History seldom progresses upon consensual intercourse.

Top of the morning gents,

I was steamed at my grandpa when he told me that my wife "was a little dark, ain't she?" My grandpa joked declaring Alaskans are composed of mostly "whores and miners, cuz my uncles shipped 'em there." I tried to explain to him that she was the last of the dying breed of higher blood-quantum Eskimos and not a descendant of the first waves of ugly hillbilly frontiersmen, redneck explorers, illiterate trappers, pecker-wood settlers, white-trash homesteaders and slave-wealthy colonists.

The uncles my grandpa referred to formed the tug and barge and steam-ship magnate, Archer-Ewing Incorporated. My great-uncles fled the lost confederate campaign to Seattle for the next financial frontier, shipping prospectors, miners and supplies, opium (laudanum) and liquor, plus black-market purchased children from the orphanages all over the Pacific Northwest up to the Alaska Gold Rush ports of Ketchikan, Skagway and Nome. These imprisoned children were forced into the sex-trade brothels that made Alaska the number one sex tourism destination in America before and after the turn of the century (1900). My grandpa recalled funny stories of loading steamers "six-deep" with children, both boys and girls, negotiating terms of sale with Soapy Smith and Wyatt Earp, then marching them ashore at gunpoint, to whore-shacks, fuck-tents and houses of ill-repute, to get reamed out at least a dozen times every day. The price was $10.00 a hump, with mobster brothel-keeps skimming most of the proceeds. Brothel-keeps Alaska's recorded history painted as famous law men and gambling dandies.

History is written by the survivors, and these little whores didn't live much longer than their warranty of a thousand days shredding ass and shedding vaginal tissue and dumping out their whore-house offspring and diseased progeny into slop buckets. Promises are hard to keep and history proves this: even today. I try to tell the truth writing these tales with historically accurate details from the assholes that profited from it and by stealing stories from you coppers' case files. Case files that Patrick Octuck gave me on my last visit to his condo in Fairbanks and source material for tales I weave in and out of reality, fiction and literary license. Familiar criminal details I gleaned while speed-reading through Officer Octuck's boxed files ending up here upon a canvas splattered with real stinky paints.

We will never encapsulate nor credit you coppers, what you've sacrificed in blood, cartilage and guts. Oh yeah, misspent sperm and lost opportunities harvesting delicious younger women whose beauty is unfortunately wasted upon the young. In summation of your payments in pain, stress and familial frustration, and poorly aimed ejaculations, our shit-ass lives add up to these pathetic shambles we've got left. Fuck, it's a damn shame that you only had one life to give for your job, village and state. And thinking of the genetic improvements you contribbed to rural Alaska, only two testicles. It's no fucking mystery why us assholes got several boroughs and villages (and countries) chasing our shit for child-support. Child support that's a few million years in arrears.

Now watch how I build my stories. It ain't no secret that they start from an of honestly sketched kernel, a seed of truth that steadily grows into a gigantic bullshit tree. Before I conclude this lecture, you'll see that none of my police tales and reproductive stories ever get smaller with retelling. This you know. Our collective memory is far too accurate. The sharp edges, burnt skin and torn scalps never dull over time, but my stupid humor eases the stomach you get investigating homicide crime scenes and the subsequent collection of grisly bits of hair, semen, blood (spattered and droplets) and the odor of poor humans injured to death, then abandoned to freeze, or ripen to sour. With some heavy lifting, I'll transition from the grim, the blunt into my silly wit normally found in child-care centers for autistic Finns or a detention facility for Nordic mongoloids like us. Dumb and funny.

Transferring from the Mat-Su Narc Squad to the Kiana (down-river triangle) VPSO posting, I received a really nice recommendation from my bosses, Troopers Tyler and Bleicher. There words typed in my review were that I had an extremely thorough understanding of Alaska Statutes and damn near photographic memory of important details in my case work. My after-action reports and debriefs listing names, faces and important details regarding locations of firearms, egress and hidey-holes and ambush hazards important for warrant searches and breaching premises. All while buying drugs with state monies, consuming some too.

I suffer from an iron-clad memory and my heavy drinking and mountainous marijuana consumption hasn't given me a speck of relief, my detailed recall stays far too sharp and still stabs my guts at this end of my life. Some of the shit we seen is too awful to look at again, then describe in this email. Just a few weeks ago, after I heard my brother Cully died from excess drink, I secretly prayed for early on-set Alzheimer's to dilute and wash away graphic childhood scenes we shared together and similar to what you've felt and witnessed in your investigations. My storied horrors have a starting date over 60 years ago and pick up speed and intensity after working with you lot. A bunch of fucking cops in the same boat.

You see, you lucid animals are part of an extinct era and reciting Alaska history is like a nostalgic trip to your own backyard, rural Alaska. I guess mine too. I get to pick the brains of you coppers regarding long ago events, recent shit and police assignments. I also include historical data of our more enjoyable yet uncooperative pussy and forced intercourse events. This composite meat grinder output is a mixture of fetching news stories from the Helsinki Sanomat, Arctic Sounder, Skagit Valley Mirror and UAF Anthropology textbooks and researching violent crime stories and forced breeding patterns across boroughs, demography and centuries. My job is to paint landscapes in your warped imaginations carefully shoveling leaking body cavities, limbs, teeth, and hair around the old squad room until we're knee-deep in cigarette butts and coffee grinds. And hot shell casings.

These confidential details I've boiled and rendered from decomposed sit-reps and after-action reports are my ingredients flowing freely into these postings. Like fucking diarrhea. Planet Tagruk is a real place and time, but I've skimmed heaps of bullshit and vaginal discharge off yer tactical optics that pleasantly blinded us ass-raping subhuman creatures in uniform since fucking forever. Simply put, scrape pussy and poop crust, then our nostalgia allows us to forget the things that really sucked. And smelled. Planet Tagruk is a theme park decorated with nightmares I pulled outa yer ass and tickets come with a free side-order of South Tent City hatchet and gunpowder genocide, penile ethnic cleansing, snuff-rape and highly ethical hetro-porn. I frayed my best paint brushes, but these images should be clear enough now.

Have a clue fuckers, my typing is faster than chatting, thus allowing you rusty killers to recall fond memories of lethal-breeding and comic forced-entry. For your convenience, you can read these postings at your leisure, on-duty while appearing to look just like regular work-related emails without snooping butt fuckers looking over yer shoulder. Again, talk is cheap and phone calls can be overheard by other stupid cops. Email may be old-stool and old-fashioned, but has proved safest and can be retrieved and re-read from your password protected folders, saving us from asshole coworkers, marginally literate children and menopausal spousal prosecution.

Don't forget our retarded resumes. With so many warrants, court orders, evidence recordings and wire taps on our phones in every village all over fucking Alaska, we can never again phone for reservations at Asian massage parlors for rub and tugs, blow-jobs with deep-throat swallows, premium seats at cocaine dens and private wine-tastings at your local grow-ops and meth labs. With these criminal postings and criminal details sourced for my scribbling, we'd never get to the really good shit, without getting a nosy state trooper interrupting us on the phone line ordering "You guys quit fucking around! Pick up your guns and get back to work!"

As posted before, we fail to forgive those we've hurt the most. Don't feel bad. Our memories of innumerable young women have crumbling and decaying blank spots in them and even late tonight, we'll gaze at faded photos of naked girls we loved, now stored at the bottoms of ink wells we've dipped our dicks. We've all piles of micro-dot spy photos of beautiful faces, boobs and legs contained in microscopic movies of wonderful bedroom events that never quite rinse out of our souls.

Examine our internal battles with our selfish chromosomal genes. If we took marching orders from our DNA, we would've been infamous vaginal tunnel rats mining ovarian treasures, scrambling eggs, drowning tonsils, painting cervical targets and detonating deep-sea depth charges. Okay, I'm lying. We've almost always dutifully followed orders from our over-stuffed, DNA infused, spermatozoa bags and raped village rats, sexy FAS retards and fertile women with boobs that inflate as we push deeper and expand right before our eyes.

The proof of your crimes against humanity is a million cuckold men that gotta strap boards across their asses to prevent falling in. I saw our pictures in my anthropology books and we were victorious in battling a million hairy ape-like humans and we also succeeded in out-swimming millions of our own sperm. Wait, it's worse. We also succeeded in out-swimming millions of other mens' sperm too. In review, the only complaints I hear from the prehistoric girls you coppers fucked was that it really hurt.

"What's the difference between a rural Alaska cop and a pit bull?" "A pit bull won't stay up all night fucking a village cop." For a young man, doing a 1-2 year tour of police duty in third world Alaska, made a man out of you. Staying decades longer has made something else out of us. Peel back the layers of hominid, amphibian and reptilian brain matter, we find flexing violent scrotum. Now look in the mirror. Northern Europeans possess pert near 6% Neanderthal DNA and this violent genetic command structure has no restraint nor consideration for consequences and if we're surrounded by pretty young women, our fangs lengthen and we regress back to walking on our hind legs.

Our wives are fading and shrinking and our predatory breeding behaviors will be erroneously rewarded with totally bogus headstone etchings virtuous. We promise our spouses that we'll never stray but when separated by clean sheets, foreign languages, off continent bedrooms and wooden dreams, monogamy and celibacy aren't easy virtues to take into the nocturnal hours. Without the company of warm naked girls speaking languages we can't understand, vigorously vacuuming our over-sized punching bags, sleeping alone becomes the cousin of death.

We ain't the only motherfuckers that spread our DNA across oceans. Combat stress and rotating police duties can drive a man into the arms, legs and birth canals of beautiful women with names we never knew. Evidence right in front of your face is the number of mixed-bleed children surrounding the closed-down Air Force bases all over rural Alaska, with Kotzebue being no different. Old man Richard lived down the hallway from me and bun's senior center apartment. Dig this, he compared his years in Vietnam to my years working with a bunch of cops. You fuckers were also in combat and produced a shit load of extra-marital mud-strays that look an awful lot like you. Rural Alaskan cops will often ask,"how's yer wife and my kids."

Richard pulled out a box of loose photos and shared pictures of pretty girls and Vietnam War photos of him and his buddies, 50 years ago and continents away. One photo I wished I'd kyped and scanned to post online was a crumbling black and white photo of him and his teenage war buddies from his outfit. They were just fucking kids still in their shit-soaked uniforms, rifles, rucks and sidearms holding beers and cigs embracing delicious Asian babes grinning shitty like motherfuckers. Instead of his uniform, my buddy Richard is wearing a blood-caked Smokey The Bear t-shirt emblazoned "Agent Orange. Only you can prevent forests."

I asked Richard what he remembers of his battling alongside South Vietnamese soldiers, fighting the North Viet Cong in a brutal proxy guerrilla battle against the Chinese. He looked at me, then smiled and confided with me that Vietnamese girls still light his fuse, "cuz like Japanese pussy, there's barely enough legroom for an amputee." Looking at his high school age war buddies and their concubine sugar cooters, he sadly admitted that all those smiling boys in that photo were horribly killed and sent home in flag-draped coffins, except him. Richard stated that our American soldiers didn't get killed in Vietnam accidentally, because in actuality, he tearfully confessed, that he survived the war, accidentally.

He speculated that war atrocities can also stimulate baby booms. After World War I and WWII we witnessed huge baby booms, the largest being from 1946-1966 that resulted in the births of us dumb asses. When yer brother comes home in a box, the survivors rub their groinulars, grab their crotch rockets and engorged pockets, and get busy. America also had significant spikes in birth rates after the Korean War, the Vietnam War and even a notable bump after the 911 terror attacks. Richard joked and declared that with a bottle of whiskey or cheerleader beer (sickly sweet wine coolers) a boy could ignite a fire in his girlfriend's panties by simply buying tickets to a slasher movie. Girls love horror flicks and so do our hard dry boners.

He elaborated that even today, contrary to Hollywood's bullshit fictional accounts, when he recalls the airborne shredded body parts, blood-soaked muds and shit-painted faces, "I feel something's being torn inside me, like doing an autopsy on me while I'm still alive." Wars are recorded by the victors (and rapists), not the pregnant vanquished. Newspapers and books published today, repaint inaccurately, events rotting below the ground, years long past. My buddy Richard paused, looked out the window for a second, then stated that when it comes to a soldier's stories about combat, "Only the truth exists: falsehoods need to be invented." From the look on Richard's face, the truth was unspeakably awful.

My now deceased Vietnam Veteran Marine buddy Richard did share some unspeakable shit to me. He and his troop were shot all to hell and retreated out of VC mortar range. They'd come across a river and filled their canteens, washed their boots, feet and clothes, and burns and cuts, then camped the night after quenching their thirsts. That following morning they followed the river and marched toward their air base. A few clicks upriver they found hundreds of dead, bloated and rotting American and South Vietnamese soldiers floating, leaking and stinking in the same river they just slaked their thirsts and washed in. My only comment was that in Shungnak, the water tastes a lot like that.

Richard admitted that he worried about dysentery shits and stomach worms, but stated that as they continued marching towards their air base, they came across dozens of flooded rice paddies that were choked with even more dead humans of every nationality, with hundreds of dogs eating the corpses. A villager whistled and started walking back to his hootch with that whole pack of dogs running and barking after him, fat and happy, and ready to be sorted out. What I mean by sorted out was the entire village picked the healthiest and happiest dogs, cut their throats and proceeded to butcher and eat them. It's a crime and a sin to be cannibals, but it's totally cool to feed yer dogs on tons of human meat burger, then eat the fucking dogs.

Over the last 50 years since we evacuated American troops out of Vietnam in 1975, over 2,000 US soldiers have been unaccounted for. We've etched over 58,000 names on the Vietnam Memorial Wall, but the missing in action numbers are still searched for. Richard has given numerous interviews to Department of Defense teams investigating these missing soldiers, taking statements and testimony from those soldiers who witnessed the deaths or capture of American GI's. He has examined dozens of maps and aerial photos and marked where he saw his buddies and unit comrades got shot or blown apart and even did his best to recall their names, their outfits and the ranks of the tattered uniforms they had on the moment they took enemy fire.

Richard recited figures of over 3 million North Vietcong were killed and more than 2 million South Vietnamese became dog food, crow bait and pond scum. The 58,000 dead US GI's and the 2,000 MIA soldiers are the statistical calamity that survivors believe their return home was the rarest of odds and hence feel their accidental existence after the war is a mistake or undue gift. Years later, a guilt-ridden curse. I walked to the kitchen and filled his coffee mug, gave him a bottle of Hennessy Cognac and let him freely pour his non-dairy coffee creamer. As the apartment quieted and he drank generous measures of his coffee royal, we both heard Bun crying, alone in her sewing room. She's got a long list of native classmates from her Indun boarding schools that fought, died and remain missing to this day. American soldiers aren't the only ones that lost friends in combat. Old native women got a long list of abbreviated romances and entire lives destroyed, no longer around to visit, fall in love with again and go dance Pow-Wows with.

These paragraphs from Vietnam are word-for-word transcriptions, cuz like you fuckers, no matter how we tell the tales of fighting, and your careers working shit-hole rural Alaska, ain't nobody gonna record nor believe the truth. I've repeated to a hunnert civilian faggots about a call-out requesting emergency assistance because a little Eskimo kid riding in his plastic sled, being pulled around Kiana by his older brother driving the family snow machine. The rope snagged the sno-go track and pulled the plastic sled and little brother in and under the snow machine frame, crushing and shredding the little brother between the track the seat above him.

I got the alert over CB radio at the VPSO office and Rudy Hecker was doing paperwork in the magistrate's office next door. He said, "oh shit," grabbed his jacket and followed me to the location. The boy's feet were sticking out of the gap between the track and the seat and was crying his heart out. We tried to lift the snow machine and expand the suspension to pull the boy out but he was stuffed and packed in their too fucking tight. I had most of the community helping me, but the kid died from flail chest, meaning suffocation from crushed lungs and drowning in broken ribs.

Rudy Hecker was a retired trooper and the village magistrate so when the village health-aide shook her head, looked at her watch and called it, Rudy made note of the time of death for his records. You'd think we could call in for a medivac air-lift, but even the volunteer firefighter helping us shook his head after failing to find any pulse. The firefighter and health-aide refused my efforts of CPR due to his broken shards of bones and massive abdominal trauma. He congratulated me and the health aide, announcing that our efforts were valiant, albeit in vain.

To commemorate our efforts, Kiana's fire chief went back home and over the CB radio told the village of Kiana that the VPSO and the Manilaq health-aide deserved commendations for freeing that little kid and attempting life-saving measures. Rudy Hecker also put in kind words with Trooper Dial and Kozloff when they flew in to take possession of the body, take testimony and statements. Both Dial and Kozloff entered the VPSO office and caught me wiping my eyes. At Hecker's insistence, I got a commendation in my file. To this day, even writing tonight at round midnight, I hate crying around cops.

To add insult to my injury, telling my personal testimony about failing to revive a little native boy that got smashed and ground to shit on the track under a sno-go, I've gotten scowls from crispy stink-biddies and crotchety old wet-farts at the senior center. I've even gotten scoffs, huffs, denials and disputes from these lower 48 raisins when I tell them about the scary number of crashed airplanes, the number of dogs rural cops shoot every year, the number of hangers VPSO's cut down and the drowned or frozen corpses rural Alaska police and fire retrieve annually. Them old dried shrunken newbie 907 dried fruit roll-ups believe they can dispute your work histories. Alaska's history too. I fucking hate newly arriving old Medicaid, Senior Benefits ($250 per month longevity bonus), AHFC housing voucher, heating and energy assistance and PFD poverty nigger fucking pensioner tourists.

Most libraries carry bullshit about Alaska's vanishing tribes and languages and myths of noble savages. We were there to improve shit, with guns and dicks. Yet with questionable results. The majority sub-dirt fatalities are due to alcoholism, suicides, alcohol-related injuries and homicides. When two colliding ethnic groups want to make two different worlds, I see violence as the only remedy with our current rural Alaska communities resting upon heaps of dead men. And we only killed some of 'em.

History is built upon surviving offspring from frisky females but not their dead boyfriends' stacked bones and churned human shit. After fucking monkeys, then niggers, we fled dark hairy African stank-pussy, chasing other breeds of new snatch in the form of older, more ancient lippy, now long-dead obsolete hominids. Like Neanderthal and some interesting smelling biscuit called Cro-Magnon and Australopithecus. Entire cave civilizations went gone missing after we fucked and killed them. This murderous pursuit of red bush or blond haired quiff drew us males out of equatorial pussy northward to flavors and scents we just had to taste, sniff and inseminate. Some by force. History seldom progresses upon consensual sex.

Imagine a massive steamroller of humanity flooding out of the African continent, chasing sexy little runts with body odors that flared our nostrils and lengthened our bone spears. No shit. Do a self-check and take a look at our running away from stink-hillbilly white cunt, way north to poison native clootch with our bigger dicks and testicular gush. The children gimping all over Barrow are far darker, shorter and see out of chinked blinking peepers. Then look at the thousands of round-eye half-niffs piling out our own bedrooms after we unsheathed our big tools stowed unsafely in quick-draw penis holsters.

As us men rally towards newer gash to fuck, we also kill everything else in pursuit. We don't exterminate men of military age, we smoke them due to their breeding age. Who wants smaller brown dicks fucking up our trim. To prove my own propensity for harvesting foreign vaginal treats, my DNA holds evidence of my historical rape. My DNA reads like a serial rapist's sexual assault criminal record, I got way too much Neanderthal alongside lineages of prehistoric races of hairy subhumans in my genetic code. Looks like I fucked lots of cave dwellers. Their women too.

Northern Europeans possess much higher levels of ancient DNA from long exterminated and vanished species of human beings. Which seems to indicate that we first fucked them, then hiked away with tiny herds following our pied piping. These newer, taller, smarter, GMO babies followed our troops like farm animals, killing their own spawned-out birth mommies in our wake. You see, all newly discovered races of Homo-Sapien are fair game fer fucking. Cannibalize the males, lick the females, then spear their fine flavored soul kitchens with fresher more plentiful ingredients. Don't tell any women though. If our ass-raping secrets leak out, they'll figure our shit out that longer dicks impregnate more often and whole races of invading rapists have been absorbed way up inside their shivering gaped swollen vaginas.

The last of Earth's long dead sapiens from our Paleolithic parties and cave man orgies are stored in code, way deep in our gonad bags and inside our favorite concubine's delicious labia. Sketching these paragraphs fills me with the urge to foist my dick upon terrified little girls in college dorms, high school showers and even inside adult day cares and force feed 'em my Super-Soaker. Survival of the species don't happen with tiny dicks that spit micro-droplets. You're living proof that sperm lasts 20,000 centuries when it's sprayed all over African pygmies and European Eustachian chew toys like a fire hose. By the tank full.

Imagine our 2 million year trek fleeing nigger pussy in the barf-crotches of Earth's earliest humans, stinking up the Olduvai Gorge, porking everything with titties en route, exterminating their shitty skinny-dicked husbands and boyfriends, finally arriving on the European continent to find blond Norwegian and Finnish girls running full speed to greet us. That there is a mass exodus with a tasty reception. And side-order of intercourse. My male ego and self-esteem surrounding my penis is both play-thing, and murder weapon. Male humans are so cool. Standing upright, habitually bipedal Homo-Erectus motherfuckers, opposable thumbs and grasping hands to better aim our DNA-rich hydraulic glob injectors. Gentlemen, start fucking. Between our hairy hind legs, we crossed continents marching on our dicks, leaving slug tracks and skid marks longer than 2000 millenia.

If a young girl asked you where all the extinct species of humans went to, just drop yer trousers and heft out yer Johnson and inject her with TMI (too much information), plug in yer USB port, cum a load and drive it home. My point being, we're gonna breed you prettier, smarter and taller. Now go pork her sister and momma. I prefer half-breed babies when they look like me. If they don't, stomp on 'em. My secret to surviving this long is by pushing aside ancient citizens of the former countries subsisting there and dilating their cervix working the pussy hotel, earning room, board and torn foreskin providing invaluable womb service. Our dicks saved the world.

Displacing whole herds of poor indigenous human beings is called ethnic cleansing. Killing them wholesale is simply genocide. We've seen this mixture during the westward expansion of the United States. We also diluted and absorbed Indun DNA while quoting Manifest Destiny, justifying forced aboriginal intercourse. With American expansion north, south and west, we assigned new nationalities to Mexicans, French Canadians, and Natives. Meaning, not them, but their mixed-mud children. The Oregon Territory was purchased, Louisiana was purchased, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California were seized by force and Alaska was bought for a penny per acre. And us tall white guys fucked everything in site. And smell.

We're all half slave and half tyrannical rapist, but nationality reassignment and ethnic cleansing is preferable to genocide. Examine the half-lives of our native neighbors and in-laws. Ethnic cleansing moved our Alaskan Natives away from urban centers, returning home with larger white babies and vaginas. Big city genocide pours out of a bottle. Village ethnic cleansing pours out of taller Euro-trash porn-star donkey balls. Next century, Alaskan natives will shackle their own dumber, shorter and darker family members with orders to "put the slaves on cruise control, I've got a fucking hair appointment." How cool is that. Even surviving stink-nates got bigger, smarter nads.

Our blended DNA contains all the world's extinct cave dwellers' chromosomes and newer modern Homo Sapiens skin, eye and hair color. We've also unknowingly dragged some genetic problems in our ball bags along our 2 million year-long trail of rape. Norse motherfuckers raped the world like livestock, but also inherited a genetic intolerance for liquor. Don't think for a minute Natives are the only ethnic and racial group that instantly dissolves in an alcoholic bubble bath. The number one cause of death for the Nordic tribes ages 18-55 is alcohol poisoning and alcohol-related fatalities.

We're talking alcohol injuries and acute alcohol intoxication as prelude to departing this planet. I oft point a stinky finger at drunken natives, but the Nordic propensity to croak fucked-up, frozen and broken due to alcoholism is equally legendary. Another proof of historic rape concealed in our swinging meat is Diabetes. Yup, northern Europeans lead the world in Type I Diabetes. Not the fat-ass obesity diabetes that can be handled with sick-butt pills, but the kind where the pancreas just fucking dies and we're forced to replace it's function with thrice daily injections of Insulin.

The research is still pending and we've no clear explanation for our Northern European rape-happy pancreas' failure and expiration. The scientific consensus has determined a flawed strand of DNA we've carried from our long dead 75,000 year old cave artists' great-great grandmothers. Or more likely, exposure to viruses working at rural Alaska village police departments. I blame my near-death sobriety and insulin addiction on the million years of aboriginal pussy I raped. Pussy that still stinks my beard and dyes it red.

Speaking of red beards, I've a true story about the hazards of having girls tag along on bear hunts: whilst on their periods. My bunnik and Grandma Magdelene were telling me a story about hunting with Charlie and Kenny and two other families, across the bay near Sisolik. Three boats departed from 704 Front Street and booked across Kotzebue Sound, heading to camp located on one of the Tikik native allotments. The mission was to pick berries, scout for caribou or geese and bag anything within the reach of small caliber rifles.

The boys and fathers booked out early to go hunting and the girls and moms stayed near camp and picked tons of berries. Okay, not tons, but easily more than a couple hunnert pounds worth. Near dusk, after regrouping at camp, the men and ladies could hear a super loud pair of roaring bears near their berry patch. The men grabbed rifles and booked flat out towards the fighting bears. What they found was probably worse than any nightmare you and I have ever witnessed. One of the young girls was on the ground being torn apart by two large bears. Both bears weren't eating the poor girl, just digging and clawing the kid's head and lower abdomen.

The bears appeared to behave like dogs digging in dirt, but roto-tilling the shit outa that poor girl with their front paws. After shooting a few rounds off and scaring the bears away, the poor girl was missing her face and scalp and her ass and crotch were shredded and dug away. She'd been on her period and the bears got pissed off. Pissed off major and were gonna kill the bitch flaring the nostrils of land mammals for miles around. I asked what happened to the poor native girl, Magdelene said they buried her there. In 1954 Alaska didn't have police departments, search and rescue, nor troopers. "We just bury her. Nothing else we could do. We can't put her in the boat. Bad luck. Then we gotta burn our good boat." I was dumbfounded and speechless.

After I got over the queasy puke feeling hearing Magdalene's gag-worthy tale, I told my spouse and her tough-ass mom about a weird menstrual event that happened up north near the Skagit River in Washington State. A lady called the State Patrol and reported that she killed her husband. She stabbed him numerous times in the chest and abdomen because he was another Pacific Northwest serial killer and she found his collection of trophies.

She was cleaning out the big freezer in the garage and found two large boxes without labels, so she opened them. She found them filled with used tampons and Kotex pads. She flipped out and accused him that night and he didn't have a chance to pull an answer out his ass. She just killed his ass, chop-chop. The State Patrol investigation revealed that he worked at the local high school as janitorial and maintenance, just like my job at the District Office in Kotzebue. What was later discovered was that since you cannot flush feminine napkins, he emptied the tampon and Kotex pad collection bins, but didn't pour the contents in the trash and take it to the dumpster. He kept them all and filled his stash boxes in the bottom of his big chest freezer in the garage.

What he declined to tell his wife was that since he was an avid bear hunter, possessed current hunting licenses and bear permits, the appropriate tree hide equipment and the correct rifles for bear hunting. He'd kept the 2 large boxes of used tampons and rusted pads to use as bear bait during the next hunting season, just a few months away. His wife found his morbid bear baiting stash, and like angry bears, fucked his shit up with a kitchen knife and opened his heart, lungs and major arteries. She had no idea about the practical usefulness of keeping such shitty bleeding used cotton and paper products in his freezer.

She went berserk and assumed he was fucking girls at the high school, or raping and killing them, keeping trophies in the same Washington fashion all us boys were trained. Grandma Magdelene and Bun haven't looked at me the same way since. His wife didn't spend more than a few days in the clink. This occurred in 1982, during the height of Washington's Green River Killer, Ted Bundy and unsolved dead baby rapings statewide. The DA opted out of prosecuting her.

Now back to my rapist's history lesson. If you're clan looks closely in the mirror, then compares their facial bone structure to a chink or nigger, they might breathe a sigh of relief and thanks that upside-down reverse discrimination works towards their profit. Survival and profit are the impetus us early white settlers happily paid our marital aboriginal minorities' grandmas with sweeter pussy and bigger, tastier boobs. The last pure-blood natives are frozen below ground, over a hunnert years ago. Everything since, is blended skin tones, bigger brains and bigger nad-packages. And body odors.

On this current reincarnation cyclic rotation and world-wide shorty nigger displacement, I was born a generation too late. If yer author on drugs was in the decision mix mere generations earlier, we'd be working with and married to foul smelling white frontier reeking colony women and pumping out retarded white prairie-dull children. Wait, that's a gross notion, cuz in this paragraph, with a new set of brushes and pallet board of stinky paints, I just recreated a colonial carbon copy of Palmer, Alaska. Fuck that shit, I'm gonna puke. I hate Valley Trash pussy. It stinks and wrecked my car seats.

If you want to learn history first-hand, force your teacher over her desk, tear off her panties and fuck her. Deeply. Once you've flooded and cooled her red snapper, hop into a coin-operated time machine and you'd see our ancestries running this weird shit-show putting all yer in-laws in harnesses and enslaving them like white orphans, Red Skins, Chinese Coolies and African slaves. When this option exhausted it's usefulness, our great-grandparents would've chosen to liquidate entire subsections of hominid subspecies deemed not genetically sufficient nor economically viable. My grandpa paid good money to enter the Edmonds, Washington fairgrounds, eat cotton candy and candy apples while watching darkie gimper-dudes dance at the end of a rope. WTF, ugly minorities and worn-out whores bitch if we straightened their spines with fresh rope or blew their guts out with new guns.

"Keep yer powder dry and yer dick hard, and the world will turn." You see, being truthful about human history is really fucking gross. Albeit funny as shit, but gross. All this talk about rape, slavery, ethnic cleansing and genocide makes me hungry. And horny too.

I've often told fine young women, "I promise I won't cum in your mouth. But if do, eating sperm will give you bigger boobs." Don't think this over too much, but when I pass really pretty women with large breasted heavenly cleaved grand melons, I think my sperm might've built those wonderful piles of roundness. I also feel excited when given a chance to bust a nut in smaller breasted babes, "smaller the tit, the more the monkey." History wasn't thought out very well nor planned with any thinking, cuz a stiff dick ain't got no conscience. Fairy tales, well, are for fairies. Don't blame yer mindless extra-large tools, pretty school-age girls are just like us, they have an IQ no greater than their yawning, drooling, hungry vaginas.

Open wide and say "Ah." Wow, that felt good. Too much information can make sounds like a belch, burp or fart and surplus forensic evidence is commonly wiped offa my dick and onto your drapes. And your bed sheets. Sorry, I hate to dine and dash, rape and run, kiss and tell, but it's my nature. I got way too much Neanderthal DNA forcing me to only think with my dick.

Who's the fairest of them all? I've been attributed the quote that "I had a duty to service that booty." Holy fuck, where did all these babies come from?

Gentlemen, start yer engines.

Karl.