Lifting heavy weights. And fine pussy.
Top of the morning gents,
I was questioned why I show up everyday at the Kenai Rec Center. If you can believe it, I refrained from blabbing about our obligations to utilize community assets such as libraries, parks, community colleges, universities and gymnasiums. You see, I'm a fan of public infrastructure development and public usage of these wonderful facilities. You boys know that after shitty shifts at a fucked up police department, you could find me lifting weights with a couple old natives, one Methican and one comedic black dude. At the Kotzebue Rec Center.
My gym crew was usually Wilford Lane, Carlos Salazar, Al Sanders and of course, the ancient one, grandma Nunapichak, bunnik. I kept a decent ghetto blaster there and brought mixed music tapes that were catered towards power-drinking white guys, and in that crowd, was just me. The music wasn't heard on Krotchebue Radio (KOTZ 720) and much more upbeat and aggressive, as in harder British and Southern Fried Rock, not whiny trainer bra, tampon tunes that evoke spontaneous bleeding and miraculous God-sent wife-beatings. Give me an amen.
Whenever I play bitch-tunes or screaming chick music, my wife throws a fit, stabs a knife into her ovaries and paints the walls red spinning brodies and flying in bloody circles on her floor mop. Playing my aggressive blues/rock guitar blends loud, Carlos would exclaim "that's some damn good American music there buddy!" "You oughta work at the radio station!" Whereupon I'd explain that I wasn't gay, retarded nor native and that my foul fucking mouth would get me fired. I'm good at pissing off faggots and natives. And their quarter-breed genius children. I also refuse to listen to Salazar's Hispanic (Spic and Spanish) music. Now pay attention.
Carlos asked if I would make some of the same tapes for him, so of course I obliged. He said that my music tapes got blasted in his truck and at the Manilaq Alcohol Program (MAP) where he worked towards sobering impaired baboons and drunken gibbons. I smiled and told him that my choices of music arose from loud druggy bars all over Seattle and the tapes we enjoyed at the Rec Center were the same play-lists I blasted during parties at my infamous Mountlake Terrace crack house. Music is like literature and can sing to the listener whereas reading text can unlock fine memories and wonderful emotions long stored or battered and abused while on patrol duty. I type these postings with the intent of kicking a board up yer ass and unlocking long-lost memories hidden in yer knuckle heads, locked in Bionic Organic Gorilla Glue.
Inspiring today's compost, is one fine bit of text that sings to me: the Alaska Constitution. Like cascading symphonies and enchanting piano and harp, I'm enthralled by its structure and intent. Thus creating an independent judiciary, an evenly embattled 3-part adversarial government, a stubborn, persistent free press, and finally, putting state owned sub-surface resources like minerals, metals, oil and natural gas in the hands of the public, not the hands of greedy colony-minded private property owners. Outside Alaska, there are multimillionaire families and robber baron scumbags that own all the resources in competing energy producing states, reaping gluttonous proceeds. At the expense of the populace.
The one exception to the state owning all sub-surface resources is of course regional native corporations. The larger Regional Native Corporations have license to mine sub-surface treasures, but local village native corporations don't get to mine underground minerals, metals or fossil fuels. Imagine the taxes and royalties Native Corporations, boroughs and the State of Alaska would've reaped for our benefit if these government and corporate structures were in place during our many Silver, Fur, Ivory, Lumber, Coal, Whaling, Seafood and Gold Rushes starting with Alaska's purchase from Russia in 1867 to statehood in 1959 and passage of ANCSA legislation in 1971. That kind of money gives me heap-big Indun wood.
The fierce fight over statehood didn't arise from the salmon industry. The battle for statehood coalesced around the Swanson River oil and gas fields of Cook Inlet and the victory of Alaska's statehood brought complete cessation to resource pilferage on a mass scale. Even after 160 years, Alaska is still vulnerable to invading slavers, apartheid militias, antebellum families, drug cartels, land barons, gambling casinos, brothel keeps and the adult beverage industry, so vote hard and smart.
If needed, vote all over the fucking ballot. Rank Choice Voting liberated us to gang up and steamroll over the hymies, peckerwoods, crackers and honkies. The most recent election freed us to vote against assholes and allowed us to vote for better qualified under-dogs like Mary Peltola and Lisa Murkowski. Both dames have won numerous elections and have carefully avoided stupid scandals and political missteps. I also admire successful women that win elections and replace gaff-prone old fart white guys like us.
This last election busted open closed primaries and also let us bury the notion of a Constitutional Convention letting mean old white butt-fuckers rewrite our constitution to suit their needs and fuck over First Alaskans. Don't let old white church gomers get their hands on Alaska's Constitution or it would read like Kraut Porn. Old white fuckers still believe we should Make Alaska White Again, which is Hitler's Wet Dream. We'd ship all First Nations, Worst Africoons and Methican Wetbacks to concentration camps to become dog food, soap and candle wax, then change the name of our state to White Christian Europa, because both Jesus and God are white men like me. Pull yer loaded panties out yer ass, I'm kidding.
Regional, local, tribal village corporations and the State of Alaska have forcibly brought checks and balances to American Robbery and Expansionist Policies. Taxation and licensing has harnessed the engines of greed, hatred, racism and butchery, putting billions into our state budgets. We are the government and it's constitution is our very own rule book of best practices and fairness. Ignore inflammatory party rhetoric, subtle racist claims and sensational accusations, as long as the rules keep guys like me in check, the rest of you 907 soldiers should revel in the loud chorus of voices fighting, auguing and singing debate at every legislative session in Juneau.
To refresh yer notions of village corporations, the local village corporation in Barrow is the Ukpeagvik Inuqiaq Corporation (UIC). It has no taxing authority, zero sub-surface license and operates statewide on large-scale construction projects such as the National Guard Hangar and parts of the new MMC hospital in Kotz. They also performed structural work at the new Samuel Simmons Hospital in Barrow and the new Norton Sound Health Corporation Hospital in Nome. Your local KIC seems to fuck up, lose money and pound sand up their own arse holes. I'm not sure what went wrong with Hanson's Trading Post but the Noorvik Runway Project sure turned into a fiasco with FAA and DOT non-performance penalties that cost $10,000 per day, for most of a year. Serious fuck-ups.
Back to the state's code book. The needs of the many, outweigh the needs of the few and Alaska's Constitution has performed successfully by funding public works, public infrastructure and community assets. Imagine if roads, schools, water and sewer, city parks, libraries, universities and gymnasiums were all privately owned and we were expected to pay tolls or excluded from using these facilities because we were the wrong race, or worse, the wrong religion. I've mentioned numerous times of the historical signs in Nome, Alaska forbidding natives and dogs from entering business premises. I've ventured that these obsolete racist policies can be comedic and hilarious when I apply them absurdly to my AM/Cop Talk postings over the last 25 years. I'm good at being absurd. Keep reading.
Once I understood the Alaskan State Constitution and how it dovetailed with the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act (ANCSA) I saw opportunities to find work and put money away. We've all benefited from the Public Employees Retirement System (PERS) public sector jobs and despite not being native shareholders, we've made serious bank working for numerous Alaska Native Corporations. Additionally, I combined training with employment by working at Rural Student Services and then the Computer Lab at UAF. The narc jobs aren't in public records, so they never happened. Any claims of involuntary fornication or unbearable womb stretching are baseless and unfounded. When I did the date-rape narc job on the UAF Campus with Nush, we tested the strength and effectiveness of the drugs on boys. Fuck I'm funny.
I've been gainfully employed by school districts, city halls, the state of Alaska and also earned wages and rents from local village and regional native corporations. I worked for the cities of Kotzebue and Galena, KIC, NANA and UIC, and also rented apartments from the village corporations in Galena and Kotzebue and rented our Barrow duplex to UIC, ASRC and SKW Eskimos Inc. Aside from fish guts and crab slime in D-Ham, Cold Bay and Dutch, my lowest paying job was VPSO working for Manilaq and my highest earning gig was brokering the sale of the Bush Pilot Bar to the NANA Regional Corporation, with a plethora of jobs and rental agreements before, during and since. I did contract work at KBRW Broadcasting in Barrow, digging up paperwork for their yearly financial audit and organizing their annual membership drive. Off market work lacking evidence and corroborating testimony importing LSD, Codeine and stolen firearms ain't a fucking crime. Especially if the defendants and victims are in a loony bin, boxed dirt, and prison. Or gooks.
I wouldn't believe the silly rumors of some dumb ass unloading LSD all over Kotzebue. Randy Kem was naturally a fat psychotic homosexual and secretly danced naked everywhere, even on the airport runway, at -30 below. May Marlene Thomas ran full speed and dove head first into the Wilson's house, pulling out her own fetus all by herself and mopping the ice on Front Street and painted Scott McConnell's sno-go bright red, like graphic dead-baby art. Shannon Pavel naturally drove like a retard cuz she was a shovel-head native, a woman, and from Bethel. Those 3 drunken bums (Tykee Lloyd Hall and the 2 Sun monkeys) actually ran and dove under her truck tires. I seen it all. Flat-head Pygmy Injuns do stuff like that.
Employments abound, that's Alaska: local and state government jobs and local and regional native corporate money-making opportunities. If we NEVER turn down a job offer, or illegally import thousands of doses of LSD, we should have a work history and life record that is a blended portfolio of paychecks, commissions and rent checks. It took me a lifetime to comprehend all these layered agencies but recently, I've received deaf ears from young men when I lecture them the fantastic educational, training and employment offerings all over bum-fuck Alaska. But, these lazy wanna-be Alaskan new-comers show keen interest in watching FIrst Nation aboriginal chimps freak out and flip around on acid. I laughed and told them what they were seeing was actually native dancing at AFN. Not drug-induced seizures.
I've got another crew of gym-rat mates here in Kenai and yes, they are similar to the funny old fuckers I enjoyed in Kotzebue and Barrow. Some are young men I've lectured to of the multitudes of jobs all over Alaska. Just respond to the thousands of job offerings online and in newspapers, dump yer loser ugly fat cunt white trash girlfriend, catch a plane out to the great beyond and go to work. After work, lift weights at the city rec center and if yer lucky, lick, suck and savor some of the world's finest pussy. Or like me, married pussy. One job leads to another and one fine piece of ass leads to MANY others. Girls are like jobs, once you get rolling, the paychecks pile up and a lad will inevitably rack and stack naked abundance and countless delicious females. I can't be the only motherfucker that treats women like chattel and enjoyed this kind of success. Can I?
All over rural Alaska there's jobs by the dozens, arousing and stimulating girls and women by the hundreds and heartbreaks by the thousands. I shed a ton of sperm out my dick and a ton of tears crying my eyes and heart out. Life's a bitch, so climb back up on her and start fucking again and clock in for your next graveyard shifts and keep working and earning pay. Our final destination guarantees infirmities, indignities and ultimately, roached penises and advanced aging at an old folks' home. Damn fine way to live and die. Unless I hand out date-rape drugs like GHB or Rohipnol to my feeble neighbors. Or LSD. Don't look at me like I'm a spastic.
In the end, you should have a little put away in a state pension, a little stashed in Social Security and a staggering pile waiting in yer home equity. Which of course is the 3-legged stool analogy of retirement and crudely describes us 2-legged donkey-dicked motherfuckers that are fat and happy in our old age. That's life niggers. Work yer dick off, grow and expand yer wooden spear and penis crutch with lots of beautiful women, grow old and die with a sore back, busted hands, worn out dick and a treasure of money and memories akin to squirrels stashing nuts. If given a chance to do it again, I wouldn't change a thing. Except maybe wear condoms, snort less powders, smoke less pot, drink less liquor, hand out less LSD to the First Alaskan primates at the Tagruk Ponderosa Zoo and floss more often after devouring mighty fine pussy: married or coherent.
I'm still utilizing community resources and harvesting opportunities. An elderly gentleman asked how long I've been showing up at weight rooms. I was also questioned by the recently retired counter person at the Kenai Rec Center, how often and why. As you continue reading, you'll see how some guys are stuck in loser jobs, stuck on stupid blaming handsome men for their mental disabilities, never seeing outside a 5-mile radius of where they were crapped out of their retarded momma's bug-infested retard hamper (bugs I probably put there) or poop-chute with busted draw-strings. Get this, the clerk at the Kenai Rec was his only job posting for 30 years. He was a low-wage clerk checking ID's and taking payment from us old farts with discounted senior monthly memberships his whole life. Yup, fat blob and likely migrating like a slug to Caldwell, Idaho.
The normal $50.00 monthly fee for unlimited use of the gym, sauna, weight room and showers is reduced for old farts over 55 costing only $25.00 per month. Yup, half-price senior discount niggers. Bun and I pony up $50.00 at the first of each month for the two of us and our monthly fees are likely only a small fraction of the facility's operating expenses or contributions towards this retiring clerk with a Tier ZERO PERS pension and looks a lot like our mongoloid in-law parents. The old fucker that worked at the Rec Cernter sports a fat wobbly gelatinous physique and wears fashion accessories that scream "old fart." Get this, he's younger than I.
My answers to his questions were that we've been working out at the Kenai City Rec. for quite a few years. Then I told him about lifting weights at the Kotzebue Rec. and Barrow City Rec. I shared with the Chief on the phone that I recently hit a high-mark hefting groups of 300 pounds on the bench press and 150 pounds on the curls. Come on fuckers, I'll be 62 this summer, lifting more than ever and being modest is fer faggots. When I told our retiring clerk of my recent max weight achievements, he was flabbergasted. He even voiced doubt that me and bun really lived at the Whites Only Nikiski Senior Center and 4 years prior, at the Sterling Old Farts Death Camp. Both places are No Coloreds Allowed, so I checked off the Gook Box on Bun's applications.
I laughed and told him that we had a vacant apartment available at the Nikiski Rest Home and Crematorium, and that his wife would fit right in. I think I hit a tender nerve. It seems his wife is like yours and fancies herself a youngster and not a dirt-bound crispy biddy nor frosty nigger smelling funny and losing diseased parts in her wake. I punched him in the shoulder and chided him that men our age only bone grandmas packing bags of dried seeds and that ain't none of us ever gotta worry about birth-control nor child support. Or pissing off our bosses.
I further stomped on his tender faggot feelings with, "too old to bleed, good enough to breed." Poor guy furrowed his brow and looked really upset. He no longer speaks to me. Like you guys, his wife refuses to tolerate terms like "akka milluk meat scraps," "ancient dog food crotch rot" "grandma hunch-back," "old lady worm farts" or "shrunken head diaper helmet." Adding insult to injury, I recited the Irish slogan "God invented whiskey so that ugly women get laid" followed with a 1-2 punch in his fat mortuary-bound sensitivities, "Viagra is best taken 1-hour prior to your wife getting cold." I'm good at hitting below the belt.
Since his nervous retirement, our old fart desk clerk has returned to the gym helping with the girl's high school basketball junior varsity program and to me, looked an awful lot like an old pervert getting his jollies blowing his whistle, coaching lay-ups, shots from the top of the key and barking foul-shot advice. I doubt he's a Chester (child molester) hanging around itty-bitty titties and ultra-tight micro-pie, but the thought crossed my mind.
Ya see, I'm a sexual predator, a Neanderthal and the last of the true romance experts on planet Earth. Mind you, all blue-eyed motherfuckers descend from one Scandinavian man 80-100K years ago, so running up sex partners in the hundreds was programmed into my ancestry. I suspect, despite being horribly interracially married, you boys are the same. Since we're all KPD cave-bitches, we can blame our frequent stink-utch meanderings on our cross-eyed feeble womenfolk. Go ahead, walk into the kitchen and punch yer wives. Then go sack an older hag or a little boy. If you follow my recommendations you'll soon be elected NANA or ASRC president.
I believe my conceited explanations why I lift weights and eat a no-frills diet may also reveal my inner-most intent for working increasingly harder for a muscular body and the reason I connect a Shop-Vac to my penis while I sleep at night. Ya see, I'm afraid of getting old and looking like my cop-pals. I've kept my hair long and beard trimmed and my attire reflecting younger fashion choices towards "smart casual" which is jeans, collared pull-overs and high-dollar hiking boots. Not big white tennis shoes, fat-ass "Richard Nixon" shorts and sloppy T-shirts stretched tight over sagging moobs (man boobs) worn by the men (and women) here at the senior center. I'm trying to look younger than my years, broader shoulders, larger biceps and forearms and legs that only look like they could run fast and long. Looks are hard to maintain and the illusion of fitness is a bitch to keep up and the Shop-Vac stretches my shit out like a wooden peg leg.
Being non-native and Nordic-trash, I avoid tanning salons, but after workout me and bun sit out on the back porch and sun ourselves colored. We take advantage of the reflective snowbank and after break-up, bask in the bright glare off the lake out back of our senior center apartment. An old-fart crispy biddy resort for guys like me with much younger skin tone, facial hair coloring and texture and self-imposed ball-busting heavy weight training. My conditioning that's frequently commented upon by fellow dude-man gym-rats, which also includes younger women that I flirt with, compliment and admire. When bun's not looking. Or leaves her trillion-power bifocals in the car.
I ain't kidding. I joke and chat with younger women at every opportunity. Some of these girls are in their 20's and smile and blush at my silly banter. Some girls are in their 30's and lean in closer making bolder displays of keen interest in hearing my compliments and admiration. A Russian proverb states "a man falls in love through his eyes and a woman falls in love through her ears." Especially when she hears about my wooden disability from the Shop-Vac.
One aspect of living longer than yer peers is our responsibility to set the record straight. The record that badly needs clearing of gossip and bullshit. A few months ago I was sent a forwarded anti-social media message stating that I was fucking someone's mom. Of course I was intrigued. The most confusing holiday in Alaska is Father's Day and I've made a hobby out of fucking mothers. I also made a hobby out of sucking the brains outa married women. The email I received was a screen-shot from Tom Gebhardt griping his mom wasted good money "fucking Carl Uwing." I guess that's me. Nobody else in the NANA Region has a name like that, so closely resembling mine. And Tom wasn't far from the truth. Except the part about his mom wasting good money. Us over-sized blue-eyed caveman penis miners are worth every penny.
My affair with his mom started before before I met bun, before working for the city, and long before I knew who her husband was. This deliciously illicit affair started immediately after I was wheels down, Alaskas Airlines, humping freight at Ryan Air and slopping fish guts at Whitney Foods. Honest Injun. Walking home from work in the pouring rain, I was offered a ride from an attractive older woman. I accepted the lift and after we arrived at house #321, I took over the driving and also being ridden for a couple years thereafter.
Tall Finns are only good fer riding, vacuum cleaning forensic evidence and moonlighting as plumbers. With the right caliber of pipe cleaner and auger, moving aside internal organs, I'll inevitably knock all the mortar out of the sides, pushing the bottom out of the well. Where I'm guessing Tom Gebhardt was hatched out of. Strange thought, but that's also where I vacuumed his birth place with my big fucking mouth and parked Mr. Wobbly.
When I met bun, I'd interrupted a lousy relationship she was divesting away from and as the pitch-hitter at bat with the Louisville Slugger, I swung for the fences and scored only a million fucking home runs. Cervix and ovaries are a man's best friend. Busted. I'm guilty of fucking other children's mothers. And yes, I'm guilty of fucking other married mens’ wives. But as a promise to you gentlemen and the ladies I loved, and since gimpy Tom Gebhardt don't look anything like me, I won't reveal any more about this retarded boy's online claims. At least until his cuckolded sap and dim-bulb stepfather finally croaks and pukes and starts leaking juice out all his holes, soaking his dying bed. I'm a responsible backdoor man and I've only mere months until all parties are deceased and I can open my big mouth. And uncork my crutch stuck in this damn Shop-Vac.
You see, I love women wholeheartedly. My entire childhood was spent highly excited in swimming pools surrounded by female swim team-mates covered in tiny slips. My best friends were naked girls barely sheathed in sleek Speedo swimsuits and my childhood years were spent in the gym, on the track running my dick off and swimming miles marinating my gonads in eye-watering, chlorine reeking, toxic brine. Chlorine burned hair and eyes keenly watching the kicking legs and breast strokes of these wonderful female creatures. I devour creatures, all the way up the hominid food chain.
All throughout my childhood and adulthood, my swim team, orchestra and dorm mates were my very best girl-buds. Which is extremely erotic material for my nightmares and pornographic dreams now plaguing my retirement years. My dreams take place back when I was in high school and university, so my slumber-time video viewing isn't quite child porn, but at my age, highly questionable if I acted upon these dreams today. "Hi mom, hi dad, this is my new boyfriend, Grandpa Karl." Don't laugh, you may soon find your granddaughter coming home from college with an aging porn star on her arm.
Grown women are wonderful playthings and delicious 3-course meals. Girls of high school and college age are simply mouth-watering nocturnal appetizers. I've learned that I prefer a meal not a snack. Even if Tom Gebhardt disapproves of my side gigs and professional mother-fucking, his real dad was a special-needs Air Force doofus-butt and had intellectual disabilities that are genetically inherited and obviously run in the family. I put a log in that fire much later and when a fox sneaks into the hen house, all that's left is broken eggs. And dilated cervix. And poor job reviews at KPD.
Get this, I still have frequent dreams about swimming alongside, behind and underneath my childhood female team mates and girlfriends. It ain't all nubile snack-time. Mixed in these dreams are scary scenes of fighting, running from people I hurt with pipe bombs, firearms and automobile shenanigans, and folks I vandalized and pulled stupid stunts on. We all have dreams like that and it explains our waking from nonsensical and terrifying nightmares yielding painful tent poles and kickstands. With dead household pets glued to the end.
If we sleep long enough and finish our wet dreams, we'll likely discover non-vaginal wet globs of Pecker Snot Brand Adhesive on our side of the bed. Bionic Adhesives that we surreptitiously cover with our bedding or any retarded grandchild nearby. Testicular screamers with no ovum nor tonsils to swim towards, just linen cemented to stupid infants. If yer grandchildren are noisy mud-gimps, you can enjoy some peace and quiet by leaving your stupid NANA chimp-tards glued to your bed in semen paint. Simple. Spooge a mess, then yell "LIe down!" "Stay!" Child safety can be found In quick-drying Atomic Gonad Epoxy. Sara accuses me of talking to her like a dog, but I never glued her to mom's bed with ball-cheese super-glue. I know, looking back, I should have glued her face down.
Outside swimming, I have dreams of my adolescent romances with attractive violin players and woodwinds on band tour all over the Pacific NW and Europe. Non-sexual romances, but intense attractions nonetheless. Imagine a teenage Scandinavian caveman like me, watching beautiful girls working their wooden violin bows in erotic postures or breast detracting techniques breathing life into oboes and clarinets. Use your imaginations. Some of my orchestra girl-buds used to hold my hand and if I was really lucky, land a kiss or peck on my cheek. Any non-sexual contact with pretty girls can be tremendously exciting. Yup, serious non-porn fer this ugly duckling.
Back at the Kenai Rec Center, I have the privilege of assisting younger broads with the weight machines and if I kneel way down to adjust the weight settings or seat heights, I can sneak a peek at fine museum-quality lippy. Sometimes, I even get a whiff of perfume, and well, other nose-candy treats. Some girls are hugely busty and give me wood just standing still, but running on the treadmill or working the butterfly machine triggers ocular spasms that shred my tongue and eye muscles, locks up my abdomen, hikes my gonads upwards and takes my breath away until my peaches drop back inside their leather pouch.
Right now, at your computer, imagine spandex stretched tight over fine round asses or yoga outfits that are thinner than paint, barely restraining large breasts during calisthenics or practicing ballet maneuvers, allowing you to read lips like a deaf-mute or decipher Braille text surrounding a dozen nipples like a blind man. Yup, girls are wonderful creations upon this fine Earth. Don't get yer misogynous whiner muscles in a twitch, bun has gazed upon some fine muscular men one-third her age and twice her NANA Elder vaginal capacity. Some young men are so handsome and flexed, she completely loses her ability to speak English. If yer wives joined our gym and cast their eyes upon some of these distant relatives of Arnold Schwarzenegger, they'd suffer coronary infarction and uterus cramps that'd hobble their stride and lock them out of their own cars. God is a beautiful artist. Got wood? All women do.
Back to living too long. As stated before, as gentlemen, we have a duty to keep mum about our illicit affairs. At least while our lovers (and faggot husbands, ex-husbands and widowers) are still sucking air. Once our breast friends and their tiny-cookoo husbands pass on, we can extol their wonderful virtues as our lovers, gorgeous bedside confidantes and eternally beautiful pillow-talk moaners. Some lovers were so excited that as we kissed and licked them, their vulvas extended outward and engulfed our faces and proceeded to vaginally reciprocate around our long tongues and sucking lips and eat our mouths in return, proving that our noses and tongues are the second-best seats in the house. I should've installed a spy camera inside house #321. In a Cosmopolitan Magazine I read that only half of the female population in America prefer traumatic intercourse to achieve Earth shattering orgasms. Boys, after you become widowers, start drooling like a shit-house nigger and practice sucking and nibbling beautiful young women with so much vigor, your ears pop. Down Periscope.
Before exposing our extra-marital affairs, at least wait until their Bozo the Clown husbands get connected to breathing machines or start flooding their trousers with effluvium, soaking their hospital beds with puny muscle and tissue putrefaction and their semi-functional brain's inevitable liquefaction. Some dumb city supervisor bastards deserve to wear a dunce cap with the label of a fool, sucker and dumb syphilitic asshole that ate more than our sperm. Cuckolded men also ate our shit. Too bad, so sad. What the fuck, strap a life preserver across their tiny shoulders or invite them back to your place and let them climb yer dick.
Okay, enough explaining our prehistoric, genetic and innate needs to violate our marital vows of fidelity. I also need to stop living in the past and stop letting my memories of childhood swimming, weight lifting and running cross-country twist my imagination and over-inflate my penis into petrified lumber. This may prove difficult. When I'm entering the weight room I fall back into my old self from years and decades ago and throw weights around on autopilot. I naturally start heaving machines and tying my guts up in knots cranking out sit-ups. It's the same mind-space I've inhabited my whole life and it's also shared with others in the gym, track and pool. Like a drunk or blast of fine-flaked blow, or nauseating huge bong plume, it also makes me happy, haunted and earily transformed. I think you boys know that space where you go when the miles we run are fatiguing and the workouts nearly unbearable. For marathon runners, swimmers and ball-busting weight-lifters, it's called the zone. Or Runner's High and cheaper'n dope.
Sometimes I look around and realize I've left the room and went back to the bad places we inhabit. The place where I go to visit you boys with membership restricted to only viciously antisocial, chronically unemployable (outside shitty public safety) and dramatic losers by the lesser 48 standards of success and accomplishment. As you coppers ship your children off to their own homes or jail, you'll find their noisy distractions, shitty diapers and dinner table ruckus overwhelmed and camouflaged your PTSD.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is common among poorly recovering public safety motherfuckers like you coppers. Combat veteran equivalent counterparts constantly re-experiencing graveyard shifts, trooper monitored drug purchases, book-in room fights, gun call-outs and CPR administering duties that've left us stressed in an endless series of flashbacks, nightmares and extremely intrusive memories. I think I've illustrated these scenarios in stupidly funny recounts working shit-jobs statewide and village-concentric emergencies. Alongside you fuckers.
Now you see the analgesic benefits of alcoholism, packing cups of blow up our beaks and smoking climate changing monster bong rips. Your shitty careers have caused emotional numbing, paranoid withdrawals from deadly external environments and crippling guilt from outlasting all of your now-deceased coworkers and cop-pals. Mid-career we've tried to venture into other employment, but our unique skill sets, training, and technical specialties proved useless, unwanted nor needed. You soldiers have been programmed so extensively that yer unemployable and good fer little else.
Wake up fucks. Where in other careers and work environments can you discuss firearms makes and models, ballistics, temporary bullet wound cavities, combat blow deflection and take-down techniques, talk with such shitty criminal language and laugh at horrible injuries or cooling corpses we've scooped up and run full-out to the ER or the morgue. I've tried. My coworkers complain to the upstairs faggots whereupon I'm given verbal warnings or written complaints in my files that I have a foul racist mouth ridiculing criminally recidivist niggers, chimps and natives. I didn't mean anything personal or hurtful with my recitations of hangings or recollections of lifting stinky leakers up onto gurneys and into ambulances. Okay, I'm lying, I did mean to be hurtful. I'm such a fuck-up.
I've been scolded for my referencing and quoting historically accurate statistics involving the arrests of "browns and blacks" and the epidemic crime that's concentrates in these racist demographics. I've also been let go at the end of my probationary periods due to my disdain for poverty and frustration with growing masses of poorly educated, sick, lousy-ass family planning and non-existent prenatal care that has left us with a statewide and nationwide generation of sick, fat and retarded niggers, natives and cross-eyed hillbilly white-trash.
Try keeping a job and office friends after lecturing factually of Alaska's 38% population dependence on welfare, with their noses plugged, faces green and trousers filling. Then conclude your lecture with follow-up comparisons to the lower 48 poverty rates that are all within single digits. Not all natives and niggers are cursed to incarceration, ye got retarded white gimps mixed in this recipe of deliciously blended sub-human FAS zombies gushing hot and cold drug-rich diarrhea. People are shit. If you value yer crap jobs outside public safety, don't mention it, cuz I'll call bullshit on ye.
Besides having huge numbers of welfare dependent Alaskans, we're under siege from welfare tourists piling into our state with their hand out. At the various senior centers I've haunted, you'll find a majority of crispy biddies and frosty niggers feigning residency, scamming food stamps, senior benefits of $250.00 per month, housing vouchers, Medicaid and heating and power cost subsidies. Besides pissing me off, my Eskimo wife gets absolutely steamed with this herd of old dry turds. What's worse is their denial of Alaska's brutal history, treatment of Alaska Natives, ANCSA, IHS, ICWA, NAGPRA, child prostitution and ongoing battle over village alcohol extermination policies.
I still get looks of confusion and dismay when I quote the exorbitant tobacco taxes across diverse boroughs. When I mention that the North Slope Borough is basically bone-dry and levies a 100% tax on tobacco products, these newcomer ignorants glare at me puzzled. I'll explain that over the last 40 years, Alaska Native alcohol consumption has decreased yet tobacco consumption has increased, hence the confiscatory taxes on cigarettes and chew resulting in a single pack on the North Slope costing over $20.00 and black market liquor costing an AK dime.
I also explain that North Slope Borough employees get paid an average of $2200 per week out of a budget of a half-billion dollars annually, and our NSB Mayor enjoys use of the borough-owned private jet. When Nush transferred laterally from NSB to the troopers, he took a 50% pay cut. Do the math niggers. With only 10,000 residents on the North Slope, the annual borough expenditures averages $50,000 per person. A budget that pays for free heating oil and subsidized electricity to the villages without natural gas and every school has an Olympic swimming pool. Lastly, the North Slope Borough has set aside its own Permanent Fund with a balance of roughly half the State's. "That's some big buxsh dude" (Albert Monroe).
Our boroughs ain't diddly squat. At our shitty respective boroughs, Mat-Su Trash and Kenai Penis, we got mayors that gotta thumb a ride to meetings and fly roach coach to conventions yonder 48. Our mayors can't even afford clean hookers, hence the blisters and facial scars on elected officials in Palmer and Soldotna. We can safely assume their genitals resemble their faces with groinular shot-gun obliteration wounds. Ouch, that some a spicy meatball herpes.
Alaska contains 30 boroughs with a giant "donut hole" of state land surrounding the Interior. When I worked as City Finance Director in Galena, we had a direct connection with the State of Alaska: no intermediary borough. The state was on the hook for all the clinics, water-sewer construction, schools and any normal infrastructure a borough would've managed and financed. Imagine no NW Arctic Borough. No Red Dog. Without a North Slope Borough: no property tax on Prudhoe Bay and the Trans-Alaska Pipeline. And zero half-billion dollars in annual budgets to spend. I don't know what the annual budget NW Arctic Borough operates and spends, but down her on the Kenai Pen, we have an annual budget of $175 million. Mostly proceeds from sales taxes, property taxes and dwindling revenues from Cook Inlet Oil Field and Nikiski Refinery royalties. Cook Inlet is over 60 years old and oil/gas output is nearing zero. Most of the refineries have been moth-balled for decades.
The next time you examine your natural gas bill, take heed that Cook Inlet is the source of this cheap heat and the primary input for your cheap electricity. Enstar has only 2 years of gas-delivery contracts in hand. Hillcorp has exhausted our Cook Inlet fields and Southcentral Alaska is due for a serious fucking wake-up. Half the state occupies Southcentral AK and we all may have to purchase liquefied natural gas on the open market and take delivery from supertankers at port Nik, port Mat-trash or Port of Anchoragua.
I'm totally game to transport the 35 trillion cubic feet of North Slope natural gas south. But how the fuck can we deliver it to Fairbanks, Anchorage, Mat-trash and Kenai Penis? Fuck me, I'm clueless. Open market prices for barge-delivered natural gas are less than half the LNG construction and delivery costs from the North Slope. And shit, I'd hate to return back to stove oil heat and diesel fuel electricity generation. That'd make me feel like a half-breed retard back home in Kotzebue.
That sucked so bad I fled the high utility bills, goofy liquor laws and married women humping me. I'm not psyched to climb back in bed with Annie Cyr nor Helen Barger, unless their husbands work for the City. The water works, old lady fucking and soggy bed sheets were simply too much. My eyes burn, my mouth drools bitter and my dick stings just thinking about it. Of course, if they're dead, I might be interested. Two blue pills and I'd book up to Boot Hill. Speaking of Viagra and rattling bones with our dicks, where did you cops bury your wives? Living or dead, the sex is the same.
A few summers ago I went looking fer yer dead wives and all my cadaver dogs died horribly, foaming out the nose and flipping around like Alfred Allen and Cory Fields when they danced with the Northern Lights Drinkers. The veteranerian diagnosed the cause of death for my corpse sniffing dogs, my cop-pals as really funny fuckers. Apparently my best friends in uniform buried their stupid marital punching bags and mistresses right near the dump, then dusted the area with liberal amounts of warfarin, ant poison, cayenne pepper and arsenic.
To put his accusations to rest, I'm not Tom Gebhardt's father. Lastly, all his siblings died on impact and drowned, suffocated and forever locked in Scandinavian Epoxy Ball Cheese Super Glue. If you read accusations from Jason Jepson that I humped and sucked his mommy, well that's just ridiculous. I'd never maliciously caused fat old native woman to have an orgasm and stroke out at the same time. Of course I've facilitated these events in succession, and maybe, and only maybe, I may be responsible for Skeeter's slurred speech, listing limp and half her face submerged in a drool cup. That's cuz I lied and told her it was a cup of Scandinavian Gorilla Glue and it softens hands while you do the dishes.
Mike and Lance Kramer blame me for their mom's advanced age, disabilities, obsesity, crippled cane walking and bedside granny stroller. Well that's just silly, I'm just a tall handsome Finn with a really big nose and matching donkey bits. My brutal rapes, forced entries and pleasant climaxes are barely linked to any historical and cultural trauma. Again, the forensic evidence stinks in a hot bath, douche and dumping out their after-birth slop bucket. Decades later, Danny Burnor and Chip Hailstone climbed inside her vulva and enjoyed homosexual Mazola parties while simultaneously feeding a ravenously eager beaver. The Hailstone's and Burnor's positive HIV and genital herpes infections are linked to the Montana and New York LGBT-Queer communities and their muff-diving and face-planting in the gay porn industry. Also, I would be happy to sell you coppers photos of Brian Higman, waving from inside Linda K's vagina.
The rumored testimony about my fucking so many children's mothers is mongoloid hearsay at best and I've zero culpability to the fatal diseases and early deaths of so many married women. Okay, you got me. I'm lying my ass off. All these years I assumed you coppers knew all about my ugly sexual engagements. I never knew that I'd end up fucking future supervisors' wives, coworkers' daughters and best friends' moms. So, to provide false testimony, I've stated before that I never laid hands on any guns, drugs nor natives. I also never fucked a single native woman in my entire life. I don't do single native women.
Go ahead, wash the barf offa yer keyboard. Wipe yer hands off on yer wife's faces. Then smack 'em in their mouths. With yer dick. Their shrieking quiets after the glue dries.
Fuck I'm funny.
Karl.
I was questioned why I show up everyday at the Kenai Rec Center. If you can believe it, I refrained from blabbing about our obligations to utilize community assets such as libraries, parks, community colleges, universities and gymnasiums. You see, I'm a fan of public infrastructure development and public usage of these wonderful facilities. You boys know that after shitty shifts at a fucked up police department, you could find me lifting weights with a couple old natives, one Methican and one comedic black dude. At the Kotzebue Rec Center.
My gym crew was usually Wilford Lane, Carlos Salazar, Al Sanders and of course, the ancient one, grandma Nunapichak, bunnik. I kept a decent ghetto blaster there and brought mixed music tapes that were catered towards power-drinking white guys, and in that crowd, was just me. The music wasn't heard on Krotchebue Radio (KOTZ 720) and much more upbeat and aggressive, as in harder British and Southern Fried Rock, not whiny trainer bra, tampon tunes that evoke spontaneous bleeding and miraculous God-sent wife-beatings. Give me an amen.
Whenever I play bitch-tunes or screaming chick music, my wife throws a fit, stabs a knife into her ovaries and paints the walls red spinning brodies and flying in bloody circles on her floor mop. Playing my aggressive blues/rock guitar blends loud, Carlos would exclaim "that's some damn good American music there buddy!" "You oughta work at the radio station!" Whereupon I'd explain that I wasn't gay, retarded nor native and that my foul fucking mouth would get me fired. I'm good at pissing off faggots and natives. And their quarter-breed genius children. I also refuse to listen to Salazar's Hispanic (Spic and Spanish) music. Now pay attention.
Carlos asked if I would make some of the same tapes for him, so of course I obliged. He said that my music tapes got blasted in his truck and at the Manilaq Alcohol Program (MAP) where he worked towards sobering impaired baboons and drunken gibbons. I smiled and told him that my choices of music arose from loud druggy bars all over Seattle and the tapes we enjoyed at the Rec Center were the same play-lists I blasted during parties at my infamous Mountlake Terrace crack house. Music is like literature and can sing to the listener whereas reading text can unlock fine memories and wonderful emotions long stored or battered and abused while on patrol duty. I type these postings with the intent of kicking a board up yer ass and unlocking long-lost memories hidden in yer knuckle heads, locked in Bionic Organic Gorilla Glue.
Inspiring today's compost, is one fine bit of text that sings to me: the Alaska Constitution. Like cascading symphonies and enchanting piano and harp, I'm enthralled by its structure and intent. Thus creating an independent judiciary, an evenly embattled 3-part adversarial government, a stubborn, persistent free press, and finally, putting state owned sub-surface resources like minerals, metals, oil and natural gas in the hands of the public, not the hands of greedy colony-minded private property owners. Outside Alaska, there are multimillionaire families and robber baron scumbags that own all the resources in competing energy producing states, reaping gluttonous proceeds. At the expense of the populace.
The one exception to the state owning all sub-surface resources is of course regional native corporations. The larger Regional Native Corporations have license to mine sub-surface treasures, but local village native corporations don't get to mine underground minerals, metals or fossil fuels. Imagine the taxes and royalties Native Corporations, boroughs and the State of Alaska would've reaped for our benefit if these government and corporate structures were in place during our many Silver, Fur, Ivory, Lumber, Coal, Whaling, Seafood and Gold Rushes starting with Alaska's purchase from Russia in 1867 to statehood in 1959 and passage of ANCSA legislation in 1971. That kind of money gives me heap-big Indun wood.
The fierce fight over statehood didn't arise from the salmon industry. The battle for statehood coalesced around the Swanson River oil and gas fields of Cook Inlet and the victory of Alaska's statehood brought complete cessation to resource pilferage on a mass scale. Even after 160 years, Alaska is still vulnerable to invading slavers, apartheid militias, antebellum families, drug cartels, land barons, gambling casinos, brothel keeps and the adult beverage industry, so vote hard and smart.
If needed, vote all over the fucking ballot. Rank Choice Voting liberated us to gang up and steamroll over the hymies, peckerwoods, crackers and honkies. The most recent election freed us to vote against assholes and allowed us to vote for better qualified under-dogs like Mary Peltola and Lisa Murkowski. Both dames have won numerous elections and have carefully avoided stupid scandals and political missteps. I also admire successful women that win elections and replace gaff-prone old fart white guys like us.
This last election busted open closed primaries and also let us bury the notion of a Constitutional Convention letting mean old white butt-fuckers rewrite our constitution to suit their needs and fuck over First Alaskans. Don't let old white church gomers get their hands on Alaska's Constitution or it would read like Kraut Porn. Old white fuckers still believe we should Make Alaska White Again, which is Hitler's Wet Dream. We'd ship all First Nations, Worst Africoons and Methican Wetbacks to concentration camps to become dog food, soap and candle wax, then change the name of our state to White Christian Europa, because both Jesus and God are white men like me. Pull yer loaded panties out yer ass, I'm kidding.
Regional, local, tribal village corporations and the State of Alaska have forcibly brought checks and balances to American Robbery and Expansionist Policies. Taxation and licensing has harnessed the engines of greed, hatred, racism and butchery, putting billions into our state budgets. We are the government and it's constitution is our very own rule book of best practices and fairness. Ignore inflammatory party rhetoric, subtle racist claims and sensational accusations, as long as the rules keep guys like me in check, the rest of you 907 soldiers should revel in the loud chorus of voices fighting, auguing and singing debate at every legislative session in Juneau.
To refresh yer notions of village corporations, the local village corporation in Barrow is the Ukpeagvik Inuqiaq Corporation (UIC). It has no taxing authority, zero sub-surface license and operates statewide on large-scale construction projects such as the National Guard Hangar and parts of the new MMC hospital in Kotz. They also performed structural work at the new Samuel Simmons Hospital in Barrow and the new Norton Sound Health Corporation Hospital in Nome. Your local KIC seems to fuck up, lose money and pound sand up their own arse holes. I'm not sure what went wrong with Hanson's Trading Post but the Noorvik Runway Project sure turned into a fiasco with FAA and DOT non-performance penalties that cost $10,000 per day, for most of a year. Serious fuck-ups.
Back to the state's code book. The needs of the many, outweigh the needs of the few and Alaska's Constitution has performed successfully by funding public works, public infrastructure and community assets. Imagine if roads, schools, water and sewer, city parks, libraries, universities and gymnasiums were all privately owned and we were expected to pay tolls or excluded from using these facilities because we were the wrong race, or worse, the wrong religion. I've mentioned numerous times of the historical signs in Nome, Alaska forbidding natives and dogs from entering business premises. I've ventured that these obsolete racist policies can be comedic and hilarious when I apply them absurdly to my AM/Cop Talk postings over the last 25 years. I'm good at being absurd. Keep reading.
Once I understood the Alaskan State Constitution and how it dovetailed with the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act (ANCSA) I saw opportunities to find work and put money away. We've all benefited from the Public Employees Retirement System (PERS) public sector jobs and despite not being native shareholders, we've made serious bank working for numerous Alaska Native Corporations. Additionally, I combined training with employment by working at Rural Student Services and then the Computer Lab at UAF. The narc jobs aren't in public records, so they never happened. Any claims of involuntary fornication or unbearable womb stretching are baseless and unfounded. When I did the date-rape narc job on the UAF Campus with Nush, we tested the strength and effectiveness of the drugs on boys. Fuck I'm funny.
I've been gainfully employed by school districts, city halls, the state of Alaska and also earned wages and rents from local village and regional native corporations. I worked for the cities of Kotzebue and Galena, KIC, NANA and UIC, and also rented apartments from the village corporations in Galena and Kotzebue and rented our Barrow duplex to UIC, ASRC and SKW Eskimos Inc. Aside from fish guts and crab slime in D-Ham, Cold Bay and Dutch, my lowest paying job was VPSO working for Manilaq and my highest earning gig was brokering the sale of the Bush Pilot Bar to the NANA Regional Corporation, with a plethora of jobs and rental agreements before, during and since. I did contract work at KBRW Broadcasting in Barrow, digging up paperwork for their yearly financial audit and organizing their annual membership drive. Off market work lacking evidence and corroborating testimony importing LSD, Codeine and stolen firearms ain't a fucking crime. Especially if the defendants and victims are in a loony bin, boxed dirt, and prison. Or gooks.
I wouldn't believe the silly rumors of some dumb ass unloading LSD all over Kotzebue. Randy Kem was naturally a fat psychotic homosexual and secretly danced naked everywhere, even on the airport runway, at -30 below. May Marlene Thomas ran full speed and dove head first into the Wilson's house, pulling out her own fetus all by herself and mopping the ice on Front Street and painted Scott McConnell's sno-go bright red, like graphic dead-baby art. Shannon Pavel naturally drove like a retard cuz she was a shovel-head native, a woman, and from Bethel. Those 3 drunken bums (Tykee Lloyd Hall and the 2 Sun monkeys) actually ran and dove under her truck tires. I seen it all. Flat-head Pygmy Injuns do stuff like that.
Employments abound, that's Alaska: local and state government jobs and local and regional native corporate money-making opportunities. If we NEVER turn down a job offer, or illegally import thousands of doses of LSD, we should have a work history and life record that is a blended portfolio of paychecks, commissions and rent checks. It took me a lifetime to comprehend all these layered agencies but recently, I've received deaf ears from young men when I lecture them the fantastic educational, training and employment offerings all over bum-fuck Alaska. But, these lazy wanna-be Alaskan new-comers show keen interest in watching FIrst Nation aboriginal chimps freak out and flip around on acid. I laughed and told them what they were seeing was actually native dancing at AFN. Not drug-induced seizures.
I've got another crew of gym-rat mates here in Kenai and yes, they are similar to the funny old fuckers I enjoyed in Kotzebue and Barrow. Some are young men I've lectured to of the multitudes of jobs all over Alaska. Just respond to the thousands of job offerings online and in newspapers, dump yer loser ugly fat cunt white trash girlfriend, catch a plane out to the great beyond and go to work. After work, lift weights at the city rec center and if yer lucky, lick, suck and savor some of the world's finest pussy. Or like me, married pussy. One job leads to another and one fine piece of ass leads to MANY others. Girls are like jobs, once you get rolling, the paychecks pile up and a lad will inevitably rack and stack naked abundance and countless delicious females. I can't be the only motherfucker that treats women like chattel and enjoyed this kind of success. Can I?
All over rural Alaska there's jobs by the dozens, arousing and stimulating girls and women by the hundreds and heartbreaks by the thousands. I shed a ton of sperm out my dick and a ton of tears crying my eyes and heart out. Life's a bitch, so climb back up on her and start fucking again and clock in for your next graveyard shifts and keep working and earning pay. Our final destination guarantees infirmities, indignities and ultimately, roached penises and advanced aging at an old folks' home. Damn fine way to live and die. Unless I hand out date-rape drugs like GHB or Rohipnol to my feeble neighbors. Or LSD. Don't look at me like I'm a spastic.
In the end, you should have a little put away in a state pension, a little stashed in Social Security and a staggering pile waiting in yer home equity. Which of course is the 3-legged stool analogy of retirement and crudely describes us 2-legged donkey-dicked motherfuckers that are fat and happy in our old age. That's life niggers. Work yer dick off, grow and expand yer wooden spear and penis crutch with lots of beautiful women, grow old and die with a sore back, busted hands, worn out dick and a treasure of money and memories akin to squirrels stashing nuts. If given a chance to do it again, I wouldn't change a thing. Except maybe wear condoms, snort less powders, smoke less pot, drink less liquor, hand out less LSD to the First Alaskan primates at the Tagruk Ponderosa Zoo and floss more often after devouring mighty fine pussy: married or coherent.
I'm still utilizing community resources and harvesting opportunities. An elderly gentleman asked how long I've been showing up at weight rooms. I was also questioned by the recently retired counter person at the Kenai Rec Center, how often and why. As you continue reading, you'll see how some guys are stuck in loser jobs, stuck on stupid blaming handsome men for their mental disabilities, never seeing outside a 5-mile radius of where they were crapped out of their retarded momma's bug-infested retard hamper (bugs I probably put there) or poop-chute with busted draw-strings. Get this, the clerk at the Kenai Rec was his only job posting for 30 years. He was a low-wage clerk checking ID's and taking payment from us old farts with discounted senior monthly memberships his whole life. Yup, fat blob and likely migrating like a slug to Caldwell, Idaho.
The normal $50.00 monthly fee for unlimited use of the gym, sauna, weight room and showers is reduced for old farts over 55 costing only $25.00 per month. Yup, half-price senior discount niggers. Bun and I pony up $50.00 at the first of each month for the two of us and our monthly fees are likely only a small fraction of the facility's operating expenses or contributions towards this retiring clerk with a Tier ZERO PERS pension and looks a lot like our mongoloid in-law parents. The old fucker that worked at the Rec Cernter sports a fat wobbly gelatinous physique and wears fashion accessories that scream "old fart." Get this, he's younger than I.
My answers to his questions were that we've been working out at the Kenai City Rec. for quite a few years. Then I told him about lifting weights at the Kotzebue Rec. and Barrow City Rec. I shared with the Chief on the phone that I recently hit a high-mark hefting groups of 300 pounds on the bench press and 150 pounds on the curls. Come on fuckers, I'll be 62 this summer, lifting more than ever and being modest is fer faggots. When I told our retiring clerk of my recent max weight achievements, he was flabbergasted. He even voiced doubt that me and bun really lived at the Whites Only Nikiski Senior Center and 4 years prior, at the Sterling Old Farts Death Camp. Both places are No Coloreds Allowed, so I checked off the Gook Box on Bun's applications.
I laughed and told him that we had a vacant apartment available at the Nikiski Rest Home and Crematorium, and that his wife would fit right in. I think I hit a tender nerve. It seems his wife is like yours and fancies herself a youngster and not a dirt-bound crispy biddy nor frosty nigger smelling funny and losing diseased parts in her wake. I punched him in the shoulder and chided him that men our age only bone grandmas packing bags of dried seeds and that ain't none of us ever gotta worry about birth-control nor child support. Or pissing off our bosses.
I further stomped on his tender faggot feelings with, "too old to bleed, good enough to breed." Poor guy furrowed his brow and looked really upset. He no longer speaks to me. Like you guys, his wife refuses to tolerate terms like "akka milluk meat scraps," "ancient dog food crotch rot" "grandma hunch-back," "old lady worm farts" or "shrunken head diaper helmet." Adding insult to injury, I recited the Irish slogan "God invented whiskey so that ugly women get laid" followed with a 1-2 punch in his fat mortuary-bound sensitivities, "Viagra is best taken 1-hour prior to your wife getting cold." I'm good at hitting below the belt.
Since his nervous retirement, our old fart desk clerk has returned to the gym helping with the girl's high school basketball junior varsity program and to me, looked an awful lot like an old pervert getting his jollies blowing his whistle, coaching lay-ups, shots from the top of the key and barking foul-shot advice. I doubt he's a Chester (child molester) hanging around itty-bitty titties and ultra-tight micro-pie, but the thought crossed my mind.
Ya see, I'm a sexual predator, a Neanderthal and the last of the true romance experts on planet Earth. Mind you, all blue-eyed motherfuckers descend from one Scandinavian man 80-100K years ago, so running up sex partners in the hundreds was programmed into my ancestry. I suspect, despite being horribly interracially married, you boys are the same. Since we're all KPD cave-bitches, we can blame our frequent stink-utch meanderings on our cross-eyed feeble womenfolk. Go ahead, walk into the kitchen and punch yer wives. Then go sack an older hag or a little boy. If you follow my recommendations you'll soon be elected NANA or ASRC president.
I believe my conceited explanations why I lift weights and eat a no-frills diet may also reveal my inner-most intent for working increasingly harder for a muscular body and the reason I connect a Shop-Vac to my penis while I sleep at night. Ya see, I'm afraid of getting old and looking like my cop-pals. I've kept my hair long and beard trimmed and my attire reflecting younger fashion choices towards "smart casual" which is jeans, collared pull-overs and high-dollar hiking boots. Not big white tennis shoes, fat-ass "Richard Nixon" shorts and sloppy T-shirts stretched tight over sagging moobs (man boobs) worn by the men (and women) here at the senior center. I'm trying to look younger than my years, broader shoulders, larger biceps and forearms and legs that only look like they could run fast and long. Looks are hard to maintain and the illusion of fitness is a bitch to keep up and the Shop-Vac stretches my shit out like a wooden peg leg.
Being non-native and Nordic-trash, I avoid tanning salons, but after workout me and bun sit out on the back porch and sun ourselves colored. We take advantage of the reflective snowbank and after break-up, bask in the bright glare off the lake out back of our senior center apartment. An old-fart crispy biddy resort for guys like me with much younger skin tone, facial hair coloring and texture and self-imposed ball-busting heavy weight training. My conditioning that's frequently commented upon by fellow dude-man gym-rats, which also includes younger women that I flirt with, compliment and admire. When bun's not looking. Or leaves her trillion-power bifocals in the car.
I ain't kidding. I joke and chat with younger women at every opportunity. Some of these girls are in their 20's and smile and blush at my silly banter. Some girls are in their 30's and lean in closer making bolder displays of keen interest in hearing my compliments and admiration. A Russian proverb states "a man falls in love through his eyes and a woman falls in love through her ears." Especially when she hears about my wooden disability from the Shop-Vac.
One aspect of living longer than yer peers is our responsibility to set the record straight. The record that badly needs clearing of gossip and bullshit. A few months ago I was sent a forwarded anti-social media message stating that I was fucking someone's mom. Of course I was intrigued. The most confusing holiday in Alaska is Father's Day and I've made a hobby out of fucking mothers. I also made a hobby out of sucking the brains outa married women. The email I received was a screen-shot from Tom Gebhardt griping his mom wasted good money "fucking Carl Uwing." I guess that's me. Nobody else in the NANA Region has a name like that, so closely resembling mine. And Tom wasn't far from the truth. Except the part about his mom wasting good money. Us over-sized blue-eyed caveman penis miners are worth every penny.
My affair with his mom started before before I met bun, before working for the city, and long before I knew who her husband was. This deliciously illicit affair started immediately after I was wheels down, Alaskas Airlines, humping freight at Ryan Air and slopping fish guts at Whitney Foods. Honest Injun. Walking home from work in the pouring rain, I was offered a ride from an attractive older woman. I accepted the lift and after we arrived at house #321, I took over the driving and also being ridden for a couple years thereafter.
Tall Finns are only good fer riding, vacuum cleaning forensic evidence and moonlighting as plumbers. With the right caliber of pipe cleaner and auger, moving aside internal organs, I'll inevitably knock all the mortar out of the sides, pushing the bottom out of the well. Where I'm guessing Tom Gebhardt was hatched out of. Strange thought, but that's also where I vacuumed his birth place with my big fucking mouth and parked Mr. Wobbly.
When I met bun, I'd interrupted a lousy relationship she was divesting away from and as the pitch-hitter at bat with the Louisville Slugger, I swung for the fences and scored only a million fucking home runs. Cervix and ovaries are a man's best friend. Busted. I'm guilty of fucking other children's mothers. And yes, I'm guilty of fucking other married mens’ wives. But as a promise to you gentlemen and the ladies I loved, and since gimpy Tom Gebhardt don't look anything like me, I won't reveal any more about this retarded boy's online claims. At least until his cuckolded sap and dim-bulb stepfather finally croaks and pukes and starts leaking juice out all his holes, soaking his dying bed. I'm a responsible backdoor man and I've only mere months until all parties are deceased and I can open my big mouth. And uncork my crutch stuck in this damn Shop-Vac.
You see, I love women wholeheartedly. My entire childhood was spent highly excited in swimming pools surrounded by female swim team-mates covered in tiny slips. My best friends were naked girls barely sheathed in sleek Speedo swimsuits and my childhood years were spent in the gym, on the track running my dick off and swimming miles marinating my gonads in eye-watering, chlorine reeking, toxic brine. Chlorine burned hair and eyes keenly watching the kicking legs and breast strokes of these wonderful female creatures. I devour creatures, all the way up the hominid food chain.
All throughout my childhood and adulthood, my swim team, orchestra and dorm mates were my very best girl-buds. Which is extremely erotic material for my nightmares and pornographic dreams now plaguing my retirement years. My dreams take place back when I was in high school and university, so my slumber-time video viewing isn't quite child porn, but at my age, highly questionable if I acted upon these dreams today. "Hi mom, hi dad, this is my new boyfriend, Grandpa Karl." Don't laugh, you may soon find your granddaughter coming home from college with an aging porn star on her arm.
Grown women are wonderful playthings and delicious 3-course meals. Girls of high school and college age are simply mouth-watering nocturnal appetizers. I've learned that I prefer a meal not a snack. Even if Tom Gebhardt disapproves of my side gigs and professional mother-fucking, his real dad was a special-needs Air Force doofus-butt and had intellectual disabilities that are genetically inherited and obviously run in the family. I put a log in that fire much later and when a fox sneaks into the hen house, all that's left is broken eggs. And dilated cervix. And poor job reviews at KPD.
Get this, I still have frequent dreams about swimming alongside, behind and underneath my childhood female team mates and girlfriends. It ain't all nubile snack-time. Mixed in these dreams are scary scenes of fighting, running from people I hurt with pipe bombs, firearms and automobile shenanigans, and folks I vandalized and pulled stupid stunts on. We all have dreams like that and it explains our waking from nonsensical and terrifying nightmares yielding painful tent poles and kickstands. With dead household pets glued to the end.
If we sleep long enough and finish our wet dreams, we'll likely discover non-vaginal wet globs of Pecker Snot Brand Adhesive on our side of the bed. Bionic Adhesives that we surreptitiously cover with our bedding or any retarded grandchild nearby. Testicular screamers with no ovum nor tonsils to swim towards, just linen cemented to stupid infants. If yer grandchildren are noisy mud-gimps, you can enjoy some peace and quiet by leaving your stupid NANA chimp-tards glued to your bed in semen paint. Simple. Spooge a mess, then yell "LIe down!" "Stay!" Child safety can be found In quick-drying Atomic Gonad Epoxy. Sara accuses me of talking to her like a dog, but I never glued her to mom's bed with ball-cheese super-glue. I know, looking back, I should have glued her face down.
Outside swimming, I have dreams of my adolescent romances with attractive violin players and woodwinds on band tour all over the Pacific NW and Europe. Non-sexual romances, but intense attractions nonetheless. Imagine a teenage Scandinavian caveman like me, watching beautiful girls working their wooden violin bows in erotic postures or breast detracting techniques breathing life into oboes and clarinets. Use your imaginations. Some of my orchestra girl-buds used to hold my hand and if I was really lucky, land a kiss or peck on my cheek. Any non-sexual contact with pretty girls can be tremendously exciting. Yup, serious non-porn fer this ugly duckling.
Back at the Kenai Rec Center, I have the privilege of assisting younger broads with the weight machines and if I kneel way down to adjust the weight settings or seat heights, I can sneak a peek at fine museum-quality lippy. Sometimes, I even get a whiff of perfume, and well, other nose-candy treats. Some girls are hugely busty and give me wood just standing still, but running on the treadmill or working the butterfly machine triggers ocular spasms that shred my tongue and eye muscles, locks up my abdomen, hikes my gonads upwards and takes my breath away until my peaches drop back inside their leather pouch.
Right now, at your computer, imagine spandex stretched tight over fine round asses or yoga outfits that are thinner than paint, barely restraining large breasts during calisthenics or practicing ballet maneuvers, allowing you to read lips like a deaf-mute or decipher Braille text surrounding a dozen nipples like a blind man. Yup, girls are wonderful creations upon this fine Earth. Don't get yer misogynous whiner muscles in a twitch, bun has gazed upon some fine muscular men one-third her age and twice her NANA Elder vaginal capacity. Some young men are so handsome and flexed, she completely loses her ability to speak English. If yer wives joined our gym and cast their eyes upon some of these distant relatives of Arnold Schwarzenegger, they'd suffer coronary infarction and uterus cramps that'd hobble their stride and lock them out of their own cars. God is a beautiful artist. Got wood? All women do.
Back to living too long. As stated before, as gentlemen, we have a duty to keep mum about our illicit affairs. At least while our lovers (and faggot husbands, ex-husbands and widowers) are still sucking air. Once our breast friends and their tiny-cookoo husbands pass on, we can extol their wonderful virtues as our lovers, gorgeous bedside confidantes and eternally beautiful pillow-talk moaners. Some lovers were so excited that as we kissed and licked them, their vulvas extended outward and engulfed our faces and proceeded to vaginally reciprocate around our long tongues and sucking lips and eat our mouths in return, proving that our noses and tongues are the second-best seats in the house. I should've installed a spy camera inside house #321. In a Cosmopolitan Magazine I read that only half of the female population in America prefer traumatic intercourse to achieve Earth shattering orgasms. Boys, after you become widowers, start drooling like a shit-house nigger and practice sucking and nibbling beautiful young women with so much vigor, your ears pop. Down Periscope.
Before exposing our extra-marital affairs, at least wait until their Bozo the Clown husbands get connected to breathing machines or start flooding their trousers with effluvium, soaking their hospital beds with puny muscle and tissue putrefaction and their semi-functional brain's inevitable liquefaction. Some dumb city supervisor bastards deserve to wear a dunce cap with the label of a fool, sucker and dumb syphilitic asshole that ate more than our sperm. Cuckolded men also ate our shit. Too bad, so sad. What the fuck, strap a life preserver across their tiny shoulders or invite them back to your place and let them climb yer dick.
Okay, enough explaining our prehistoric, genetic and innate needs to violate our marital vows of fidelity. I also need to stop living in the past and stop letting my memories of childhood swimming, weight lifting and running cross-country twist my imagination and over-inflate my penis into petrified lumber. This may prove difficult. When I'm entering the weight room I fall back into my old self from years and decades ago and throw weights around on autopilot. I naturally start heaving machines and tying my guts up in knots cranking out sit-ups. It's the same mind-space I've inhabited my whole life and it's also shared with others in the gym, track and pool. Like a drunk or blast of fine-flaked blow, or nauseating huge bong plume, it also makes me happy, haunted and earily transformed. I think you boys know that space where you go when the miles we run are fatiguing and the workouts nearly unbearable. For marathon runners, swimmers and ball-busting weight-lifters, it's called the zone. Or Runner's High and cheaper'n dope.
Sometimes I look around and realize I've left the room and went back to the bad places we inhabit. The place where I go to visit you boys with membership restricted to only viciously antisocial, chronically unemployable (outside shitty public safety) and dramatic losers by the lesser 48 standards of success and accomplishment. As you coppers ship your children off to their own homes or jail, you'll find their noisy distractions, shitty diapers and dinner table ruckus overwhelmed and camouflaged your PTSD.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is common among poorly recovering public safety motherfuckers like you coppers. Combat veteran equivalent counterparts constantly re-experiencing graveyard shifts, trooper monitored drug purchases, book-in room fights, gun call-outs and CPR administering duties that've left us stressed in an endless series of flashbacks, nightmares and extremely intrusive memories. I think I've illustrated these scenarios in stupidly funny recounts working shit-jobs statewide and village-concentric emergencies. Alongside you fuckers.
Now you see the analgesic benefits of alcoholism, packing cups of blow up our beaks and smoking climate changing monster bong rips. Your shitty careers have caused emotional numbing, paranoid withdrawals from deadly external environments and crippling guilt from outlasting all of your now-deceased coworkers and cop-pals. Mid-career we've tried to venture into other employment, but our unique skill sets, training, and technical specialties proved useless, unwanted nor needed. You soldiers have been programmed so extensively that yer unemployable and good fer little else.
Wake up fucks. Where in other careers and work environments can you discuss firearms makes and models, ballistics, temporary bullet wound cavities, combat blow deflection and take-down techniques, talk with such shitty criminal language and laugh at horrible injuries or cooling corpses we've scooped up and run full-out to the ER or the morgue. I've tried. My coworkers complain to the upstairs faggots whereupon I'm given verbal warnings or written complaints in my files that I have a foul racist mouth ridiculing criminally recidivist niggers, chimps and natives. I didn't mean anything personal or hurtful with my recitations of hangings or recollections of lifting stinky leakers up onto gurneys and into ambulances. Okay, I'm lying, I did mean to be hurtful. I'm such a fuck-up.
I've been scolded for my referencing and quoting historically accurate statistics involving the arrests of "browns and blacks" and the epidemic crime that's concentrates in these racist demographics. I've also been let go at the end of my probationary periods due to my disdain for poverty and frustration with growing masses of poorly educated, sick, lousy-ass family planning and non-existent prenatal care that has left us with a statewide and nationwide generation of sick, fat and retarded niggers, natives and cross-eyed hillbilly white-trash.
Try keeping a job and office friends after lecturing factually of Alaska's 38% population dependence on welfare, with their noses plugged, faces green and trousers filling. Then conclude your lecture with follow-up comparisons to the lower 48 poverty rates that are all within single digits. Not all natives and niggers are cursed to incarceration, ye got retarded white gimps mixed in this recipe of deliciously blended sub-human FAS zombies gushing hot and cold drug-rich diarrhea. People are shit. If you value yer crap jobs outside public safety, don't mention it, cuz I'll call bullshit on ye.
Besides having huge numbers of welfare dependent Alaskans, we're under siege from welfare tourists piling into our state with their hand out. At the various senior centers I've haunted, you'll find a majority of crispy biddies and frosty niggers feigning residency, scamming food stamps, senior benefits of $250.00 per month, housing vouchers, Medicaid and heating and power cost subsidies. Besides pissing me off, my Eskimo wife gets absolutely steamed with this herd of old dry turds. What's worse is their denial of Alaska's brutal history, treatment of Alaska Natives, ANCSA, IHS, ICWA, NAGPRA, child prostitution and ongoing battle over village alcohol extermination policies.
I still get looks of confusion and dismay when I quote the exorbitant tobacco taxes across diverse boroughs. When I mention that the North Slope Borough is basically bone-dry and levies a 100% tax on tobacco products, these newcomer ignorants glare at me puzzled. I'll explain that over the last 40 years, Alaska Native alcohol consumption has decreased yet tobacco consumption has increased, hence the confiscatory taxes on cigarettes and chew resulting in a single pack on the North Slope costing over $20.00 and black market liquor costing an AK dime.
I also explain that North Slope Borough employees get paid an average of $2200 per week out of a budget of a half-billion dollars annually, and our NSB Mayor enjoys use of the borough-owned private jet. When Nush transferred laterally from NSB to the troopers, he took a 50% pay cut. Do the math niggers. With only 10,000 residents on the North Slope, the annual borough expenditures averages $50,000 per person. A budget that pays for free heating oil and subsidized electricity to the villages without natural gas and every school has an Olympic swimming pool. Lastly, the North Slope Borough has set aside its own Permanent Fund with a balance of roughly half the State's. "That's some big buxsh dude" (Albert Monroe).
Our boroughs ain't diddly squat. At our shitty respective boroughs, Mat-Su Trash and Kenai Penis, we got mayors that gotta thumb a ride to meetings and fly roach coach to conventions yonder 48. Our mayors can't even afford clean hookers, hence the blisters and facial scars on elected officials in Palmer and Soldotna. We can safely assume their genitals resemble their faces with groinular shot-gun obliteration wounds. Ouch, that some a spicy meatball herpes.
Alaska contains 30 boroughs with a giant "donut hole" of state land surrounding the Interior. When I worked as City Finance Director in Galena, we had a direct connection with the State of Alaska: no intermediary borough. The state was on the hook for all the clinics, water-sewer construction, schools and any normal infrastructure a borough would've managed and financed. Imagine no NW Arctic Borough. No Red Dog. Without a North Slope Borough: no property tax on Prudhoe Bay and the Trans-Alaska Pipeline. And zero half-billion dollars in annual budgets to spend. I don't know what the annual budget NW Arctic Borough operates and spends, but down her on the Kenai Pen, we have an annual budget of $175 million. Mostly proceeds from sales taxes, property taxes and dwindling revenues from Cook Inlet Oil Field and Nikiski Refinery royalties. Cook Inlet is over 60 years old and oil/gas output is nearing zero. Most of the refineries have been moth-balled for decades.
The next time you examine your natural gas bill, take heed that Cook Inlet is the source of this cheap heat and the primary input for your cheap electricity. Enstar has only 2 years of gas-delivery contracts in hand. Hillcorp has exhausted our Cook Inlet fields and Southcentral Alaska is due for a serious fucking wake-up. Half the state occupies Southcentral AK and we all may have to purchase liquefied natural gas on the open market and take delivery from supertankers at port Nik, port Mat-trash or Port of Anchoragua.
I'm totally game to transport the 35 trillion cubic feet of North Slope natural gas south. But how the fuck can we deliver it to Fairbanks, Anchorage, Mat-trash and Kenai Penis? Fuck me, I'm clueless. Open market prices for barge-delivered natural gas are less than half the LNG construction and delivery costs from the North Slope. And shit, I'd hate to return back to stove oil heat and diesel fuel electricity generation. That'd make me feel like a half-breed retard back home in Kotzebue.
That sucked so bad I fled the high utility bills, goofy liquor laws and married women humping me. I'm not psyched to climb back in bed with Annie Cyr nor Helen Barger, unless their husbands work for the City. The water works, old lady fucking and soggy bed sheets were simply too much. My eyes burn, my mouth drools bitter and my dick stings just thinking about it. Of course, if they're dead, I might be interested. Two blue pills and I'd book up to Boot Hill. Speaking of Viagra and rattling bones with our dicks, where did you cops bury your wives? Living or dead, the sex is the same.
A few summers ago I went looking fer yer dead wives and all my cadaver dogs died horribly, foaming out the nose and flipping around like Alfred Allen and Cory Fields when they danced with the Northern Lights Drinkers. The veteranerian diagnosed the cause of death for my corpse sniffing dogs, my cop-pals as really funny fuckers. Apparently my best friends in uniform buried their stupid marital punching bags and mistresses right near the dump, then dusted the area with liberal amounts of warfarin, ant poison, cayenne pepper and arsenic.
To put his accusations to rest, I'm not Tom Gebhardt's father. Lastly, all his siblings died on impact and drowned, suffocated and forever locked in Scandinavian Epoxy Ball Cheese Super Glue. If you read accusations from Jason Jepson that I humped and sucked his mommy, well that's just ridiculous. I'd never maliciously caused fat old native woman to have an orgasm and stroke out at the same time. Of course I've facilitated these events in succession, and maybe, and only maybe, I may be responsible for Skeeter's slurred speech, listing limp and half her face submerged in a drool cup. That's cuz I lied and told her it was a cup of Scandinavian Gorilla Glue and it softens hands while you do the dishes.
Mike and Lance Kramer blame me for their mom's advanced age, disabilities, obsesity, crippled cane walking and bedside granny stroller. Well that's just silly, I'm just a tall handsome Finn with a really big nose and matching donkey bits. My brutal rapes, forced entries and pleasant climaxes are barely linked to any historical and cultural trauma. Again, the forensic evidence stinks in a hot bath, douche and dumping out their after-birth slop bucket. Decades later, Danny Burnor and Chip Hailstone climbed inside her vulva and enjoyed homosexual Mazola parties while simultaneously feeding a ravenously eager beaver. The Hailstone's and Burnor's positive HIV and genital herpes infections are linked to the Montana and New York LGBT-Queer communities and their muff-diving and face-planting in the gay porn industry. Also, I would be happy to sell you coppers photos of Brian Higman, waving from inside Linda K's vagina.
The rumored testimony about my fucking so many children's mothers is mongoloid hearsay at best and I've zero culpability to the fatal diseases and early deaths of so many married women. Okay, you got me. I'm lying my ass off. All these years I assumed you coppers knew all about my ugly sexual engagements. I never knew that I'd end up fucking future supervisors' wives, coworkers' daughters and best friends' moms. So, to provide false testimony, I've stated before that I never laid hands on any guns, drugs nor natives. I also never fucked a single native woman in my entire life. I don't do single native women.
Go ahead, wash the barf offa yer keyboard. Wipe yer hands off on yer wife's faces. Then smack 'em in their mouths. With yer dick. Their shrieking quiets after the glue dries.
Fuck I'm funny.
Karl.
posted by Alaska: Local And State News. at 12:57 PM
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