Smell your money. Then lick it. What's in your wallet?

Top of the morning gents,

I was gassing up at a Tesoro gas station in Kenai and at the counter, my regular clerk made fun of me for my sweats. She ribs me for my predictability. Every day at roughly the same time, I drive to the Kenai Rec Center to lift weights with bun, then fill up with Super on the drive home. Always paying cash.

The old lady at the counter isn't really that old. She's a year younger than me, but heavier from a life of poor eating, wrinkles from a life of poor smoking and lippy speech from dentures poorly fitting. You know, short, fat, sick, wheezes and waddles. Real catch. I always tell her when we have vacant apartments at the senior center but she declines, stating that she ain't rich, she ain't ready for that stage of life yet, likes her trailer and could never afford to be my neighbor. She believes she's still young and not old enough for senior living nor senior dying. Sure. Whom I to argue with an old hag younger than I, and looks just like my grandma.

Just the other day I saw photo-copies of US currency taped to the wall behind the counter with official looking Treasury warnings and their official stamp. I asked the wrinkled old gal with the fat wide ass and half full lungs why she had those posted. She laughed a smoky phlegm chew glob and said that all the gas stations, liquor stores, pot stores, restaurants and bars all over Alaska are being flooded with counterfeit money. She pulled down two of the notices and showed me the alerts. They had photo-copies of the bogus bills denominated in 20's, 50's and 100's. I looked at them and told her they looked like legitimate copies of older bills, not the newer dorky currency.

She said they were damn good copies of older bills and someone is blending tons of 'em into Alaska's money supply. The bad guys are mixing older classic notes we normally prefer over the goofy new versions recently released. The banks were receiving so many phony bucks that the Treasury Department has flown agents up to Alaska to initiate an operation interdicting all this funny money. The fake bill are so good, none of the store clerks nor bartenders could tell the difference and the phonies weren't noticed until the banks got possession of them. The Treasury was notified and now Alaska is being faxed and plastered with BOLO's (be on the lookout) and official counterfeit money alerts.

I've had some experience with counterfeit money. Years ago, I was getting giant orders for cocaine with requests no smaller than quarter pounds (4 ounces). In the weed business that's a week's consumption, because us hillbilly motherfuckers incinerate climate changing bong rips at the wholesale level. But orders for coke at the ounce (OZ-28 grams), quarter pound (QP-4 ounces) or the pound (elbow-16 ounces) level got my attention. I could move serious weight of bulk product and avoid all the nickel and dime traffic. One customer of this size and I could retire for the rest of the week.

All the way up the food chain, big orders got everybody out of bed and ready to offer top shelf service. When an order comes for big sexy weight, my larger vendors would pull their dicks out and bust ass gettin' busy booking to Karl's. Amongst my crew of cocaine cowboys, big orders warm the phone lines, trigger smoke signals, launch LZ flares and fire up the hillbilly Morse code telegraph lines. From my retail outlet (Lem’s Mortuary and Crack House), all the way up to pay grades way above my head to the guys sitting in safe-houses stacked with delicious, petroleum smelling, fresh-off-the-boat blocks of coca paste, we all make money.

Ray English or Bruce Louridge would book over and happily deliver premium (cat-piss diesel) blockage, run errands while I did my business, then we'd split up the loot, do piles of blow and wash down crushed-glass boogers with liquor. We'd sort out who was owed what and tally the totals, then everybody would run to pay bills, repay their respective vendors, bury their money or stuff their loot in the safety of vaults or floor board stashes.

I usually ran to a 7-Eleven and bought money orders, stuff them in envelopes and made mad dashes to drop the rent check off in the night drop at the Realtor office, the Mount Lake Terrace city payment slot for utilities (water, sewer and garbage) and PUD (public utility district) electricity bill night-drop slot. I also stuffed an envelope into the mail slot in the front door at R&R Automotive to pay my car repair bills and oil changes and the charges I owed for gasoline, wipers and headlights.

Sometimes I bought money orders just to stash them in my PO Box just to get the cash out of my house. Ya see, the trick is to sterilize the house and remove all that stinky money. A post office box is a killer place to stash envelopes filled with money orders or travelers checks. No need to guard a clean house. Besides, niggers, bikers and hillbillies love to steal cash dollars. So do cops. Remember we avoided banks at all cost. All cash operations seldom leave a paper trail and also skip around IRS problems. Besides, in light of this story, we never knew if we handled any bogus currency. It disappeared too quickly. On purpose, intentionally.

After one of my bigger sales, I did my normal routine to buy a half dozen money orders. When I walked into the 7-Eleven, the clerk dude nodded me aside and whispered that his boss and the bank were holding a stack of money that wasn't real. I blanched and swallowed, then asked what he meant by "money that wasn't real." He whispered quietly that I'd passed him half a grand in counterfeit money and that he was supposed to detain me when I returned. Then he advised I book. I didn't need to hear that twice. I never went to that 7-Eleven again.

I went to convenient stores, Western Unions and gook check cashing stores halfway across town for my money order missions, eventually traveling all over Seattle to do my transactions. And only hitting them once. I also started to examine the money I was getting from my customers. The smaller daily $50 and $100 dollar deals were okay and went fine. It was the larger bulk purchases that I was receiving high-grade paper that looked good to me, but sounded alarms at every place I bought travelers checks and money orders. That was when I figured out how I was being used.

The dudes I always called the hard guys were relatively local from the Pacific Northwest and were dumping bogus dollars into Seattle's black market drug money supply. Not at legitimate retail outlets, but from the bottom up, at drug houses like mine. The counterfeit money was used to purchase premium cocaine in big orders, then resold to other dealers across town for real US currency, essentially using the drug market to wash phony money. My dudes were converting monopoly game play money into the best cocaine they could purchase, then move the blow through their own distribution channels, receiving real money in return, plus making a decent profit on the coke sales. Us dumb motherfuckers were the dupes.

You see, the checking cashing outfits, money order stores, like 7-Eleven and Western Unions were getting all kinds of alerts and warnings from their banks. None of these businesses leave any sizable amount of cash overnight. They all drop off their bags of money at their respective banks where the funny money was quickly discovered, Treasury seized the funny money and the businesses were gypped out of all the silly bucks they took in. Yup, nobody gets a refund. The money is seized and they're out every single counterfeit dollar they deposited. Sucks huh. You can't use a legitimate bank to wash dirty drug money nor convert monopoly money into real currency.

After a whole summer, I ran out of gook check cashing outfits, Western Unions and 7-Elevens to dump bogus cash on, so I phoned Ray English and Bruce Louridge and told them what has transpired over the last few months. They chuckled and admitted they'd been forced to dump their money at evermore restaurants, jewelry stores, clothing stores, electronics stores, grocery stores, liquor stores and the crotches, snatches and bikini bottoms at titty bars and strip joints. Ray and Bruce also worried about the money they'd hidden in vaults and floor board hide-holes. We agreed that we needed to plan a scheme to somehow do business, keep up the brisk trade and deal with this potentially deadly problem. Both Ray and Bruce were fully aware of the penalties for counterfeit money washing through crack houses and mortuaries like mine when the Secret Service or the Treasury knocks on my door. We needed a solution to the problem of dumping monopoly game money on other suckers. And NOT get caught.

We did a couple more bulk cocaine sales, then inspected the money. We couldn't see shit. So we agreed that we pay all our upper level wholesalers any and all debts we'd owed, pay all our bills for the month, then I'd take a couple bills to a bank I wasn't a customer at and ask. I didn't exactly volunteer, I was asked nicely. With Ray and Bruce, nice implies yer ass won't end up shot and locked in the trunk of car and dumped in long-term parking at Sea-Tac Airport. Sea-Tac parking lots were famous for being the place to cool out bodies and age them to perfection. Like stinkers and leakers. Nice friendly neighborhood huh? Don't judge, I was no better.

I showered, brushed my hair and beard, got dressed in my best clothes, and went to Washington Mutual Saving Bank and waited in line for a bank clerk. When my turn came, I approached the teller and told her I was worried I'd received a couple counterfeit dollars and who would be able to tell me if they were real. The clerk pointed me to a desk and I booked over and repeated my query to the lady sitting at the desk. She looked at me like I was a criminal, which I was, stood and guided me to the rear of the bank. I fucking thought I was busted, cuffed and headed for a trip to the police department. Or an all-expense-paid vacation far away to Secret Service Land.

When we were out of sight of the customers, she smiled and told me her name was Shelly and asked to examine the pair of 20's I brought. On the counter I saw some bottles topped with eye-droppers, a microscope and a illuminated magnifying glass. She put one bill under the brightly lit magnifying glass, squinted and moved the bills around, then put the bills under the lens of the microscope. That's when she looked up at me and told me the bills were really good fakes.

I asked her how she could tell. She guided me to look in the microscope and told me to look at the really fine scroll work around the edges, then look at the lines bordering the pictures of the president. They were fuzzy and blurry, not sharp, and when she put a real 20 on the scope, I saw perfectly sharp and clear lines in the printing. Fuck. Shelly told me that the bills were likely made by taking a photo of real money, then use that picture to make a printing plate with a laser on metal plates. The plates are then washed with acid to remove all the metal except the pictures of the president and all the fancy artwork, but with any copying, the image loses the sharpness and the resolution blurs in the reproduction process.

She also told me that the paper is bogus. Real money is printed on a cotton-paper blend from the Crane Paper Mill in Dalton, Massachusetts and leaves visible red and blue lines in the paper. I told her that my 20's had the little blue and red lines and pointed them out. Shelly smiled and put a few drops on the bills and then had me look at the bills again. Blank white spots appeared where I originally thought I'd seen red and blue fibers. Fuck.

Shelly told me that the paper was decent, but not great. The counterfeiters first printed bogus red and white fiber lines on them, then ran them again printing the basic layout of the money, followed up with a third printing adding the signatures of the Treasury homos in the blacker inks. Red and blue fiber fake prints first, then Indigo blue/green for the body, finally blacker blends for the signatures on our money. One, two, three. Decent fakes, not Shylock crap, and I'm out my phony 20's. Fuck me in the goat ass.

Shelly looked directly at me and asked me where I got the fake money. I'd practiced my response and told her it was from the first 7-Eleven on 85th and Greenwood, the store that got the initial alert notice from their banks about my bogus bucks and spurned my repeat visit for money orders. Despite my practiced bullshit, I was feeling uncomfortable, yet glad I didn't bring any hundred dollar duplicates of the Classic Coke C-notes printed from the 70's to the 90's. Shelly smiled at me and "Sure. Okay." I can only lie to ugly women. Pretty girls fuck my shit up. Shelly was an easy lie.

I asked if I was getting the money back and she smiled, then shook her head no. Shelly advised me I could file a claim for reimbursement through the Department of Treasury. Which sounded like a stupid move on my part. I could just see my photos inside investigation folders stating, "This stupid fuck-head brought in schlock bucks and then had the damn gall to ask for a refund. He's one funny fucker. They must breed retards in North Seattle like a crop!"

I thanked Shelly the banker bitch and headed for the door to exit the bank and she followed me. With a note pad in hand. I saw a bus pull up to the bus stop and waved to the driver and jogged to catch the motherfucker, leaving my car back in the bank parking lot. I figured that she was intending to write down my license plate number. I was forced to hop the bus and return later that night to get my goddamned car. Fuck you Shelly, write down the Seattle Metro City bus license plate number, suck my ass, then push yer pencil up yer twat sideways, and break it off.

After I returned to the bank later that night and fetched my car, I was in an emotional funk. I've learned the trade handling illegal drugs, but never had to handle illegal fucking money. This was a new area of weirdness and it put a pinch in my gut. I decided to ask around and see who knew anything about counterfeit money. None of my drug buddies knew shit about printing fake bucks, so I phoned Skeeter (Earl Tenley) down in the University District. He's a creepy little fucker, but a hardened criminal from his years growing up on the streets of the East Coast.

Skeeter was a fount of info on bogus money. He told me that most street grifters would sniff their money to detect any Clorox bleach odors. Bleach smells are the left-over acid the counterfeiters use to etch away the useless metal on the printer plates, leaving only the picture of the money. "Shit Karl, what the fuck are getting yer ass into. Dirty money is a total bust. You'll get Secret Service and Treasury agents climbing up yer ass like right fucking now. But if you do smell any bleach odors on yer money, that's the acid that is used to cut the litho plates."

I asked what a litho plate was and he told me it was like the old fashioned office copiers used during our elementary school, which are basically a lithography machine where it cranks in circles dipping the plates in ink and you insert sheets of paper in to make yer copies. First use a high quality scanner to make copies of yer money, then with any decent Mac computer or Powerbook, laser this image into yer plates, then start printing money. Just like that. Next stop, Super Max Prison bunking with terrorists or cartel motherfuckers.

Skeeter went on to tell me that Iran printed counterfeit money that was so good that it passed through banks and vending machines flawlessly. My question was, "Why would Iran print US currency?" Skeeter explained that the Iranians used the money to fund their shit when we put sanctions on their oil sales after the 1979 Revolution. They used what's called Intaglio Presses that were hand-cut plates just like our Treasury. Presses manufactured in Switzerland solely for the purpose of printing money for countries around the world. Just not with the intent of printing funny money the looks exactly like ours. Switzerland charges over a million Swiss Francs ($1.5 million US dollars) for just one Intaglio Press, but without the cotton blended paper from the Crane Paper Mill in Dalton, Massachusetts yer fucked.

Then Skeeter brought up a common trick to find quality paper that is identical to ours, buy boxes of $1 dollar bills. Millions of One Dollar bills. Then find a chemical manufacturer that'll sell you a solution like industrial paint thinner that'll dissolve the printed image of the one dollar bill so that you have blanks to use in your counterfeit assembly line and print images of $100 dollar denominations. Then put your batches of freshly printed funny money in a large Ziploc bag with a half pound of ground coffee and one pound of kidney beans, then put the bag in the dryer. It won't hurt the money, but uniformly colors the money so that it looks falsely aged. Just like the money in our pockets. Presto. Boxes of $1 dollar bills magically converted into decent looking C-notes, ready for circulation in the drug markets of North Seattle. First stop: Lem's Mortuary and Crack House. I am such a moron.

Recalling my lessons from Shelly at Washington Mutual Savings Banks, I tried to stump Skeeter and inform him that even the best scanned copies of hundred dollar bills lose some of their sharpness and clarity in the scroll work around the edges and around the pictures of the presidents. He laughed and told me that if you scan mint collector notes you can buy at coin shops still sealed in plastic like collectible comic books, pristine hundreds from mid-1970's to the mid-1990's, you gotter dicked.

"Shit Karl, I seen grease-ball mobsters use a high-density digitizer to get clean lines, then create a photoneg off the digital image, then use the photoneg to acid-etch your plates." Skeeter was serious. He declared that even if the inks were a little off, these would be bank-quality notes, counterfeit bills that would fool a bank, cop or even a Secret Service Agent. Because they were real bank notes, just washed dollar bills with hundred dollar pictures printed on them.

Right at that moment I had a panic attack. I sneaked to look out the front and back windows to see if my phone was tapped and the entire Federal Government was out front, or in my backyard sneaking though canine land mines of large dog turds. Nobody there. Just my 2 junker cars and my funnel-ater sling-shot for shooting potatoes and pick off hairy bikers on I-5 down the hill below me.

I told Skeeter what was happening with the bogus bills that were being dumped on my cocaine operation. The hard guys were buying large bulk boxes of blow with funny money, then selling the coke and getting real money back. Skeeter laughed so fucking hard his dentures fell out. He thought that scam was one of the slickest he's ever heard of, especially with me being the stupid dupe taking phony money for serious weight cocaine. Yup, I'm a dumb ass.

Skeeter's advice was to ditch every single dollar from these assholes, stop doing business with them, change my address, change my name and rub shoe polish on my dick and act retarded. Then move to Kotzebue and blend in with the ice niggers and practice drooling on ugly fat white women working at Manilaq. I made up that last part, but I sure as shit took his advice about losing the connection to the money that'd get me sent upriver, in cuffs and shackles, eating prison food and enjoying prison sex.

These dudes with the counterfeit money weren't to be stalled, put off or fucked with, so I thought hard where I could send them for their monster-sized cocaine purchases. I phoned Ray English and Bruce Louridge and asked them if they knew anybody that carried big volumes of decent cocaine that we could send these asshole characters with the fake money to. We bandied about a bunch of names until we stumbled on Larry Payne. A pussy cheese-dick white dork that fancied himself an up-and-coming drug lord like Al Pacino in the movie Scarface.

The reason Larry Payne was determined to be the butt of our joke and escape from all the dirty money was cuz he was famous for dumping lousy cut in his blow. His coke was sometimes called "bubble gum blow" cuz it was weak and tasted like bitter speed, baking soda and foot powder. When his customers washed it up, they got puny returns of paste to smoke. Free-base is the term, but Crack is the popular nomenclature. Free-base was the cleaned remnants after removing the garbage, then smash yer green bud in the paste and torch up. Hillbilly white trash are basically retarded. Free-base has a nice clean medicine taste to it and blended with frosty pine green bud real good. That's probably more info than you coppers need to hear. In short, Larry's blow was mostly cut, minimal quality and the target of our get-even stunt and get-out-of-jail mission. Fuck him.

I got the phone call for a half-pound (8 ounces) of cocaine, but told them my dude was sitting in jail on a DUI beef, so we set up a meet and greet with Larry Payne, then met them at his place of operations and sure as shit, Larry had a TON of blow to sell them. They did the deal and everybody was happy, happy, happy. Our counterfeiters shook hands and left grinning like motherfuckers, and Larry was strutting around like a peacock, thinking he had attained macho status. He even gave me a large bag of blow for my troubles. A large bag I wouldn't dump in my dog's food bowls. But I did pour out at Marto's next party with Cully's band playing. A quarter ounce of bubble gum blow. All gratis. All free. I'm such a chump. I was even looking for bubbles to emerge and inflate from everybody's nostrils.

Their business went gang-busters for almost 6 months. The hard guys with the counterfeit never knew they'd been derailed and diverted far away from Ray, Bruce and myself. They bought shit loads of blow offa Larry Payne and Larry moved way up the food chain taking care of larger and larger cocaine purchases. Me, Ray and Bruce swore we'd never whisper a peep to anybody about our funny money troubles. We just went back to handling our regular customer base, taking in only real money and maintaining our practices of buying money orders to pay for all our bills, or stashing the money in vaults and floor board hide-holes.

The following March, I read about a drug bust in Edmonds, Washington in the Seattle Times newspaper. The details were vague, but Larry Payne had somehow started selling large amounts to a narc employed by the US Drug Enforcement Administration. He'd done quite a number of large scale deals selling the DEA agent bulk orders of blow much larger than our OZ, QP and elbow deals. After enough damning evidence was accumulated and documented, his drug house was raided.

Then the Secret Service and the Treasury were called in. Larry Payne had many, many thousands of dollars in counterfeit bills on his premises, along with a kick-ass stash of sexy big weight block parcels of cocaine. Blocks of cocaine that still had stamps on 'em that indicated metric weight, Spanish script and rich with chemical solvent odors. Fresh goodies from way down South. Not the "bubble gum blow" Larry originally stuck his old customers with.

Larry was the king-pin and a schmuck. He had nobody in my neighborhood to rat out, the cops didn't want any of his lackey underlings, and all of us (Ray, Bruce and me) were long gone and out of the picture. What all the cops in different uniforms wanted was both the source of the funny money and all "fresh off the boat" cocaine, not the sources of his foot powder, speed and baking soda candy ass coke. Larry Payne was perfectly happy to steer their investigation directly to the crew of hard guys that were buying mucho dollar coke deals with bogus bucks.

He also ratted out his high-dollar big-block cocaine wholesalers. Poor guy didn't have any choice. He was still heading off to the big dorm on the hill filled with Super-Max inmates hungry for fresh white-man butt-pussy. Being a North Seattle kid like us, Larry had orthodontic braces as a child and he had the straightest teeth any inmate would ever come across. Open wide and say "Ah." Rod Stewart ain't got shit on him now. I'm also guessing Larry Payne learned to deep-throat his bunk mates' penises to avoid slurping on defective DNA rich convict sperm. He also had his ears pulled off after a couple spastic ejaculations way down his throat. Like them deaf-mute FAS Selawikmutes.

Skeeter phoned me and said he'd just finished reading a long-ass article about a drug bust, and asked what the fuck was going on in my end of town. So I told him. You could hear his laughing and smoker's hack over the phone and echo 22 miles away. After his coughing and loogie spitting, he asked for details, so I explained that I took his advice and deflected the counterfeiters to another dealer. "So this Laurence Payne is the guy you dumped all that shitty schlock-money monkey-business on?" I told him all the sinister minutia involved with feeding Larry's ego and his greed by funneling big cocaine business his way, along with the worthless phony money to him, then becoming invisible and disappearing. Larry's expanding to add a high-dollar DEA narc was an added bonus.

Skeeter just kept laughing. He didn't believe so many people could get picked up in the Federal Government's drag-net. The Seattle Times claimed suits from the Treasury, the Secret Service, the DEA, WSP (Washington State Patrol), SPD (Seattle Police Department) and the King County Sheriffs joined the party. I can't recall any more cop mobs that were involved, but it was a doozy. Besides Larry Payne, the hard guys buying his blow with schlock bucks, some Hispanic fuckers and even some Gook criminal motherfuckers all had a ton of the counterfeit money and got scooped up in this carnival bust. Sort of like a loose thread and the Feds just kept pulling and pulling. Stupid crooks came falling out of trees with truckloads of monopoly silly dollars, up and down the west coast.

Ray English phoned me and told me Bruce Louridge got so scared he shit his trousers and has been hiding in his apartment waiting for the Feds to knock on his door. Then Bruce phoned me and said the same thing about Ray. Funny guys. I wonder what shit they were making up about me. I never discovered how many rats, snitches, narcs, spics, chinks and finks the Feds rolled and took testimony from, but that case kept tumbling like dominoes for years. Get this, I wasn't involved in any part of it. That's my story butt fuckers. And my story is sticking to me. So is the smell.

This afternoon I didn't shit my pants. But I did feel waves of anxiety and worry flow across my gut. Seeing the Treasury warning at the gas station and the fat old lady that don't look a day over 80, telling me about all the restaurants, bars, liquor stores, weed shops and gas stations getting fucked over with junk bank notes stymied my thoughts for quite a spell. I didn't do nothing, but I worried how many Treasury and Secret Service agents are now in Alaska tearing drug dealers' shit up. The same thing that I saw years ago is happening now. Some funny fuckers are using the 907 black market drug economy of Alaska to convert junk cash into authentic American dineros. Then the silly money is spent at evey retail shop statewide.

Bun asked what I was thinking about, so I told her the story from my days operating a cocaine parlor and the guys dumping counterfeit money on me. She got real mad at me. Even though my story is decades old, she looked like she was gonna slug me. Ya see, bun worked in banks for years and had to examine forged signatures, altered checks, smudged bank account numbers and of course phony money. She'd been instructed to call the troopers on a million fucking occasions and swore affidavits in court a million more times because chumps like me pull really stupid shit. And end up in jail. Or worse, Kotzebue.

What's in your wallet? Go ahead, smell yer money. Then lick it. If you taste HIV strip joints and herpy titty bars and rotten AIDS pussy, it's okay. You're not retarded. But your money is.

Post Script. The Washington Mutual Savings Bank was eventually seized and taken control of by the Federal Reserve Banking Regulators after the Mortgage Bust and Great Recession of 2008. Those shyster bankers were bundling bogus non-performing mortgages underwritten in poor white trailer and nigger ghetto neighborhoods into portfolio packages stuffed with Mortgage Backed Assets (MBA) and unloading them on the open market. Washington Mutual was also dumping these toxic assets on the Freddy Mac and Fannie Mae federal mortgage clearing houses, guaranteeing their quality. Sure.

Freddy Mac and Fannie Mae are the Wall Street clearing houses that served as the open markets for investors interested in buying and selling TARP (troubled asset repurchase programs). The Obama Administration and the Federal Reserve seized hundreds of banks across the country, clawing back proceeds paid to investors, brokers, bank presidents and bank management teams that profited from blending junk mortgages into portfolios of good, solid mortgages like ours, guaranteed by our work histories and good credit that were timely paid and ultimately paid off.

*Washington Mutual Savings Bank is now no more than a footnote in banking history, a financial tombstone and the butt of my stupid humor. Fuck 'em. Every player in the mortgage bust of 2008 were incarcerated, filed for bankruptcy and learned to deep-throat convict penis to avoid slurping on defective DNA rich sperm. I'm thinking that they've also had to have their ears surgically re-attached. Like your ugly old girlfriends.

*The reference to Rod Stewart is a tale of his awakening from a massive party with a gallon of sperm in his stomach and buckets of spooge way up in his large intestine is sourced from North Seattle urban myth. A story was oft repeated that Rod Stewart had to have his stomach pumped and his ass douched out via a high colonic soapy water wash. I've since added that this party occurred in the NW Alaska village of Kiana. I also added that the sperm in his stomach and rectum was derivative of the Westlake genetic family tree.

Hey. I could've pointed derision at the Lincoln clan. But that would've been redundant. Lincoln sperm, under a microscope ain't got no tails and move real slow. Like Noatak sperm.

What the fuck. I could've dragged in the biblical fable of Cecil Hawley butt fucking dogs and creating the anal birth baby and KOTZ announcer Dolly Hawley. A beautiful woman born immaculately from the womb of a virgin mushing dog. Or was it some other orifice. I've got an email to Jim Paulin, Arctic Sounder Editor for details about his ex-girlfriend.

I gotta brush my teeth and wash my hands before I puke.

Karl.