and Stuart Frost were totally fucking game, so we stashed pre-cut sections of high dollar marine rope from Stu's father's sailboat upgrades in our gym bags and waited.

After the crowds were packed in the bleachers, we gave each other the nod and tied these rope sections through the handles on all the doors to the high school gymnasium. Stu and Jack booked to the parking lot, fired up their cars and rolled to their after-school jobs. Me and Pim walked slowly across campus with our gym bags, looked around for teachers, pulled the fire alarm and walked briskly to the pool for our regularly scheduled turn out.

The Enterprise Newspaper described the incident as an act of vandalism and suspected a rival school, detailing police pursuits and lines of investigation. Me, Pim, Jack and Stuart just kept mum and nursed ulcers like you've never suffered in yer fucking life. The morning home class announcements detailed progress and updates on rumors and information on the injuries and students still in hospital for broken bones and such. Our stunt went way past funny. Those poor kids climbed over each trying to escape. Yes, we're chuckling now, but don't try this at home.

We heard friends and classmates whisper shit to us and all of it was completely wrong. The idea of other schools and other teams seem to gain traction and stick, allowing a sort of tunnel vision in the wrong direction. Me, Pim, Jack and Stu merely agreed and passed on only the rumors that supported the drifting smoke of these turd piles of speculation.

It's funny, we've chatted in private about our stunt and despite the hundreds of panic-stricken kids and the rush toward locked doors, we still chuckle at the demise of our shit-ass classmates. 40 years after I graduated, I was nominated to be guest speaker at our class reunion and this gymnasium door roping stunt came up. The generally accepted rumors and explanations were commented upon, until guilt was pointed towards me and my asshole merry pranksters. Then the stupid pipe bomb in the locker chatter lit up the comments section of the Classmates.com web page, and then the 3 dead niggers, burnt and buried under an outhouse was tabled for discussion.

Years passing usually clear the fog of stupidity and gossip, and eventually my pals chatted outside the cone of silence, exposing me and my dudes. We were so busted, but 4 decades is a little late for paybacks. I wasn't contacted again. I'm guessing that for safety and security reasons, it's best not to have your best friends invited to a large gathering of your high school peers in one location. The possibilities were just too great. Dig me?

The opportunities to continue fucking up a culture of bullies with over-the-top score-settling stunts was too irresistible and the opportunity to bring harm to a large gathering of assholes and bitches would've been impossible to forego. The injuries we inflicted still traumatized these old farts and the Edmonds High School 40 year reunion failed to materialize, my classmates realized that we really fucking hated each other and time doesn't heal all wounds.

Tell you the truth, I was tempted to get in touch with Jack, Stuart, Pim, Jim, Dale and Dennis and plan another moron terrorist stunt. One notion was to park an empty Ryder truck nearby but spread a rumor it was filled with barrels of fertilizer soaked with diesel like Oklahoma City, or even the rumor of something as simple as dumping gallons of anti-freeze in punch bowls like all the dog bowls I poison here at the senior center. The possibilities are endless. What are they gonna do? Beat me with their canes and geriatric walkers? Suck my cunt-lipped goat ass.

We all can laugh when I glued Gumby's mailing address stickers on all those gay porn magazines and gay supply catalogs, scattered upstairs in the old squad room, but just thinking of committing more stupid stunts down in Washington started my stomach to churn. I was inflicting heartburn and stress on myself before I even sent a single email or phone call. PTSD from daycare sounds so fucking gay, but 1979 was a long time ago, so was 2019, and I was still in exile somewhere in Alaska, without internet nor cell phone. I gotta go to the fucking library to send you mongoloids my Hellblog Alaska postings. Google "Hellblog Alaska" and you'll see decades of postings in era specific language from 150 years ago and word usage circa Alaska 1888.

Good times. I'm pleased to report that you may someday read my name in the NANA Memorial. That section is more entertaining than the Sounder's Who Dunnit or Nome Nugget's police reports. Unless, I read a last name that's near and dear to me. Just today, I was reading the NANA Memorial and I examined a huge list of names I met and remembered. It struck me, and wet my eyes and nose, that one day in the future, I'll read my wife's name.

This'll bring tears to yer eyes, down yer cheeks and onto yer computer keyboard, but at that moment, I felt something fall. Something inside me. It ain't funny seeing old killers crying, so I won't be reading the last page of the NANA Hunter ever again.

Besides my wife, the only folks I'm connected to is a bunch of murderous cops that shoot back. I appreciate the latitude you gave me. You let me pull major crimes and misdemeanors involving guns, drugs and dead dogs, a gym full of terrified children and the ash-nigger remains of 3 Africans. Looking back, my problems ain't even close to the problems you guys shoulder, but all this time, you fuckers were exactly where you were supposed be: armed and on my 6.

After over 60 years of mayhem and mistreatment, the only person I'm hurting at this late stage of our lives, is the narc best known as Agent #N606. As tribute to you graying gunslingers, I promise that I'll continue renewing my membership with the human race and exercising my capacity to give. You murderous motherfuckers gotta keep an eye on me and keep me in line. I'm my own worst enemy.

Please, protect me from myself.

Karl.