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.