One look at any of us, we can tell our parents are retarded.

Top of the morning gents,

"Karl, before you watch any TV, I want you boys to go out back and butcher up all the rabbits first." Story of my fucking life. When yer raised on a farm, ya gotta learn to kill yer pets, strip the feathers, fur and hide off 'em, then stow 'em in the freezer. Only then, can us inbred hillbilly kids watch TV, go play with our friends or ride bikes to the movie theater.

Me and my brother Cully were the oldest of all the boys in our mud farm family, so we had to do the dirty work of chasing down adult chickens, ducks, rabbits and goats, kill them and make food outa their shit. We'd open up the rabbit hutches, grab the larger rabbits, hang them upside-down until they stopped kicking and flailing, then hit 'em in the back of the head with a hard punch or nigger knocker. Sometimes we succeeded with only a karate chop. I perfected the open-handed strike to break their neck and then sever their heads with a butcher knife. The faster we'd snip around the feet and tails, the quicker we could tear the fur off, pull entrails, wash the carcasses in vinegar water and slam dunk, freezer bound. Then go out to play.

You ask why we'd hang them upside-down. That's to induce a head-rush or cerebral hemorrhage and the rabbits, chickens and ducks would pass out, then we'd practice our David Carradine Kung-Fu death punches, listening for the loud snap, crackle and pop from breaking their necks. Decades later, I seen Octuck and Murphy striking seals with the Inupiaq GI Joe Kung Fu Grip, the same way I punched farm animals. That's right, we bad.

At the Edmonds, North Seattle and Shoreline Colleges, I picked the classes that were interesting and was drawn to subject matter related to alcoholism, drug abuse and aberrant sexuality. In my Psych-264 and 265 classes at the Seattle area community colleges for inbred hillbillies, incest farm fucks and retarded white trash, we were educated how Washington was rife with serial killers and their theoretical origins. Figure it out.

We'd read case studies of Ted Bundy's career as an evening hospital orderly and his weird methods of busting a nut and spooging glue like Manilaq orderly Mark Caruthers. Mr. Bundy would find patients that were heavily sedated after surgeries, find their incisions anywhere on their bodies, pop a few loose, then fuck them. He was discovered after morning rounds found an elderly woman had her post-appendectomy sutures partially opened and a dose of sperm-goo injected inside. Yup, ol' Ted Bundy fucked partially opened stitches, come a load and drove it home. I think I'm gonna yarp. Even on a real horny moment, that is some seriously weird whacking material. Mr. Bundy climbed into the nurses' dorm building at UW and bashed a bunch of students heads in with a nigger knocker, killing them. He drove his VW bug all the way to Florida, continued his head knocking murders, convicted and executed. On death row, he was consulted for information in the investigations of his peers, 2 more famous serial killers.

Wesley Allen Dodd was a character that snatched infants from parks, daycare centers and hospitals in various wardrobe disguises, take them to his secret grotto, fuck them and then hang them in rows like laundry. He was spotted snatching a baby, booked into a restroom, dressed the little baby boy as a little girl, including wig and make-up, then walked briskly to his car. A King County Sheriff followed him and saved the child at Mr. Dodd's secret nightmare hideout, but found a collection of trophy mounts. He had rows and rows of hanging babies, and to this day, that still creeps my shit out. That's saying something. Wesley Allen Dodd was given the choice of hanging, firing sqad or lethal injection. He chose the trap door rope drop: symbolic of his victims' cause of death. I probably would've chosen the firing squad over hanging or electric chair. Never under estimate the extremely dangerous risks, possibilities and consequences of mental illness.

Many years after the Green River Killer was apprehended, Mr. Ridgeway pled out to over 40 homicides, for a million life sentences. He'd pick up hookers along the Sea-Tac Airport strip, drive to a pre-planned isolated spot in the woods, and instead of horn-dogging some AIDS pussy, he'd strangle his victims, snuggle and hug their corpses, then position the bodies in symbolic poses akin to a shrine. Mr. RIdgeway agreed to take the FBI and King County Sheriff's Investigators on a tour of his secret stashes up and down the Green River and throughout the Pacific Northwest and reveal his remaining hidden bodies, in exchange for avoiding Washington's old school death penalty options.

I'm sharing the most bizarre and infamous case studies from Washington State, but the profiles for these serial killers is seriously stupid gay shit and nonsensical as an explanatory or predictability tool. The FBI, King County Sheriffs and Washington State Patrol sent guest speakers to our lecture halls to educate us how killers are made. These dorks would prattle on about children that were infatuated with torturing and killing animals, then moving on to humans: wholesale. These killers were abused white boys ages 16-35 and only stopped killing when they eventually grew tired of homicide or were incarcerated. I seen the inside of lots of jails and I'm in my 60's, but I ain't tired of killing shit. I suspect you killers are in possession of information regarding possible serial killer case files in Alaska, and kept yer puke down and barf swallowed deep.

Killing animals for food ain't the same. On Saturday mornings, me and Cully would round up pre-designated chickens or ducks, separating the hens that didn't lay many eggs, the smaller roosters and devise ways to quickly kill them, dunk them in scalding hot water, then pull all the feathers off. Once the feathers were pulled, we'd take a propane torch canister and burn off the micro-hairs and feather nubs, rinse the carcasses and pitch 'em in the freezer. Then it was off to the movies.

Hanging an animal upside-down seemed to put them out cold and unconscious, so I could break their necks, chop 'em with an ax or experiment with the wire. We'd normally use a sharp ax or hatchet, but sometimes we'd try a guitar string like a garrote. I'd manufacture wooden handles, then tie a long guitar or violin string around the handles and then, with a single wrap around the neck and a vicious yank, the head would fly airborne and we'd be on to the next chicken or duck. I never tried the wire garrote with larger animals like dogs or goats, that'd be too much neck and too much comedy.

Ya see, chores came first, then we could go to the movie theaters. Immersed in old Boris Karloff Frankenstein movies or Bella Lagosi Dracula movies totally rocked and us farm 'tards could escape the mud life attending movies. Us inbreds loved any kind of movies. War movies, action crime dramas, westerns and even horror movies were better than home life. Movie stars were better looking, better dressed and always had the finest babes in their arms. One TV show that gave us farm boys serious wood was I Dream Of Jeanie. I could eat a dozen babes like Barbara Eden. Those outfits created the illusion that her ass was talking directly to me, her breasts seem to expand as I stared and her pussy was best eaten in gulps.

When I imagined being Larry Hagman, I simply thought he was gittin' some fine blond lippy sugar snapper, 24/7. Watching the Dallas TV show, I bought into all the glamour and drama surrounding Ewing Oil. Us farm 'tard kids epitomized Ma and Pa Kettle and we believed in silly Hollywood bullshit. Years later, I discovered that Larry Hagman was a chronic alcoholic and was one of the world's first volunteers to under-go a liver transplant. Fucker kept drinking, second liver failed, he croaked. What is interesting is George Jones, the legendary country music singer followed in Larry Hagman's footsteps and also paid cash for a new liver transplant. He also kept drinking and killed liver number 2. And died.

On a sunny Saturday in fourth grade, I wanted to go to the school playground and join my friends for baseball. Mike Callahan, Mike Perlatti, Tom Girvan and a slew of other rural turd Washington cross-eyed maggots including Gordy Kelly, Frank Empfield and Kenny Miller were hanging around in the front yard while I grabbed my glove, bats and extra baseballs. My mom stuck her head out the front door and yelled at me that I had to bury all the buckets of chicken, duck and rabbit heads before I could go out to play.

My friends blanched, swallowed and looked at me, thinking my mom wasn't right in the head. I told her that I would finish my chores and asked my friends to hang on a second while me and Cully grabbed shovels and fetched all the buckets filled with heads, rat fur, guts and stinky feathers. My childhood friends couldn't resist, they had to follow and watch.

We never made it to the baseball field. My little elementary school buddies had a field day playing with all the heads, body parts, gizzards, guts, beaks and feathers. I laughed so hard as my buddies worked the mouths of dead animals, impersonating my chuckle-head retarded hillbilly parents with silly voices and made up really funny shit. "Karl, make tea" or "Karl, fill my douche bag with horse piss", "Karl, could you retrieve your sister's tampon?" or "Karl, could you hold yer sister down so Cully can spoon her pussy out? She's pregnant again."

Red necks, farm 'tards and inbreeds do home-schooled sex-ed. We also named all our sisters' abortions Camaro, Ford and Garbage Truck, after the cars and trucks they were conceived in. Examining those little fetal dudes before mixing them with dog food, we'd see tiny mongoloid cowboys, little homeless alcoholics and micro grease monkeys. Fetching lost tampons and scooping dead babies is a skill-set all of us utilized later in life.

Looking back at my friends play-acting with dead animal heads and shit, I now realize my childhood pals were just as deranged as us and we fell all over the place laughing like lunatic midgets and tossed sick rotten muke at each other. We eventually dug deep holes and buried all the grim playthings but my pals got in heap big trouble when they got home, they were a mess and stunk like red neck bleeding huts.

35 years later in Kotzebue, I was asked to help bun's brother Charlie butcher some moose and caribou. He said Kenny would load the bowls of green bud and I brought my own Jim Beam. We cut up 4 caribou and then we cut up a moose in sections and dragged it to the table in front of house 704 on Front Street. The first moose came apart quick and easy and Charlie laughed at my butcher knife skills and speed taking apart dead animals faster'n a Mexican with a speed-wrench. When Kenny and Charlie mumbled something Inupiaq and laughed at some white man humor, I replied with, "You guys are real funny niggers, this shit is old hat." They didn't laugh at the nigger joke or my comment that ye can't see shit or blisters on brown dicks. Touche butt-fuckers, suck my ass.

The second moose was a maggot infested stinky disaster. It was filled with a hunnert 22 bullets and leaking infected shit all over us. Apparently, the moose wandered too close to Kiana and half the fucking town unloaded all their 22 ammo into the poor fucker. The moose lived many more years filled with small stinging bullets and a million fucking bullet holes. Kenny and Charlie finally shot it with a respectable 30-06 and dropped the animal, loaded it in their boat and ferried it to Kotzebue. That's when we cut it up, opened all those pustules and vented a nuclear cloud of retched stench. Kenny turned green, Charlie spit bitter drool, but I didn't puke. I'm inbred farm trash. I done eaten worse pussy.

Back on the farm. On Saturday afternoon matinees, my buddies would meet up with us at the theater, count our change for admission and count our cigarettes. Ya see, we were a product of our movie idol behaviors. We loved to mimic the cool fucking movie stars in war movies like John Wayne or Steve McQueen in action flicks, then smoke cigarettes in the same fashion. Little did we know, Steve McQueen lost a lung at 48 and died at age 50 and John Wayne downed a quart of tequila every day and lost a lung a few years before he also died of cancer.

When the first Pink Panther was shown at the Saturday matinee, we loved David Niven and his cool cigarette smoking antics. Movies stars and their super hot co-stars were a wonderful escape from farm chores and rural retard living. But, I never knew that David Niven's voice was over-dubbed in this movie because his throat was removed due to cancer and only whispered his scripts for the rest of his movie career. Val Kilmer hasn't spoken an audible word for over ten years because of his cigarette smoking but can take roles with minimal speaking lines and computer dubbing to fill in the silent whispered blanks. Lastly, one more silent entertainment star: Bob Seger. Yup, he hasn't sung a show in years for the same reason: no larynx from smoking. And I thought being a movie star was cool and smoking was cooler. That's such fag shit. And I ate it up.

A common fantasy us men carry is when we go to the movie theater, we secretly pray for the chance to have serious sex with superstars like Sophia Loren, Racquel Welch or Marilyn Monroe. Ya see, in the world of imagination, we don't think of any negative consequences of dipping our unloved, painfully rock-hard, cramping boners into those fine babes we see up on the big screen. To us, it's just great sex with women so gorgeous that in our minds and hearts, these delicious film starlets are best described as members of the fifth food group. Meaning, these starlets are so beautiful, they're pretty enough to eat.

Just last year, reading a conspiracy book that de-bunked urban myths, I was shocked to read that Marilyn Monroe had 14 abortions during her modeling and movie career. The last abortion was suspected to be either a JFK or an RFK baby. Thus adding silly rationale behind the retarded conspiracy theory of her assassination. Truth be told, she was a life-long amphetamine and opiate pain-killer junky and an alcoholic. She died from a combination of these habits. The Kennedy's are still douche bags.

Hollywood is an illusion. Just don't go back in time and tell me and all my elementary school pals. We'd prefer to remember those fantastic images with so much make-up, hair, wardrobe, stage sets and highly scripted lines. My wife was reading a book a few weeks back and I lost another illusion. I always imagined that Dolly Parton would choose me to bathe naked with her and thoroughly enjoy my carnivorous feasting on her boobs, pussy and fine round ass. In my wife's biographical reading, she told me that Dolly Parton spent many thousands of dollars on hair pieces. Yup, she had a collection of expensive high-dollar wigs and that all that lovely hair she showed us was pure stage craft. I'll still chow down on her fine femininity any fucking day of the week. Check that: I'll happily do a bald no-hair babe if she's got huge flesh melons piled high and roundness stacked way up like Dolly Parton. Simmer down dudes and wipe yer chin, yer drooling.

Another superstar entertainment illusion that I've clung to for decades is the radiant beauty, talent and spectacular dance routines of Tina Turner. We watched a biography about her climb out of poverty, destructive marriage and eventual stardom. She was born dirt poor to a really mean and ugly nigger momma that didn't even like Tina Turner as a child, "I never loved that child." Tina suffered frequent beatings from her husband Spike Turner, finally exploding on the scene with her multi-million selling solo albums, starring roles in big production movies and massive sellout concerts. I was surprised to discover that she also maintained an expensive wig collection. Today, she walks with a cane.

On a different masculine illusion, and sorry to take the wind out of your sails, but Lorne Green from the western TV series, Bonanza was really bald and wore a wig for his entire TV and movie career.

Years ago, restoring old buildings in Seattle, I'd load the job-site ghetto blaster with Joplin, Hendrix and Doors cassette tapes to entertain my work crew-mates and pass the time during long shifts. One of my dudes on the construction crew told me that those 3 performers all died at the age of 27 years old. In the year 1971. I frowned and he further explained that in 1971 Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison all died of drug overdoses, at the same age, the same year, and the same drug: opiates. Janis Joplin liked heroin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison like morphine based pain pills mixed with alcoholic beverages. I did the math. They were all born in 1944 and would be 78 years old today. It's best they died young, handsome and saved us all from seeing their sorry wrinkled asses gimping around old folks' homes. That'd be nasty. Die young, make a handsome corpse.

Years ago, I was walking out the door of my fifth-grade classroom when the teacher asked me to stay after class. My buddies looked scared, glanced at me then the teacher, then made like phantoms and disappeared. Mrs. Cook waited until all the other children were gone, and then told me she was disappointed with me and upset at what my buddies were chatting about in class this morning. Mrs. Cook told me she'd overheard the boys telling tales about smashing a goat's head in with a hammer and pulling an arrow out of a tree that pinned both a raccoon and a rooster flat against a tree. Busted. I almost swallowed my tongue. She advised I keep these made-up awful farmyard fairy tales to myself. Not all women teachers are cunts. Okay, maybe.

The previous weekend, my dad had smashed the head of a goat in with a large hammer, hooked it up to a pulley upside down and had me and Cully pulled the hide off it. Then I opened the belly and let the guts fall into a large wheelbarrow. With a hunnert of my neighbor pals watching with fascination. Me and Cully wheeled the guts out back and poured all this foul shit all over the compost pile. My neighbor buddies immediately flocked around to inspect gizzards and hooves. Goat guts smell just like caribou and moose shit piles, steaming and horrid. Washington kids like that shit. Fun fun.

We disassembled the goat and put the usable meat in bags and stowed the shit in the freezer, then hosed out the garage and swept eyeballs, brains and fur debris into the gut-barrow. Afterwards, my dad pointed up in a tree and showed all the kids a raccoon he'd shot with an arrow while it was fleeing with a chicken it snatched. My father had grabbed a rifle, but my mom intercepted and insisted he use a bow and arrow. So dad shot the little fucker up in the tree and pinned the twitching duo like insects collected under glass. The chicken and raccoon both kept moving for a while, then both went quiet and started leaking down the tree bark.

Me and Cully were instructed to climb the tree and pull the arrow out, drop the puke meat but don't damage the arrow. All my buddies were cloistered around the base of the tree and watched me hand Cully the arrow and drop the twin meat lumps down on the ground below, at the feet of my childhood pals. They were totally digging this action, it was way better'n watching fucking TV on weekends. Even cartoons sucked in comparison. Dead animals, farm boys chopping up goats and pulling arrow-impaled varmints outa trees is cooler'n fucking shit. My buddies got tough too, they didn't puke when my dad was smashing my pet goat's head to bits, and even kept their barf down when we seen a dead human body.

After me and Cully delivered our newspapers on our early morning Sunday route, I needed to piss and we used a Union 76 gas station bathroom on 5-corners that was always open 24 hours a day, even after closing. Early Sunday morning, when the whole town of Edmonds, Washington is super quiet, we had the world to ourselves and could kype shit like thieving motherfuckers. We snagged tools, fresh-delivered chocolate milk, cigarettes and beer from carports, decks, porches and front yards county-wide. I went into the gas station bathroom and smelled something familiar, sort of like down home on the farm. I booked to the urinal, pissed out a gallon of stinky piss rich in sour goats' milk, rotten meat and vitamins, then seen feet under the shitter stall next to me.

I didn't panic too much. Okay, a lot. But I made a bunch of noise running water and washing up and flushing the pisser, then yelled at him to see if the man was alright. Nothing. Just quiet, familiar odors and me. And a man's feet that didn't budge or twitch when I pounded on the poop-stall. I ran outside and told Cully, who glared at me like I was full of shit, lying and trying to pull some toilet prank on him. So I told him I was gonna go across the parking lot, far away and let him look himself. Cully was my younger brother, scared easy and told me that he didn't want me too far away and wanted me to stay close while he took a look. He booked into the public shitter and came out pale green and shaking his head. "Fuck Karl, that's gross." "Think he's dead?"

Truth be told, my brother was really fond of me and I did my best to explain a sick world to him. He never understood brutal, violent parents, his injuries and so much hillbilly homicide. Our entire lives were good practice eating stinky nasty game meat at the dinner table and not barfing in front of our sick farm 'tard parents. I also looked after him our entire lives comforting him after our whippings and beatings. Once grown, I fled town and got employed at KPD. Some obligations to our younger brothers are still left unfulfilled, but I've since adopted a pretty elderly native woman and comforted her childhood suffering. I suspect that's why we all entered public safety.

Standing outside the gas station shitter, we both mustered bravery and went back in. Like army commandos, we layed low and peeked under the shit stall walls, seen dark black skinny legs and a fat old man with his pants around his ankles, leaning against the stall divider wall, with his eyes open, just like Elvis Presley. I spied his wallet partially exposed sticking out of his trousers, so I grabbed the fucker, pulled out all his money and tossed the wallet back between his purple thighs. The damn wallet bounced on his leg and went directly into the toilet filled with guts and dead man shit soup. Fuck. Me and Cully then went back out to the parking lot and the only car in sight was a beat up Ford LTD like Barnaby Jones' car on TV, parked near the gas station shitter door. We searched the entire vehicle and snagged his cigarettes, road flares and a handful of coins in the console. Then we booked.

We didn't phone the police, we sneaked to our pals' houses, tapped on their bedroom windows, woke them and told them about the dead body in the Union 76 gas station bathroom. They fucking leaped outa their beds, jumped into their clothes and like stealth TV spies, exited their houses silently and grabbed their bikes. Me and Cully were now the proud know-it-alls that got to show our best pals the coolest shit a boy could dream of: a dead body. They were totally psyched. This was better than Christmas.

Like village gossip bitches, me and Cully eventually went to all of our dudes' houses and told them of the discovery and in no time, we had a major crowd of little boys on bicycles taking turns peeking under the shitter stall door to look up at a dead old man with his pants around his ankles whom croaked taking the last shit of his life. I should've charged extra admission for the smell. Fuck it, they didn't even notice the stench from expelled guts and cooling poop. We were programmed Washington fuckers and eventually destined to be killers, drug dealers, jailers and narcs. And in the case of yer author on drugs, all of the above. Later that day, one boy told his little sister who'd then tattled and told her dad, who phoned the cops. We were long gone when emergency personnel arrived, scattered to the four corners of the neighborhood. I always wondered who fetched the wallet out of the toilet full of bleeding gut-shit stew.

Like you coppers, we all left a trail of dead bodies in our wake, but I'm not sure this qualifies as serial killing. None of us fit the FBI, Sheriff nor State Patrol profile. We're too retarded, love Hollywood movies, immune to dead humans and farm animals and laugh at the stupidest shit. Like these postings of human frailty and people of the communities we moved to. We also laugh our asses off at the people we work with, our jobs and especially, our coworkers' children and grandchildren.

We're such dumb motherfuckers. Not being our parents, still ain't being ourselves.

One look at me, you already know my parents are mean, sick and retarded.

Apple don't fall far from the tree.

Karl.

Don't come to Alaska to strike it rich. Come and strike it poor.

Top of the morning gents,

I ought to be more sympathetic and understanding. On my daily routines I chat with every person I possibly can and do a complete detective douche, anal probe, DNA analysis of their speech patterns, language crap smear, poor English denture exam and personal hygiene taste test. I don't sniff their uch nor look for surgical scars from cleft palate rectum repair, but I do an overall assessment and collect billions of bits of data. Data about their origins like birth city and state, neighborhood slang, dialects and word usage. Then I come home and write to you coppers in a composite of these blended samples. And you thought I was creative. Nup, I'm a crook and steal everything I ever scribbled.

On my morning mish, I clean up and dress up, drive in town, hike a mile or two at the high school track, take a walk through Safeway or Walmart's, visit with my regular employees and chat up moose road kill counts, fish kill counts and the price of gas. I also chide my dudes about their commutes to work and one pal, Jeremy from Kasilof, I inquire when he's gonna load up his smoker with the 31 cats his wife has collected. My references to smoking hot pussy or when it's time to grease the cat's butt always get a good guffaw out of him. We know he'll never kill 31 cats, nor his wife, but we repeat variations of these stupid jokes. You shooters do the same with our oft recycled humor, and I like it. It provides continuity and patterns that we all need, count on and miss when one of us leaves Alaska. Or dies. Same thing.

Jeremy from Kasilof came to Alaska when his grandma died and left him a piece of property and trailer that he's now adding onto. He's been doing the camp life for years now: no running water, no electricity and wood heat. No shit, he charges his cell phone in the car and at work, buys batteries for his radios and flashlights and white gas for his lanterns. I'll ask him about his evolving structure and construction techniques, offer advice and deliver a lighthearted dude punch on his shoulder, or just a handshake. Simple. I got lots of new Alaskans that I raz with stupid humor, then wrap up my monologue with "we ain't inbreeds, we're 907 Negroes", "we ain't retarded, we're from Alaska" or "here in Alaska, we marry our own sisters, but we sleep with our brothers." Yup, that's kinda gross. When asked to drop by fer beer and liquor, I tell 'em that the last time I drank any alcohol, I awoke surrounded by 17 black children. Folks laugh at that shit.

On my morning routines, I bump with a hunnert new Alaskans. Most don't know where me and bun came from, and likely don't believe our stories. Meaning, they don't believe I lived, worked, drank and smoked with you fuckers. Rural Alaska is incomprehensible and the older I get, I'm starting to doubt my memories too. Ya see, these folks I banter with are all recent arrivals and are still trying to find where all the free money and gold mines with their names on them are located. After 150 years, Alaska is still marketed as the place to come and strike it rich. Someone oughta stop that shit.

I encourage all my morning visitors to go hunting or fishing: dipnet or setnet or just a fishing pole. Kings are extinct but silvers and reds react best to chemical treatments. I promote simple smoking recipes, canning in jars and of course just freeze the whole fucking fish. I explained that leaving the guts and head on can help retain moisture, but takes up weight and room in the coolers and freezers. I also recommend using alder or birch wood for smoking, saving money by avoiding those bags of store-bought apple, cherry, hickory or mesquite retail wood chips. Besides, the flavor of the finished product comes from the sauce/brine/soak process, the smoke only dries, textures and cures the fish and meats. I've lectured them that commercial smokers tend to run a little hot, so building a box outa plywood and piping in smoke from a nearly snuffed birch or alder filled fire box will produce a steady smudge fire smoke and damn good smoked meats. Ya see, smoked meat and fish is mostly soaked with flavors and dried in smoke. Very little cooking occurs, if any.

I explain that brining fish in salt and brown sugar for a day works good, but so does soaking yer fish in a tub filled with molasses, syrup, honey or brown sugar thick mud slop sauce. Skinned and cleaned salmon fillets quickly absorb whatever you soak 'em in. I've dumped in liquor, wine and beer and I've also poured in generous cups of any hot sauce I fetch. 24 hour soaks work best cuz any longer, the brine starts to turn into watery fish sauce and the salmon, caribou or moose gets soggy and mushy. After a day or two, just pull the pieces of meat outa yer thick sugar and spicy hot sauce, then place on yer drying racks and fire up a sweet smoke fer another day or two. Just pinch yer meats and pull it out when it's gone from mushy to smoked and dried and tender to the touch and looks mouth watering good.

Hot smoking fish at higher temperatures, meaning kippers, is okay, but a little tough and not as good as that soft chewy shit we occasionally produce with lower temperature longer smoking. I've taken salmon caught down at South Tent City and Cook Inlet, smeared it in table sugar and store-bought smoke flavor extract goop fer 24 hours, then simply dried it, leaving all the paste crap all over it. Decent product, but cheating, without smoking, in the minds of connoisseurs, like us.

Okay, back to my chatting with armies of lower 48 arrivals. Truth be told, I've tried to paint a picture that's prettier than reality. A lot of my new arriving 907 worker bees are from destitute regions of the lower 48: primarily coal country and are actually welfare tourists. Black diamond mining is a good industry for our coal states and the unions have negotiated decent wages and benefits. And pensions. With the closure of America's coal mines, whole populations migrated north to Alaska. Sound familiar? Sounds a lot like myself, fleeing Washington State's massive depression in the 70's and you funny fuckers fleeing Michigan's massive depression that's been brewing for 60 years. A few of these new arrivals go to work, look to buy cabins, shacks, shanties and even trailers, hoping to strike it rich.

Most arrive to merely strike it poor and march into the Public Assistance Office and start receiving food stamps, housing vouchers, heating assistance, energy assistance and the biggy, Medicaid. At my Safeway pharmacy, I'm only one privately insured customer outnumbered by 10 Medicaid customers. Private insurance is small potatoes in the total revenues any Alaskan pharmacy rakes in. 90% is a majority and highly subsidized and highly profitable Medicaid medicine drives up everybody's prescription drug costs. Medicaid really ain't helping anything.

Most of you shooters know that I was hired at the Welfare Desk in Krotchebue to examine eligibility and transition recipients toward work and self-sufficiency for the thousands of welfare niggers in the NANA Region lofty and stupid goal). I closed most of the cases due to non-compliance. None of these butt-colored Inuit-midgets would attend Adult Basic Education nor get General Equivalency Diplomas (ABE/GED). Some stinky niggers couldn't even perform work-activities such as gathering firewood, setting fish nets nor harvesting caribou nor moose.

Them little butt-fuckers just sit and eat government commodity garbage, watch wrestling on TV, consume tobacco and get REAL fat. TV wrestling is so gay and artificial it makes me chuckle when punk-ass nate-puke micro-homos chatter on about VCR tapes of staged episodes and phony stunts. The arenas you see on TV wrestling have more microphones, effects boxes, amplifiers and speakers than any rock concert. When a wrestling actor dives or stomps on the wrestling mat, the concussion is louder than cannon fire. Little micro-nad boys like TV wrestling cuz it's a homosexual outlet. Sure, they're not butt-fucking faggots, they're re-enacting TV wrestling they saw on RATNET (rural Alaska television network) television last night, better known as Rat-Fuck-Net, truly bad TV fer poor minorities. These porch monkey runts have no idea how bad it will be to wrestle one of us inside the KPD jail. Midget wrestling oughta be the new Inuit Tough Guy TV sport, stagger drunk into the ring, wheel them back out in a wheelchair.

At the welfare desk, after my 6-month evaluation, I was let go. My lay-off was actually called a probationary non-retention. I was hired to ADD to my case loads and increase benefits and programs. What was I thinking? Natives are supposed to be welfare niggers, sucking on black titty resources and joining the ranks of ghetto residents, homeless campers and sidewalk sleeping, puke wearing Eskimo drunks. Reggie Joule once stated that "welfare has destroyed a once great culture." He's so cool and well-spoken. Then I discover that ALL of his kids are on fucking welfare. What a chump-ass nigger lover. I smell something.

On my discussions with new arrivals, striking it poor, instead of striking it rich, is completing the AK-49 pattern. This wave of unemployable hillbillies, niggers and Methicans aren't here to work hard at figurative gold mines and strike it rich. They're here to join the Natives and strike it poor. Welfare teams in Alaska line up for the black man's grub stake, with ignorant cowboys and farm trash sluts reaching for the brass ring normally assigned to ice-niggers.

All throughout America, the maximum draw on welfare is 5 years after President Clinton pushed through legislation called the DRA (deficit reduction act). This DRA was happily rubber-stamped by George W and Obama. Up here in Alaska and far away from the real world, in 21 of Alaska's 28 boroughs, the draw on welfare is unlimited. A lifetime of free-ninety-free nigger food stamps, public housing and sucking ass on the dole. Yup, slavery never left our state. Poverty is the first life-style choice of first Alaskans. And worst Alaskan welfare tourists.

We just put shackles on multi-colored niggers in the form of eating garbage foods, chronic sickness and obesity, living in the shittiest neighborhoods, consuming subsidized tobacco and breeding with their own kind. The most concentrated drug abuse and overdose deaths occur in low-income poverty stricken neighborhoods, better known as ghettos, barrios and slums. And Native villages. I guess I need to accept the world is absolutely perfect, exactly as it is. I can only affect change in my own life, so I follow an elderly native woman to the gym every day.

I'm so sneaky, I hide locker room talk inside compliments. As I enter the weight room everyday, I compliment the men and women already working out by stating they "set a high standard" and "in a country dying from tobacco and obesity, you motherfuckers are better than everybody." The ladies (both young and old) blush and smile, the dudes give me a hoorah, flex their muscles and mimic Arnold with "yer a girly man" or SNL Hans and Franz's "we pump you up."

I settle in and warm up by lifting the most weight in my life. I just turned 61 on June 30 and I'm sort of the unofficial maintenance monkey and sports bitch. I also out-lift most of those goofballs holding the record at 350 pound bench presses and show up at the gym more frequently: 7 days a week. One insult I toss at 'em is "when you get to be my age...oh wait, you won't live that long." I'm a funny fucker. Plus, all this keeps me from dying of loneliness.

Ya see, old women's peer groups expand with age. Men's peer groups contract over the years. After we leave our jobs, pull the pension and settle in our rocking chairs, Geritol and Medicare, and stare at the TV, we see little of our friends. I fucking fight that shit everyday. TV is now specifically made for us old farts, so don't look at it. All the advertisements are for old fart meds, hunchback old bitch bone supps, masculine and feminine napkins and the silly myth we're not old fat prune-skinned crippled TV-hypnotized blobs of fecus. The more we watch TV, depression becomes a significant factor cuz when yer watching TV, yer not amongst friends. Yer all alone, or sitting with yer nugger wives. Not good fer geezer squawboys like us. Kill yer television. Okay, maybe yer wiff too.

Me and bun got no TV (cable or antennae), zero Internet access and just listen to radio broadcasted all over Southcentral Alaska. When I dial in chick puke bitch tune radio, bun starts throwing shit. Women's lib means more whiny radio, and bun gets ballistic. So I try to find a station that don't whine too much and piss off bun. She hates girley shriek pop rock, Michael Jackson queer nigger-butt poaching songs and will vacate the premises if I play any New Cunty and Western stinky bitch stations. I've created a monster.

I'm married to an elderly Eskimo broad that prefers Zep, Floyd, Stones, Who, SRV, Albino Winters, Healy or Kenny Wayne. Ain't no Motown here on the white klan peninsula and all else is for ass-sucking queers. I've only got a few classical music broadcasts on public radio and Bun loves opera. I try to avoid it. If I hear tearful opera, I get flashbacks and my shit gets fucked up. I don't recall why this happens, but if the music strikes a tragic nerve in my thousand year memory, I'm overwhelmed, dizzy and wrought sick with images that ain't mine. So, after breakfast news broadcasts, it's off to run our first errands, walk the Kenai High School track a mile or two, shopping and chatting up my dudes, back home for lunch. Then it's weight room time. Walk, lift, repeat.

According to the Welfare Desk Training Manual, the 3 causes of poverty are poor health, poor education and poor family planning. Don't that sound intelligent? What it really means is poor motherfuckers are sick, stupid and breed like mud-colored rabbits. Or to quote the late Scott Whalin, "poor people breed the best." He'd tell me funny stories working for OTZ telephone and the squalid conditions of the houses he worked installing phone lines, the foul smelling grovels and rotting shit, food and garbage stacked all over. He once asked his Noorvik village nigger relatives why they "don't fucking clean their homes" and their response was, "the government never come and clean up."

Scott'd laugh and tell me that Eskimos collect all their cuktaq soaked fly buzzing diapers and used tampons in case they run out of food. Mr. Whalin razzed me about loose stool villagers making Inuit Top Ramen made from brown chunky diapers and Red Rose tea made from rusty tampons. I miss that guy. He sure grew a set of big nads and turned on the sperm production after he dumped dry stink-uch Charlene Ferguson and scored that younger babe. Fucker died surrounded by a batch of cute infants and children. Dude sure came a long way.

Remember, after Richie Reich stabbed that child-molesting ass-raping motherfucker to death with scissors, Scott Whalin helped drag the dead faggot out of the Midnight Sun Cab garage and into the old 1974 Dodge Coronet, where said bleeding dead rapist fecus-eater froze solid, bonded permanently to the metal. Way to go Scott. When I reported that the cops had to bring that old Dodge into the Fire Hall to thaw out Mr. Butt Cream Fart Hammer and tear his frozen ass outa the trunk. Mr. Whalin paled. Despite locker room sick jokes with me, we never get over these things.

I chatted with Scott Whalin's mom (Anna Henry Whalin) while awaiting bun's appointments at the NSHC (Norton Sound Health Corp) hospital in Nome. She was cool to broach the subject of Scott's culpability, but stated "that man was getting young boys drunk and molesting them." When asked about Richie Reich killing him and dragging him out to the trunk of that old Dodge Coronet to freeze solid as a rock, she declared Richie should have never spent a day in jail. "To wake up with that man on top of him, I'd a killed him myself." She told me that when she heard Rena Ward Barker's son hanged himself in that same Midnight Sun Garage, she was relieved the shop was torn down.

My belief is that buildings aren't haunted, but cultures and people are. And sad to say, that's what I found so fascinating. The oldest, most ancient aspect of rural Alaska and it's inhabitants as a whole, torment themselves, much like us. We may have demons, memories and cultural ghosts inside us, but they're invisible and silent until we leave our hometowns, fly thousands of miles up North and back in time and interact with new, long-suffering communities. Hell, some we married into. My battles with invisible nightmares serve as a tool belt, travel guide and translation manual to understand my contract jobs all over village Alaska, my neighbors and even my marriage. Nonetheless, we ain't healed shit.

Explain why this makes sense. We cut down hangers by the dozen, bagged crushed bodies and tried real hard to inflate dead Eskimos with CPR. I've seen you boys hurt your back hustling injured human beings to the ambulance and froze yer hands on shovels chipping bits of poor souls offa frozen dirt roads. I suspect you soldiers remember every little child's last breath, girl's heartbeat and woman's final cup of bleeding warmth upon yer face and hands, but injuries and incremental dying of yer poor battered souls and bodies never got better. Only so much worse. You boys know these inescapably painful fractures and horrid impact wounds sting and ring so terribly, right now as you read this. Decades after the screaming, weeping and wailing stops and we bury the quiet ones, you boys will only hurt more and more, forever. That's a sorrowful and ever heavier sack of burden on yer back.

Writing is distracting. We wake and shake off night horrors, then go out and absorb what little pleasantness we can. Then you'll see I sent another email, read it and come back to that place where it all stops making sense. Stop reading. Tell yer coworkers that they should resign for new work, else they soon look like us. If they take work at Safeway or Walmart's, I'll get a chance to flee this place, tell a stupid joke and go back home feeling little better.

The world is perfect exactly as it is. But I'm not.

If you insist on leaving yer TV on, you'll see we're no more divided as a country than any other era. It used to be called the "generation gap", but now it's about liberals, conservatives, blacks and whites and straights and faggots, gender fluid nut cutters and men with silicone boobs and stitched sphincters with dentures stapled in. A hunnert fifty years ago, it was about slavery and the Indian Problem. Now the issues leading the news is abortion, gun ownership rights, black lives matter (but not red) and natives buried at boarding schools. Boo fucking hoo.

Working with cops, narcs and ambulance drivers, I've learned to make exceptions in my intellectualism and my racism. Marrying an attractive rich native woman only drives my lessons home. I fought hard to be a heartless drug addicted dumb ass, brainless alcoholic red neck and retard farm fucker. After 40 years smoking and joking with you lot, the composite tapestry you see here, typed over miles and decades of empty white space is eventual acceptance as a member of your club: intelligentsia. You fuckers are so logical, calm and patient in bearing my extreme mood swings, mysterious rage and inexpiable fury.

You guys are laughing at me.

Now I get it. To be young and not liberal is to have no heart. To be old and not conservative is to have no brain.

Karl.