I smell mashed potatoes. Wait, make that raw uncooked potato. Duck!

Top of the morning gents,

When we were kids, we absolutely loved car chases in movies and TV. I really like Steve McQueen in Bullet and Roy Scheider in The 7-Ups. Stunts, shoot-outs and chases are a mainstay for us Boomers that were crapped out by ugly Depression era mommas. On TV, me and my brother Cully sure liked the reverse 180's and driving on 2 wheel stunts that James Garner performed in The Rockford Files. As as a matter of fact, the 1971 Pontiac Firebird Esprit is still to this day referred to as the 71 Rockford.

Little did I know was that many times our favorite movie stars were injured whilst performing these stunts and that the movie studios all but eliminated leading men from taking such stupid risks. To star in a big budget movie, all the cast members have to secure a performance bond, otherwise called a Surety Insurance Bond. The stars have to cover any absences, sick days or drug rehab days off-set and away from work. The movie studios have ongoing expenses that require some way to pay for idle staff, set crew and contractual fees. You overdose, your insurance covers ongoing expenses at the studios while you pamper yer faggot druggy ass in rehab. In the case of Richard Pryor, he was such a frequently hospitalized crack nigger addict he couldn't secure a performance bond and was removed as co-star next to Gene Wilder in Blazing Saddles.

If you crash a stoked up an automobile manufacturer sponsor provided car, your insurance pays for the repairs/replacement and yer busted limbs and teeth. James Bond only sits in a stage set Ferrari, Vin Diesel only reads his scripts inside a camera loaded Plymouth Barracuda or Dodge Charger, sitting perfectly still. Not one single leading man, lady or movie star ever gets to turn on the ignition and drive anywhere in these prop/stage automobile sets. The cars are too expensive, the camera crews and sound sets are too expensive and the actors can't afford to get a hang nail or scratch doing brodies, donuts, jumps and spectacular maneuvers we see in the finished product.

Roger Moore never drove a muscle car or race boat over jumps and none of the cast in Fast and Furious ever did more than let a fan blow their hair, make cool faces and read their lines while the animation techs created the appearance of these dildos driving such expensive props. The leading homos in the TV series Dukes of Hazard never performed the airborne stunts and killer chase scenes with inept backwards village cops. 150 mph, sure. That's such phony mucous. They're all sitting in a bogus stage set, going nowhere but deaf from the sound track, spinning the steering wheel like those coin-op kiddy rides in front of the grocery store. Imagine being called to step in and do the love scenes with Catherine Bach: that's us, the stunt cocks.

The drivers you see doing such spectacular deeds behind the wheel are professional stunt doubles that specialize in performing these feats. Find a stunt driver and paste on make-up, wigs and then let him put the risks of crashes and expensive damage on his own goddamned insurance. Both James Garner and Steve McQueen broke their legs making the Great Escape, and learned a valuable lesson: stunt driver doubles are cheap and replaceable.

The reason I'm thinking of dumb automobile stunts is that a few years ago, I remember telling you coppers we were following a stinky oil-burning junker pickup with loud shit-ass dogs barking in the back of the truck. We pulled alongside and bun whistled with her thumb and forefinger really loud and the dogs all jumped to our side of the truck. So bun whistled really loud again and called the dogs "Come on boys!" and one of the dogs jumped towards our car and got turned into red soup, shit and hair globs as Glenn Highway traffic smashed his guts like a Goodyear Tire Food Processor. The asshole in the oil-burning junker truck never knew he lost a mongrel mutt and kept rolling. Numerous cars next to us were busy on their phones calling 911 to report the canine blender dog shit shake and creamy crap smear a Glenn mile long, but not us. Bun just smiled and told me, "Punch it Appa."

Over this last summer, the back roads of Nikiski were getting upgrades and repairs which left rocks and debris all over the highway, forcing traffic to weave back and forth around dirt and pebbles like we were drunks. Similar to my upbringing, Nikiski has lots of shit-ass mud-farms inhabited by ugly motherfuckers. Just like me. On the side of the road I spied 3 "fugly" girls (fucking ugly) riding horses along the side of the road, galloping their oinker swine asses and bouncing their unsightly piggy tits. I accelerated to match the farm puke girls and steer the car toward a random scattering of round rocks roughly the size of golf balls or potatoes with diameters of 2-3 inches. I moved my Subaru's tire path to run over the sides of these rocks on one edge. Two rocks made loud "Boink!" sounds and I saw one stone shoot off the road and pick off a horse right on the rear flank and another rock peg an ugly white farm trash girl on the thigh. Score! The horse reared up and dumped the farm 'tard piggy sow off the rear and the fat girl I pegged in the blimpy leg was forced to ride her own waves of obesity and clumsily dismount, falling into the bushes and trees with the horses ghost riding minus fat chicks. Hillbilly mutts are fun to fuck with.

What you dildos don't comprehend is that I'm a product of my upbringing. I'm from Seattle where Road-Rage originated. If someone is driving DWO (driving while oriental) ye shoot out windows and pray ye put a third round-eye above their chinky slits. On my daily commutes to restore the Campus Apartments in the University District, I'd listen to a hard rock radio station located on the 100 position on the dial called "KISW, Seattle's Best Rock." On mornings, they broadcasted "the morning news for those of you on drugs" and overdubbed coughing, gurgling bong water and dopey stoner talk botching up the local and state news. I laugh at retarded stuff like that.

After all us Seattle drivers smoked fat chiefs, got chinked and baked like clams, KISW played "Electric Lunch at High Noon Ya'll" followed by Bozo the Clown music and with lots of clown chuckles announcing it was time for "Freeway Roulette." Seattle traffic was supposed to change lanes like spastics and drive like special needs bake-heads. Looking miles ahead, I saw hundreds of cars wander all over Interstate 5 causing rush hour traffic to slow down to a stoner's pace. Some drivers would roll down their windows and wave extra steering wheels in the air and then sweep across 3 lanes of traffic like they were stoners out of control. Even on our off-days, me, Marty, Cully and Eric would rally out on the freeway at this time everyday, just to smoke out, burn some boojey and fumigate our beaters. Fuck we'd laugh at the traffic around us. Those fried brain retards drove just like us.

My old 66 Dodge Dart was a super dependable rust-bucket. Me and Larson did a resto on the engine, new brakes and tires and since we lived in Rain City, we always sported high grade windshield wiper blades. In the backseat, I'd placed plywood and carpet over the rusted holes in the floor to quiet down the road noise and keep water from splashing in. Larson had 6 gallon-sized milk jugs filled with old used motor oil and wanted to take them to Meadowdale Beach to burn on our bonfires. On the way up North on I-5, we were piss-douched with a major rainstorm downpour. The rain was pounding the hell out of the roof of the car and my high-dollar wiper blades were earning their keep. Larson told me to pull in to the center lane on the Interstate, maintain speed, then started pulling the carpet and plywood off the floor of my old Dodge Dart. Marty looked back and asked, "What the fuck?" and Larson just grinned and stated we ain't partying at the beach in the pouring rain and proceeded to pour the milk jugs filled with old used motor oil down through the holes in the floor, right onto the freeway.

One jug at a time he poured this black shit through the holes in my floor onto the freeway in the pouring rain as I maintained 55 mile an hour. The oil spattered up in the air like speedboat or jet-ski rooster tails as traffic blasted through our mile long oil slick and sprayed this noxious slime on the windshields of thousands of cars behind me. I seen wipers flying like fucking crazy, only to smear a film of shit across the auto glass of slowing cars suffering zero visibility.

Traffic receded away from us and eventually we were the last car on the freeway pulling the red lantern and caboose. We never heard of any collisions, but it was fun to stop five lanes of traffic, have fun laughing spastic and recycle used motor oil in ways only Larson could think of. We smoked another bomber joint and snickered like funny fuckers all the way to the beer store, then drove back home to Lem's Mortuary. After we got a good fire going, we sat around the wood stove and chuckled buzzed. Only red neck motherfuckers know that motor oil and heavy rain blinds faggots like ammonia butt cream in the eyes.

Another Seattle neighborhood activity was something called "Egging." You all know how this works, ride around and pitch eggs at houses or cars, then throw rolls of toilet paper into their trees. I think these activities are past down since the 50's when white punks on dope had access to cars. On the mud farm we had chicken pens containing a hunnert chickens and an equal number of eggs every week. If Cully collected eggs and let them age until they were rotten and stinky, we'd have 2-3 coffee cans full of ammunition to throw at poor victims of random violence. Stuart, Pim, Cully and me would scavenge liquor and weed, then rally around North Seattle and look for opportunities to fuck shit up.

We'd be on the lookout for cars with open windows and pitch putrid rotten egg bombs aiming for the narrow open targets. Most of the time, we merely splashed a horrid stink-bomb on windshields, the windows and the sides of cars driving the opposite direction, but sometimes we'd score. On summer evenings lots of folks enjoyed driving around utilizing the poor man's air conditioner: open windows. As we sped around, driving drunk and smoked out, we'd occasionally pick off the driver's face with a rotten egg or blast one through the open rear window and see kids cover their faces from stink bomb high-impact injuries. Then the smell would likely kill them. Chemical warfare dudes. Fuck I'm funny.

One evening we were speeding around and Stuart was pitching foul nasty bombs out the side window at parked cars and cars coming out of the Driftwood Theater. He wound up and hurled a beautiful spiral right into the open window of a car that pulled directly behind us and started pursuit. They were pissed and were chucking bottles of beer at us as we weaved around traffic and tried to force them into a wreck.

Apparently the rotten egg blasted the driver in the chest and splashed guts on him and his bitch. Talk about a horrible date to remember: a beater car filled with cackling punks throwing perfectly aged sulfur stink bombs on you and your girlfriend. They chased us all over hell and we must have missed every cop in Edmonds, Lynnwood and Mountlake Terrace flying around exceeding speed limits, traction coefficients of friction with our tires and forcing our chase car up on the curbs and across front lawns. Despite picking this butt fucker off with many more rotten eggs, he kept coming.

Cully yelled at me that we should ditch him in the Indian Trails, a wooded area surrounding Catfish Pond with bike paths and hiking trails too narrow for automobiles. So I picked up speed and at the last minute yanked the wheel hard and almost took air barreling down a narrow dark dirt trail through the trees, we flew down to the bottom and I had to brake super hard to make the tight left turn at the bottom to avoid flying into the swamp. I killed the lights and floored it down the same bike path we all took to elementary school our entire lives. We could race this bitch blindfolded and with moron mongoloid muscle memory and a farm kid's sixth sense we avoided clipping trees, only turning on my headlights in time to sneak between steel posts at the far entrance of the woods and book.

The following day, we sneaked into the woods to see a wrecker pulling their car outa the swamp. That hard left turn was tighter'n a bitch and following hillbilly dopers into the pitch dark woods was retarded. First, take a rotten egg in the face and all over yer car, then drown yer date in a stagnant pond. That's the history behind the pond's name: Catfish Pond. His bitch gulped and choked on water and pond scum with her terrified vagina and screaming wide-open beaver, forever changing the smell of the fish. Way to go dildo, and I thought the rotten eggs smelt fucking terrible.

At the YMCA where we all swam away our misspent childhoods, we snagged fire extinguishers that you wrench off the top, fill them with any nasty liquid on Earth, then pressurize the canisters like an auto tire with an air hose at any gas station. We'd pour ammonia, old lady perfume and my dad's Avon butt-gas belch cologne, then connect a pressure hose and turn this fire extinguisher into a urban warfare spray-gun weapon. We filled and charged 3 of them and loaded into Stuart's Dodge Coronet with a 383 V-8, smoked some bowls, down bottles of liquor and beer, then went driving on a mission to spray stupid motherfuckers.

We'd try to be smart and spray a whole line of cars waiting for lights at intersections. In Seattle, you had 3 lanes: left turners, a straight through lane and right hand turners. We'd try to speed down the straight through lane and spray the entire lane of right hand turners and douche open windows and the faces of the drivers. Unbeknownst to us, we sprayed a trooper van filled with convicts en route from court to jail. The driver's window was rolled down and he took a piss load of stinging stink in the face and across the interior. The prison van driver tried to pull out and chase after us so we fucking booked. A van filled with prisoners ain't much trouble for Stuart's Dodge, so he punched it and flew around the block a few times emptying our perfume canisters, then headed to my place. I hopped out and pulled the fence aside so Stu could park his car in the backyard, then I pulled the fence back and we went inside.

One of the fuckers handcuffed in the court transport van recognized us, knew about our pranks statewide and ratted us out to the driver, who then reported our stunt to the local bacon bits. The Mountlake Terrace cops drove by a bunch of times awaiting our arrival, eventually parking down the road to watch for a carload of long hair rednecks, armed and dangerous, with fire extinguishers filled with stinky ammonia, old lady perfume and my dad's old fart butt-spray cologne. We weren't busted yet, but we were all stapled on Chief Don Beuler's Most Wanted List. He was obsessed with arresting us for a number of charges, namely being under the influence of mental retardation, parental inbreeding and fucking goats in the ass. The last part I made up.

One of Beuler's defective detectives approached Lem's crack house and knocked on the front door. I answered it, said hello and denied any knowledge of spraying dangerous and caustic chemicals in the face of a uniformed officer. I pointed to the cars in my driveway and told him they were the only cars registered in my name and he could compare the plates to the complaint he was servicing. He played coy and walked around my rusty shit cars: beater Dodge Dart and an old junker AMC Ambassador, scribbled the plate numbers, makes and models. Two super mature and dorky automobiles and not what he was looking for. He asked to open the car doors and look inside and pop the trunk. Nothing. Mr. bacon bits even sniffed the insides. I asked what kind of car and plate numbers he was looking for but he advised me that the officer was blinded by dangerous chemicals and couldn't see details and that the complaint was based on a prisoner who named me as the suspect. I shrugged and shook my head, then told him I was sorry I couldn't be of more assistance. I pressed further and asked who the prisoner was but Barney gomer piglet wouldn't reveal "his source." I'm still stumped who ratted me out. Hell, you know yer a loser when you have so many friends in jail, you can't narrow it down to just one.

Now remember, ye don't have to be behind the wheel to have fun on the freeway. Lem's Mortuary was on a hill above Interstate 5 and perfect to practice our golf swings. We'd tee off buckets of golf balls stolen from my grandfather's golf course and experiment with large woods or if we were skilled enough, we'd swing irons aiming for the highway. The balls would arc over the fence and trees, then bounce off the freeway pavement way below, occasionally striking a car. We must've played thousands of late night golf tourneys practicing our swings and perfecting our hook so our balls would pitch to the left and down into traffic. Never operate golfing equipment while impaired on alcohol or drugs. Or both.

We also constructed a funnel-ater. A large sturdy funnel with holes cut on opposite sides connected with 10 foot sections of surgical tubing: the same rubber tubing you get with Wrist Rocket Sling Shots, but a lot longer. I'd have two buddies stand a dozen feet apart holding the ends of the rubber tubing, put a potato in the funnel, back way up and let the potato fly like a really big sling shot. That fucker would soar a half mile or better and explode on anything it hit. Asphalt, cars and big rigs. We launched apples too, but potatoes went the farthest.

We even debated launching the neighbors' shitty cats, but we couldn't catch the little fuckers. If I could build one big enough, I'd launch dogs too. Maybe little children. That'd be a funny gut-buster. Launch a retard white micro-unit dullard kid a mile in the air and bounce his shit offa truck or passing car. Fuck 'em, eat traffic and leave a skid mark and crap smear longer'n dog shit burger on the Glenn Highway. On one mile high launch, we pegged a bearded biker with a high velocity potato. Fucker just slid along the roadside, scrubbing his fat ass off on the highway. That'll teach Mr. Harley Davidson Tough Guy not to eat hard uncooked French Fries and un-Baked Potatoes and drive at the same time. To date, whenever I see ugly hairy-assed bikers on the highway, I imagine an exploding potato blasting their craniums like an organic grenade and hydro-shock mashed raw potato bomb.

The Mountlake Terrace Newspaper headlines likely declared "Shitty Biker Volunteers For Organ Donor and Yard Sale. Death by Mr. Potato Head." Or, "McDonald's sued for serving uncooked food". Our supersonic potato exploded on his greasy skull like a spaghetti bomb, explosive diarrhea or JFK blowing a gasket all over the rear of the presidential limousine. Next time you see a nigger druggy racing around on a wheeler or sno-go without a helmet, just visualize Karl and stoner dudes packing his ear hole and blasting his brains out his eye holes with a potato moving faster'n hyper-sonic Hellfire missiles shot out of a Predator Drone. Okay, a potato shot out of a homemade funnel slingshot from way above. At Lem Mortuary and Crack House.

Years ago, when me and bun lived in Willow, we drove up to Talkeetna to visit a grower dude and score an elbow of weed. We had to wait in a long line of stalled traffic as emergency personnel cleared a doozy of a pile up. Yup, a whole shit pot of bikers were chopped up like stew meat and smashed like burger. A long line of fat old white bikers were aligned 40 strong in parade formation of greasy druggy puke Harley Davidsons in tribute of old fat white long haired shitty bikers. An old guy about our age was heading the opposite direction in a Nissan Sentra and the opposing parties were approaching each other at a combined collision speed of 130 miles per hour, then in a blink of an anus, stopped dead. Well, the vehicles stopped dead but the guts, poop, blood and eyeballs kept on flying airborne.

Once traffic was cleared to proceed past the burger zone, we drove by and seen a dozen mangled bikes, a long line of ambulances and wreckers plucking bent boomer tricycles and geezer 2 wheeler toys and loading them on a flatbed destined for the bone yard. The culprit vehicle was a simple little Jap-mobile: the Nissan Sentra. The old man driving Nissan had a fit of sneezing and his car veered across the center line and took out a stink pile of shit-ass bikers. That's it. A fit of sneezing. No crime, no drunk driving, no druggy driver, just an old man sneezing like a motherfucker and swatting ugly bikers off the highway like shoveling shit offa pit bull dog fighting floor. How cool is that?

Ya see, I've had my fill of stupid bikers. Ugly motherfuckers gave me and my buddies grief for doing such good business at Lem's Mortuary and Crack House. Seems the bikers didn't appreciate our entrepreneurship, marketing zeal and creativity avoiding the cops. We'd be visited by fat slob piggy shit bikers thinking they were gonna warn us to move our shop, insofar as to rat us out to the cops. When fat old bikers are outnumbered and out-gunned, they tend to stop the harassing house-calls. But it still warms the cockles of my heart to see and hear about bikers smearing guts across roadways like a bagel topping or sandwich spread.

During my tenure in Willow working the Mat-Su narc job, I was always putting up with shit-ass wanna-be bikers. Up at the Rick and Bonnie Carlson's we'd have to stomach drunk fucked up bikers pouring out meth on the counter tops and mirrors and it was my job to stage party photos with my new "buddies" and send copies to the Trooper office. I'd always have a camera on hand for these nimrod bikers to ham it up and pose in front of their drug piles and liquor bottles. Two particularly obnoxious scooter fuck ups were John Hyde and a stinky dill rod nicknamed Rat. I'd often refer to Rat as "Rat Fuck" or "Pus Rat" which rhymes with muskrat. John Hyde preferred to be called Raw Hyde, which made me think of the sand paper inmates discover when they fucked him up the ass.

Their hangout when bar-hopping was the Silver Fox, part way between Meadow Lakes and Nancy Lakes in Willow. Of course my bosses encouraged me to frequent the joint and partake in the festivities, insofar as covering my bar tab, but not the whole bar, just those 2 particular druggy fuck-head biker turds. Troopers Tyler, Bleicher and Bowman were out and about awaiting my signal that these boys were fucked up, armed with pistols, packing meth, cocaine, green bud and departing the saloon. Of course I bought them dozens of shots of Jack and pitchers of beer, smoked a shit load of weed and snarfed piles of blow. When the boys were making for the door, I phoned trooper dispatch, which notified my back-up crew to converge and wait for the inevitable brawl out front in the parking lot.

Raw Hyde and Rat Fuck said their asshole goodbyes, thanked me for the rounds and stumbled out into the parking lot on a mission to deliver some drugs up north of Willow. As they mounted up and started their Harleys, my team of cops surrounded them and attempted to arrest them for driving obviously drunk, but also for the guns and drugs they were packing. The records check Mat-Su Narcotics ran on them turned up multiple felony convictions and both currently on probation/parole. These greasy stinky niggers were sitting ducks and may have a good entrapment case if they didn't pull knives and pistols and start swinging. Tyler, Bleicher and Bowman had some tactical boys in the wings and when the fists and fur started flying, they made a grand entrance and delivered a million fucking blows, gallons of pepper mace, then a Tazer light show that lit up that stretch of the Parks Highway like a thunder and lightening storm. Do you smell smoking gonads and teeth?

These two motherfuckers never were prosecuted and all my happy family photos of their partying were never required at grand jury or petit. Raw Hyde and Rat Fuck thought they were gonna fight, cut and shoot their way outa their inevitable arrest, but my supervisors had a much different idea. The troopers took some punches and cuts, but the guns were stomped on the ground breaking the fingers and hands aiming them, yet these boys were tuned up mean and ugly and amped up on the booze I bought them and all the blow they hoovered down. The pepper mace was only a minor irritant, but the baton blows, shotgun butt impacts and Tazer shit fucked 'em up in a big way. You'd think my bosses would of just opened fire on these hostile Tangos, but the close combat and flying fur kept the 40 cals and 12 gauges holstered. It's PR-24 and ASP baton party time niggers.

John Hyde and Rat Fuck were both rushed to the Mat-Su Regional Hospital in cuffs with a million fucking cops and emergency vehicles as escorts. Me and bun waited for the fireworks and strobe lights to leave the premises, went out to our old Caddy and motored North back home: super drunk, stoned and wired up to beat shit. This work is stressful. We couldn't sleep till the next afternoon, and after we got notice from the head office that both these boys had expired handcuffed to their hospital beds: heart attacks and internal bleeding. What you just saw was a highly orchestrated assassination of two ugly motherfuckers and a good trashing of their motorcycles. My phone rang of the hook with my entire neighborhood and circle of druggy pals telling me updates on last night's events at the Silver Fox. Like I didn't already have a clue. It was righteous.

For you civil rights advocates, I believe you have a legitimate complaint on how this arrest and homicide was orchestrated. Yes, it was a pre-arranged hit on two full-fledged members of the Hell's Angels and yes I did pour gallons of booze down their throats, extinguishing a forest fire of green bud smoke and washing down cups of snorted powdered drugs. You may assume it was a lucky guess they'd pull weapons on the cops and you may assume the cops would exercise extreme measures to subdue these hairy asshole monsters. And it was a beaut. I got high-fives from my bosses and accolades from all my subsequent undercover employers for decades to follow. And I am completely happy with the outcome. I fucking hate old fat white biker trash and still I feel good with my small part of that op. I suspect you boys do too.

Now wipe that grin off yer face and let's get back to Lem's Mortuary. To keep inventories to a minimum, I had to switch from a store front cocaine operation to only picking up wholesale weights, packaging the shit up, then making deliveries to preferred addresses like Door Dash or Grub Hub. My customers totally dug that shit. No more visits to a house of ill-repute, plus I always layed out piles to snarf as we did our business. That always gets folks psyched. I'd sit, chat, do comped lines, down a beer or two, then glance at my watch and head off through the boonies and back roads to meet my delivery route schedule. After my route was completed, I'd only have scraps and extras to share with my house mates and beer guards. The preferred party at my house was maximal alcohol and marijuana, minimal speed, meth or cocaine.

Back to our potato and golf assassinations on I-5 just below Lem's, the Warren Commission will release the Zapruder film footage of us blasting sick Washington fuckers with golf balls, apples and potatoes 20 years after our deaths. Shit, most of my dudes were dead and long gone mere months after these dumb ass stunts. Fuck it, us few remaining KPD 'tard cunts ain't long of this world, lets have a party at the Chief's and shoot lethal projectiles at passing cars on the Parks Highway. The kids will love it and we can load and shoot the neighborhood pets with our homemade funnel-ater through open windows of assholes speeding by heading to Willow or Shitbanks. What the fuck, we're gittin' drunk in the Valley o' Trash. After launching apples, potatoes, cats and puppies into Parks traffic speeding by, we could have a drunken orgy, but if the only bitches there are our wives, let's drop that notion: that's gross. I oughta grow up. When I'm like 90 or some shit. Fuck us.

Here's a weird story you'll dig. A truck loaded with lumber was involved in a rear-end collision at a stop light north of us here on the Sterling Highway. The lumber never slowed down and speared all the cars in front, killing a shit load of dummies. It's funny how 60 miles per hour feels nice and mellow to a dip shit, until your vehicle is abruptly stopped. Then everything in your car kills even more motherfuckers. On the Seward Highway, just South of Girdwood we seen a hellish head-on collision with a shit load of blood and guts all over the fronts of both cars. Both cars had dogs in the backseat and upon impact, the dogs killed the drivers and passengers in both cars. Everybody had their seat belts on but the dogs kept going 70 mph and collided in a fraction of a second at a combined impact velocity of 140. Fuck, that's some fucked up dog shit all over yer ass and made identification of the vehicle occupants nearly impossible. DBDS. Death by dog shit.

I recall an accident back in the 90's when Frankie Evak was driving drunk and speeding with Nush and Octuck passed out like stink monkeys sprawled all over the car. She was approaching Fairbanks at high speed and crashed into stalled traffic, awaiting rescue personnel to clear another accident 20 cars ahead.

Their car piled up and crushed numerous vehicles into tin accordions as they sped directly into a virtual parking lot on the Chena Pump Road. Frankie, Nush and Patrick weren't wearing seat belts yet survived with only major injuries, covered in garbage, beer bottles, cigarette butts and puke. It's a miracle Patrick, Frankie and Nush didn't end up on the hood or all over the parked cars they blasted into. Mrs. Evak fucked up dozens of cars she rear-ended, driving while blind at over 80 mph for Team Bacardi and exploding into a stand-still pack of idling cars. With her eyes closed.

Again, nobody fucking died. God looks after drunks and derelicts. Frankie Evak was cited for felony DWI (driving while Inupiaq) and numerous misdemeanors such as seat belt violations, waking up behind the wheel doing 90 and generally behaving like a drunk ass bitch.

Crash scene analysis found zero trace of rotten eggs, golf balls, apples nor potatoes. And no dead dogs, nor dog poop. Except one unsolved mystery: a side window was shot out. Don't blame Nush. He never.

Eskimo drivers, no survivors.

Well, okay, three.

Karl.