Cully Ewing's Obit. Beaten child surviving incest, bestiality but not alcoholism.
Troy Date <fishwithahead@yahoo.com>
To:karl_ewing@yahoo.com
Thu, April 13 at 8:14 AM
UR Treatment, Cully's kid
Hey Karl,
How are you doing?
I ran into Marto & he was real sore about Cully passing. He talked with him last year, said Cully looked dead man walking. Marto told Cully should go to that same psych lady courts made you go.
Marto said you went to a bunch of rehabs. AA, counceling & intense treatment at that shrink lady. Said he drove you to your Brain Scan dates since cops revoked you license.
Renee said Cully had a kid with Heather, her black friend near his house in George Town. U know, the CD. Was this tru?
Me, Scott, Paul, Loren & the guys wonder why you were in treatment & Cully never was. Now he's dead. just asking. Don't write so hard at us.
Take care,
-Troy
---
karl_ewing@yahoo.com
To: Troy Date <fishwithahead@yahoo.com>
Sat, April 15 at 10:14 AM
Re: UR Treatment, Cully's kids, Dead bodies
Hey Troy and crew,
The rumors are correct. I was in treatment a shit load, but to put context around what Marto called my "revolving moron treatments" and jail stints, I gotta think, recall and explain exactly how fucked up, impaired and retarded I was. Looking back at human evolution, even during this century, my family sure as shit ran up one hell of a banana bill. Of course today, it's highly likely I'm still "drain-bramaged."
Now focus on all the words I write. I know that you've heard snippets and rumors about me and Cully's rough upbringing, insofar as Cully's Neuroshima II song titled, "Buddy's Face." It's a true testimonial of 2 terrified and sickened little boys watching their pet goat get killed in front of them. With a claw-hammer in our dad's hands. It's time to put on your big girl panties and simultaneously put your slaves on cruise-control, you've got an appointment with some long-kept secrets.
As a preamble, you need to see Toby's, Cully's and my genetic and ethnic propensity for alcoholism.
1. The number one cause of death for Finns from 18-65 is alcoholism. Meaning alcohol related illnesses, alcohol related injuries and alcohol related homicides. Alcoholism kills us fucking Ewings. Think of me and Cully outside Goldy's Bar in Lynnwood, fighting other drunken fuckers, skate-boarding high as shit, racing back roads or doing brodies all over 7-lakes-fucked up. From our sliding out of our mom's uterus water-slide theme park, Cully and I depicted behaviors indicating we had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.
With Kenny Miller and 240 Gordy, me and Cully stole and chugged whole bottles of my dad's homemade wine, smoked 'lumbo-dumbo brown bud, then went berserk on rope-swings, bikes, skateboards, go-karts and automobiles. How we avoided dying much sooner is pure dumb luck, moments of clarity in the midst of our head-rushes flaring our brains inside a blast furnace or maybe it's true that God looks out for Drunks and Derelicts. Both of these 2 God-given qualities run deep and rich in me and Cully.
2. Finns lead the world in Type I Diabetes. That's the insulin dependent diabetes requiring numerous daily injected doses, not the fat ass (obesity) related Type II Diabetes that afflicts piggy-bloaters with insulin resistance. Fat fuckers don't need more insulin, they got plenty. Those pills and shots you see advertised on TV stimulate fat boomer-folks to piss and shit out their sugars and sweeten their toilets promoting healthy dog-watering schedules. Like me, dogs eat their own shit.
3. Finns also have what's called latent adult onset accelerated liver cirrhosis. After the age of 50, Finns suffer a 5-fold increase in liver cirrhosis. The same number of drinks yeilds a massive increase in liver erosion, disease and failure. And death. Like our genetic decrease in pancreatic functions producing our own insulin, as we age, us Finns steadily lose key enzymes in our liver that readily break down alcohol into it's headache rendering components. I believe its called a dehydrogenase enzyme that converts yeast poop into sugar. Then these sugars are dumped upon our failing pancreas, inducing Diabetic Keto-Acidosis (DKA).
Chronic alcoholism is a young Finn's habit. Old alcoholic Finns like my grandpas, dad and Cully die horribly: dementia and liver failure. Simply put, drunks and diabetics suffer when chugging yeast poops. If you add Tylenol or Ibuprofen, fucking forget about it, yer liver is toast and you best make an appointment alongside Cully for liver transplant. Officially, alcoholism is drinking that causes damage to your health, your job, your family and your finances. We witnessed our dudes suffering all four of these criteria. Me and my brothers are no exception.
Okay, back on the topic of my numerous treatments and counseling appointments and what Marto called "the revolving moron treatment program." I got busted for minor in possession of alcohol with an encore citation for marijuana possession. Eventually X2 each. Plus assault.
I was in years of treatment after I lived with you, Gordo and Brian (micro-dot) at the infamous Hash House in Mountlake Terrace where the daily menu included Lab Fresh Blue-Dot LSD Experiments, scoring, picking and sorting and eating entire fields of magic mushrooms. And growing serious buds.
*This first MIP happened when I got busted with Callahan for minor in possession of alcohol, then a month or so later I got tagged for my first minor in possession of marijuana and was directed by Judge Schillberg to the Lynnwood Drug Abuse Counseling Center.
I did the visits and counseling and after 6 months was discharged and given the proper paperwork I had to submit to the courts. Did. Done. Deal. Rehab: been there, done that. Got the T-shirt. And the blisters. Free to cruise.
*I got busted for minor in possession of marijuana. AGAIN.
I had to go 6 months with zero similar offenses, pay court costs and after a half-year staying clear of the cops, I was discharged from the court-ordered probationary conditions.
*I got busted for minor in possession of alcohol. AGAIN. The following year I was cited for my second minor in possession of alcohol with Pim at the Lake Chelan Park in Eastern Washington. We went to a big ass gun show, did good trade, sold a shit load of hot and stolen guns to the Branch Davidians, Ruby Ridgers and white supremacists, then got wasted at the lakeside beach. At my court appearance I was also in front of Judge Schillberg. AGAIN.
He directed me to attend 3 AA (alcoholics anonymous) meetings every week for 6 months, and since I was living in Mountlake Terrace, I attended the noon AA meetings in a bingo hall/utility room next to City Hall. I was living right around corner from the Hash and LSD House, operating a profitable crack house called Lem's Mortuary cuz me and Cully stole a Cemetery Entrance street sign and like a business shingle, I nailed it above my front door.
I didn't mind the easy walk to my Monday, Wednesday and Friday Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, cuz remember, I lost my driver's license for years due to speeding and reckless driving like a lunatic. And waking up behind the wheel doing 90. Ewing Drivers-No Survivors, so I walked to AA. I also took the city or Seattle Metro buses all over fucking hell. In my old age, I'd enjoy such a splendid bus system here in Alaska. On my million trips to Europe, buses were a much cooler form of transpo. We got zero mass-transit infrastructure here in my dildo zip code on the wrong end of the North American continent.
Ewing drinking and driving go hand in hand. Remember, I come from a family of tall alcoholics. My sisters either smashed gimps by driving over them, or humped and conceived gimps in motor vehicles-wasted. Look at the spouses my siblings married. If my poor in-laws were completely sober, we'd all be out in the front yard humping air. Or goats. My family is 100% pure drunken white trailer trash. Tobus, Cully and me are the only ones that readily accept this frightfully honest insight because we're the worst offenders and haven't lost our sense of humor.
We also breed like Appalachian retards. Add up all of our stray children and abortions and I have a dozen goofy cross-eyed nephews and nieces. That's not including my own rut-season mongoloid offspring in rural Alaska and overseas. I have 2 runt-native children here in AK and 2 more dull wiggers: 1 in Finland and 1 in Ukraine.
I'm kidding. They're all healthy and handsome and look disturbingly like my brothers and sisters, 2 mixed diluted hybrid Eskimo girls, 1 Finno-Ugrik girl I had with Kristin living in Inari, Finland. I also sired a boy with Nadia living near Chernobyl. The last email I received from Miss Chepkasova stated Alexi joined the Ukrainian military and was killed last year fighting the Russian Federation Army. Yup, just like good ol' dad, young lad couldn't stay away from gun violence. Funny, Grandpa Veinman fled Estonia, away from the Russians. A century later, his great-grandson was killed by Russians. I'm betting he suffered alcoholism like me and Slim too.
The dates of these pregnancies range from the 1980's to the early 2000's and coincide with my fish gut/crab slime jobs, narc jobs throughout Arctic Alaska and my dozens of travels overseas. Looking back, it appears I was a traveling sperm salesman. Have dick, will travel.
My last estimate is that Cully had 3 children. Cully had a baby with Mary, his girlfriend when he lived offa 164th in North Lynnwood renting the basement apartment from Mike Ford, his meaner'n shit drunken landlord. Mary was religious and vehemently against trailer nigger birth control (abortion) so she moved out and married another gentlemen. That's all Cully told me. I'm betting the child had severe learning disabilities like me and my brothers.
Cully's second child was with Heather McCoy, Renee's friend, the black gal that used to visit and party with us. She fell hard for Cully and after becoming pregnant, she bragged that she had "two chocolate babies and one caramel." You may remember her 2 first kids, Chucky and Didi, the cute dark kids I baby-sat for extended periods of time while she was nursing and doing all that mommy stuff.
I drove those kids all over the backroads of redneck Washington, belted in the back seat with Dopey the Doberman, separating Heckle and Jeckle, delivering coke and picking up dineros. Pim's racist joke was that I should put the Sambos up front like hood ornaments. My racist joke was that Cully's baby, the lighter brown one Heather had, was her only child that genetically regressed backwards and learned walking habitually on it's hind legs. Even Cully cracked up at that old Archie Bunker bigot-punt.
The last pregnancy Cully had was with Jamie. I don't know the outcome because she left him and he never heard from her again. These details are now pert near 30 years old. Any more recent vital statistics about Cully I've no data. He got upset at my police work, went silent and submerged himself in distilled bong water. Bong water that was 40% grain alcohol and chronic green bud smoke resin.
On a side-note, it's quite possible I'm haunted, cuz I frequently have dreams with Cully right behind me, watching what I'm doing with his big eyes, not sure if we're gonna get in trouble, go to jail or die in our own wreckage. I often wonder what happened to the heaps of equipment and musical instruments we acquired via unjust enrichment and unlawful criminal enterprises.
I've been accused of acting like a pussy, insisting Cully hold my hand and drive me to the Harborview STD Clinic. It's true. Both he and I made the trip there twice each. When it comes to catching bugs with our dicks, me and Cully brought home record-setting trophies. Imagine me and Cully, wearing smoking jackets in a gentleman's club room, smoking pipes filled with expensive green bud, drinking glasses of cognac, surrounded by hunting wall-mounts of dead, over-sized Chlamydia and Syphilis antlers, claws, fangs and heads covered with multifaceted fly-eyes.
I'm not sure I'd like to see me and Cully's STD's after they've been stuffed at a taxidermy shop. I saw pubic crab lice under a microscope and it looked like Godzilla from them old Jap movies. 1000X magnified shit was seriously fucked up. More terrifying was during me and Cully's last visit to the Harborview STD Clinic, his lab culture showed a microscopic King Kong fighting swarms of airborne crabs. And getting his ass kicked. My STD's came in pairs cuz my sex life inevitably was never monogamist, overlapping in unison to my blisters and creepy crawlers. If it wasn't for antibiotics, both me and Cully would be dead. Wait, that expression no longer works.
Me and Cully likely never wrapped our junk with trash bags whilst playing at the city dump. Which explains our hillbilly white-trash unwanted pregnancies all over fucking hell and frequent bouts of rubber cement boogers dried solid to the ends of our infected dicks. Come on, look at the huge parties we had, all the booze and drugs, Cully's bands, female attendees looking to fuck one, or both of the Ewing boys. I lost count of how many skanky farm chicks we boned, but shit happens when retarded white-trash mud-farmers drink to excess and climb onto fucked-up horny pussy, focusing our affections on the hind tit like wasted runtlets. Family tradition.
Mind you, alcoholism is a classic family affliction. You might remember when Tobus got busted for shooting DJ Forgaard during drunken marksmanship contests and menstrual duels, resulting in the cops raiding Cully's, Callahan's and Toby's kick-ass grow-room. Toby also earned the wife-beater reputation for punching a baby out of Patty (Tobortion). She rented a room from Renee and I so we heard every single shitty detail. Constantly. My retort to Patty's bitching about us drunken Ewing boys was, "What do you tell a hot-tempered red-haired bitch with 2 black eyes?" "Nothing, you already told her twice." My house, my jokes. Eat shit Patty, I didn't bone Tobus, you did.
As a grand finale, according to Pim and Fred, Tobus was arrested in Mexico for some drunk and disorderly bullshit (major Fred Factor). My dad was pissed off because he had to post a hefty bail. And even larger bribe. Pim's joke was that Tobus beat the shit out of a cross-dresser or drag queen. After gaping the shit out of her. (Or him). I frequently kidded Marto that he drunkenly sacked a chick that had an Adam's Apple, tucked scrotum and shaved poonus. Like Tobus, it's not true, but funny shit. Alcohol problems, bad luck and trouble are my family's middle names. Especially mine. My siblings' crimes are small potatoes-compared to the stupid stunts us mortuary and crack house employees pulled and were jailed for. That includes you lot.
Back to my court mandated AA meetings. My sponsor, the dude that signed off on my court mandated attendances, was Chief of Police Don Beuler (just like Ferris Beuler's Day Off). He was an alcoholic in recovery, earned a million sobriety coins and the meeting facilitator for all of us attendees that were court ordered to appear. He didn't like my wit: "Welcome to Alcoholics Anonymous, please present ID." We were destined to bump into each other many more times in the future.
I chose to attend the lunchtime meetings. The noon AA meetings didn't impede my business, so I did both: attended my Alcoholics Anonymous group chats and also sold a shit load of blow in the evenings. The coffee served at Alcoholics Anonymous was burnt, bitter and rotten, so I brought my own espresso grind and made a separate brew in one of the extra coffee machines I fetched from the cupboard, cleaned and made premium dark-roast coffee with. The old drunks that attended AA eventually migrated from the harsh red-can Folgers to my boutique blends.
It was a tragedy to watch my top-shelf high-dollar coffee get ruined with 4 scoops of sugar and 4 scoops of Coffee Mate. Alcoholics in remission replace their booze with strong coffee and TONS of sugar. Figure it out. I earned comps and props from the roached old drunks that looked just like Callahan's dad. Chief Beuler appreciated my help unfolding the metal chairs, so I showed early, made coffee and set up the chairs before meetings and put them away afterwards.
Since Cully knew my schedule, he'd meet me near City Hall, after my meetings and give me a ride home. He'd often greet me with, "Hey dude, how was your Faggots Anonymous meeting?" My retort was, "How was your day at UCP (United Cerebral Palsy)?" "Did you have to do any ass-to-mouth resuscitation on any gimp butts?" Cully liked my abrasive insults cuz he repeated them amongst his coworkers and got all the original creative witty cred during coffee breaks and earned shop-talk stand-up comedian guffaws.
The comment that he never shared at work was, "Shit Cully I smell something. Why do you have brown ring around your forearm?" "Did UCP have stage test screenings for mini-limber gimpoid sacks of shit auditioning in a porno movie called Deep Butt?" I wonder if Cully's gimp clients participated in PornHub listings for extreme anal insertions with Bill Pace's whole arm buried invisible in the screen shot. Bill Pace wasn't prepared for brotherly harassment, but laughed at Frank Zappa's quip during a concert in Seattle, "Fist fuck, Wrist watch, Crisco."
I'm now saddened that I'll never have any more witty banter with my younger brother. I've never had another comedy sketch partner like Cully. My other brothers and sisters took our back-and-forth as hurtful, but that perception couldn't be farther from the truth. Our traded barbs were fertile material to inflict upon other butt-fuckers at work or school. I've gotten blanched expressions from my colleagues at the police department after unleashing a witty sharp Cully Classic on their retarded cop-asses. "Yer dick is so small, you could fuck me, in my urinary piss tube." Pretty good insult from the Cully archives, huh?
Back to your query. The basic facts of alcoholism scared me. At some meetings we had guest speakers. One I remember was the director of the Gospel Mission, downtown Seattle, just up from Pike Place Market. His experience was depressing: the number one cause of homelessness is alcoholism. He shook his head when we suggested super killer drug names like "crystal", "crack", "meth", "heroin", "PCP", and "ecstasy." He said he'd never seen a homeless client addicted to any of those high-dollar drugs, all his homeless clients were street alcoholics.
Booze is cheap, available over-the-counter and easily affordable on a panhandler's budget. The cocaine and heroin etc. are only affordable for addicts if they stole expensive PA gear and electric guitars and traded them at Lem's Mortuary and Crack House. Come on Troy, how do you think Cully afforded so much expensive equipment? I always accepted equipment in trade for blow, then Cully surreptitiously and covertly absconded the shit back to his house and incorporated it into his massive racks and stacks of painfully loud sound-rendering iron werks.
The Gospel Mission director said that alcoholism is a family trait and that like child abuse suffered by kids, they then become violent child abusers themselves, "alcoholics come from alcoholics and the victims always becomes the abusers." He pointed at me and asked me to share my own family history with alcoholism. I stated that both my grandfathers drank to excess (grandpa Veinman), the other, after years of alcoholic violence, swore it off completely at age 50 (grandpa Ewing). I also added that my paternal grandma (Dorothy) had great difficulty with sobriety, whereupon the whole room of old boozers and inebriates chuckled at me like I was a lost cause. With Cully, Tobus and myself in mind, they were correct.
One old dude with rotten teeth and foul-ass butt-breath leaned over and whispered to me, "Hey kid, look around. Look where you are. Pull yer head outa yer fucking ass and wake up. You'll never drink like an Earthling." Earthling is the title AA members called naive normal humans in prepubescent denial and fearful of enlightenment. Worldwide, even casual drinkers live in petrified ignorance of alcohol's devastation upon our cultures, countries and families. Maternal alcohol consumption is the number one cause of mental retardation in children (FAS). Just look at me.
After our AA meeting and in private, I asked the Gospel Mission director if having a father that suffered greatly from alcoholism and violent outbursts injuring his wife, oldest daughters and sons, were a curse. He smiled and told me, "If you ended up here you've taken the first step towards getting help. It seems your only troubles occur when you imbibe." "Sobriety is where you'll find peace." I refrained from telling him that I already got peace, as in pieces of ass X2: Tisha and Renee. Those two alcoholic breeding relationships had been overlapping for years during this time period. At my old age crowding level 62, I doubt I'd be able to fuck 2 girls to orgasm, at the same party. Or drunk, together in the same bed. The male human anatomy allows us to both suck and fuck, at the same time.
Okay, funny shit aside, I was deaf and dumb, wouldn't listen my AA counselors and unlike Cully, I'm lucky to be alive. Cully, like my retarded siblings, denied the concept of familial alcoholism. Now he's dead, burnt toast and never coming back. Me and Sober Tobus will merely await to see who dies next, who does the cremation steel gurney fry pan gimp dance producing volumes of smoke that will inevitably smell like burning garbage.
My dad is such a drunken pussy. He beat the hell outa my mom, me, Cully and my sisters. When dumb ol' Freddy was drunk or hungover, we received wholesale slapping, spankings, hair pulling, belt whippings and paddling with sticks and boards. All these outbursts corresponded with his drinking. For a disturbing parallel, watch Tobus and my dad get drunk. Two identical chuckle-heads.
Many years later, when I was helping remodel my folks' rental house in Pullman, Washington, I asked dumb ol' Fred why he punched mom and us so much and he said "that's how kids were raised back then." My retort is "bullshit, that's how alcoholics beat their wives and kids today." I relayed to dumb ol' Fred my experience arresting violent native wife beaters and child beaters, he got a little pissy and drank even faster and passed out sooner. Booze is my dad's cure-all. When he's cold, it warms him up. When he's anxious, it calms him down. When he's depressed, it cheers him up. And when he's stressed out, it mellows him. Ask Cully, booze fixes everything.
Here's a parable that equates to Cully and I. In one of my textbooks on alcoholism were 2 brothers: one a successful surgeon and the other a chronic alcoholic. When questioned, the drunken brother blamed his afflictions upon his inebriated father. When questioned, the surgeon attributed his success upon his wasted fucked-up father. That's Cully and me in a nutshell. I blame my successes upon my fucked up abusive dad, while Cully malingered and died mirroring his own father's domestic violence, wife beating and child abuse, dying drunk just like dumb ol' Freddy. In private, ask Tobus and he'll freely explain our parents were "fucked-up sick freaks." Ask my sisters, they'll blush and deny everything and continue our family's disasters of alcohol intolerance, addiction, domestic abuse and early death. I'm surprised they haven't been killed by the jerks and losers they boned and married. Yay team, go niggers.
If we were born decades later, my parents would be in jail today and all of us kids would be in foster care. Likely with fat black women raising foster mutts like me just for the money. Being an ACOA (adult child of an alcoholic) has limited options and ZERO upside. Imagine the potential my siblings might have expressed artistically, musically, creatively or technically if we'd not had such terrifying fucked up drunken parents. In my old age, I look back at my siblings and see unfathomable potential: muted, stunted, buried and suppressed. And unexpressed. I'm safe to write volumes of cop-talk composts, cuz I'm long-gone, long-dead and live anonymously here in rural Alaska. Good luck locating my dumb ass. I'm finally safe.
Back to adventures in the AA show decades ago. I did all the AA meetings and learned some hard shit about alcoholism. Some of them old drunks suffered in the identical patterns as my very own brother Cully. This realization is startling and awful shit I could never discuss with my family cuz they'd never be able to go a year without a drop of alcohol. Meaning 100% abstinence, complete sobriety. One point I learned during my tenure at AA mirrored a lesson I found embarrassing at the police academy: "When it comes to alcoholism, mental illness and suicide, the family is always the last accept the truth." (If ever).
My kinfolk are real sensitive about self examination, family intolerance to booze, child abuse, domestic violence and our parents' and grandparents' battles with the bottle. Like you said, our family can never utter the word "alcoholic" and the only truly sober members of my family are Tobus and myself. The two I pegged to die first--not last. Me and Toby out-drank everybody, out-toked everybody and scuffed our knuckles way too much. Aside from Cully's arrest for furnishing alcohol to minors when the cops busted one of his parties on Fremont, me and Tobus were the worst convicts and inmates of our brood of turds.
Now that we've both sworn off all drugs and alcohol for decades, me and Toby will be tossing a coin or playing rock, paper, scissors betting who attends whose funeral first, his or mine. Of course long after we dirt-sleep the rest of our fucked up family. I say "dirt-sleep" euphemistically cuz I'm betting my sibs will all spend eternity as paper weights, representing wasted creative potential and battered self-esteems, whispering apologies from inside ceramic urns. Ain't enough room way down inside the 7-Lakes outhouse.
After the 6 months of thrice AA meetings weekly, I took my paperwork to court and was released from court supervision. I was completely cured and free to party. Sure as shit, I was a miracle cure. If I'm lying, my brother's dying. Fait a compli.
One year later I received a subpoena to appear for a follow-up evaluation at the courthouse. I showed up and was ordered directly to the probation office, that instant. For a fucking drug and alcohol urine-analysis test. FUCK! I tested positive for everything. Weed, blow and booze.
That's when I was directed to the office of Dr. Marilyn Grey, the school district psychologist who took some of the criminal cases from the courts. She turned out to be a really smart gal and soon was one of my best friends. Her comment was that "it's hard to believe such a smart kid came from such a shrill emotional wreck." Lorraine Ewing was her coworker and complained to the School District staff her older children were natural born disasters. Marilyn preached "Oh please put a cork in it Lorraine, there are no bad children, just bad parents." Dr. Grey also added many more definitions of behavioral issues suffered by ACOA (adult children of alcoholics).
She was reading my folder and chuckled at my drug test results. Dr. Marilyn joked that my piss cup should've melted, the smoke alarms should've exploded and my piss crystals should've killed the wanna-be cop examiner. She also joked that she had colleagues needing one of my pipe bombs placed under their cars. Ha ha, funny lady. She was reading my criminal records and thought bombing the YMCA was clever, but forever labeled me retarded. My dumbest crimes follow me forever.
Dr. Marilyn Grey was the one who sent me home with all those monster textbooks to read, take notes, prepare for vigorous questioning and return with a dissertation. I must have read a hunnert psych textbooks she pulled offa her shelf. They focused on familial alcoholism, child abuse, poor behavioral control, neurosis and generational cycles of violence. Marto and Callahan called my Brain Scan counseling retarded cuz I had to read all those monster shrink books while drinking, smoking weed and snorting cups of cocaine.
When I got arrested for an alcohol-related assault charge*, Dr. Marilyn didn't even blink and kept me reading my fucking ass off, absorbing whole forests of pulp dedicated to familial alcoholism, child abuse and mental illness. The story of my fucking life.
*I got arrested for an assault outside Goldy's Bar and Grill in Lynnwood. A rowdy group of drunks wanted to fight me, Cully, Larson, Callahan and Dennis. As we stepped outside I wanted to fuck up the loudest instigator. I got right up in his face, hooked his ankle with my foot and shoved him on his ass. He fell backwards, hit his head on the curb and didn't move. I get brave when I'm fucked up and got a crew backing me. Come on, Callahan, Larson, Cully and Dennis were all bigger'n me. What was I thinking?
Cully's only statement was, "Fuck Karl!" We booked from Goldy's and ditched the cops, but some customers knew Cully and I so the bacon-bits and piglets motored to Lem's Mortuary and Crack House the following day. The cops cuffed me up and I sat in the clink a few days, pleaded no-contest to assault, agreed to treatment, and walked to the bus stop. I caught a bus heading to the Park and Ride near I-5, then caught a transfer to Mountlake Terrace. Home sweet (crack house) home. I was received by a rowdy crowd that threw a welcome home-get out of jail party with all my favorites: liquor, cocaine and tons of green bud. The attendees were my own brother Cully, his band mates, 2 of my girlfriends and pals committed to co-dependent addictions and indulgences. God bless 'em all.
I continued my counseling with Dr. Marilyn Grey adding my new assault charges to the mix. She asked me why I hit everything in my path and not see I was trained and programmed to pound the shit outa humans close to me. When I'm consuming tonnage, I'm blind to family afflictions like alcoholism. The following year I told her I was heading to Alaska for work, she signed off on my paperwork and told me to have a good time, but don't come back.
Upon arrival and finding full time work, I phoned and told her I was employed at the local native village police department. She laughed and said "fantastic!" She thought my deviation away from friends, home and family was "fortuitous and constructive." My work at the police department, village patrols, state troopers and DEA narc jobs was self-actualizing. I was born for this shit. Cutting down hangers, arresting drunken wife beaters and child abusers made me feel right at home. I excelled at extra-judicial punishment.
*Okay, here's some of the heartbreaking parts of the story I've never told anybody, except Cully.
Pim and me were doing stolen gun business at Lem's, snorting piles of cocaine and he was helping me diagnose my old 66 Dodge Dart that was running rough. His buddy Gary Los was in the back room mixing his coke with a spoon getting ready to use a brand new diabetes hypodermic I stole from my dad. I stole cases and cases of diabetic syringes and included them with bulk purchases of premium blow.
Me and Pim downed some beers, smoked some bong rips and snarfed down lines of blow while he tuned up my slant 6-cylinder 225 cubic-inch Dodge Dart. Plugs, points, cap and rotor, set the timing and replaced all the filters and fluids. We frequently did this: fiddle, fart and fuck around with cars, stolen guns, hot guns used in Seattle area felonies and homicides. We frequently downed beers, traded and bartered illegal explosives he kyped from work on base, got stoned on green bud and wired on my best cocaine offerings as payment. I funneled the stolen and hot guns into my crack house channels, pocketing a decent commission.
After we were done, later that afternoon, Pim asked me the time, then yelled for Gary that they had to book. No Gary Los. We went back to check on him and he was blue, wide-eyed and really fucking dead. I told Pim that we needed to handle this, meaning it all had to go away cuz I'm a frequent flier at the local police department. We cleaned out Gary's pockets of contraband, Pim took the money and I took the drug shit and drivers license. Gary's photo on his license looked like my twin, so I kept it and legally purchased guns, beer and liquor for years. Rumor has it that I even received speeding violations, readily handed it over during fender-benders and ditched a wrecked car with Gary Los's driver's license dumped in the glove box. At a very young age, keen for ID theft, I was a child prodigy for retarded stupid shit.
Pim and I each took a shoulder and walked Gary out to Pim's car, climbed in and drove over to Gary's parents house. He lived downstairs and had a key on him. We carried him downstairs and laid him on the sofa, put a blanket on him, closed his eyes and silently sneaked out. We never heard a peep after that. His folks' knew he was a major druggy and likely fell for our ruse that he croaked there.
This wasn't over with. After one of my infamous mob parties, I awoke to the dogs whining and bugging the shit outa me. I got up and put them outside, then climbed back in bed to suffer one of my all-time 10 best year-long hangovers. The dogs only barked and whined louder. I went out front to yell at them and saw Keely Jones' sitting in his beater Subaru (Scuba-douche). It looked like he was sleeping against the window, but half his face was covered in mud.
I walked around the car and saw him holding one of Pim's revolvers with his face painted with shit, dead and ugly. It was obvious that Keely Jones shot himself, inside his locked Subaru, in my front yard. With Cully's band playing painfully loud, we never heard a thing.
I woke up Renee and Tisha, told them what happened and that they had to book. I ran all over the house, cleaned up any incriminating drug paraphernalia and all my packets of cocaine and green bud. Stashed everything in Cully's old green 66 Ford Van in the backyard and locked it up. I showered, downed some Alka-Seltzer and vitamins, coffee and bong hits, vacuumed and aired the house out, did 'Toids and Zeen (Altoids and Visine) then called the Mountlake Terrace Police Department.
Get this. The first to repond was Chief of Police Don Beuler, my facilitator for all those fucking AA meetings. The dogs were obnoxiously noisy, so I chained up Thatan the Afgan hound, Dopey the doberman and Scooter the old lab cuz they were upset and barking like motherfuckers.
Chief Don Beuler did a walk around, asked me if I touched anything, which I denied, asked I ever saw the gun before, which I denied, lying that I sold him one of the guns from Pim, then we went inside and had an interview. He asked me if I had a party last night, which I admitted, he asked me if I'd had any illegal drugs on-site, which I denied. He looked at me and then said "I'm deeply troubled at what I'm seeing here Karl, you might want to start attending our meetings again." Chief Beuler sighed and then said, "Okay, I gotta get a medic here and I don't want you going anywhere."
The cops used a slim-jim to open the Subaru (Scuba-douche) door, then took photos and let the emergency medical personnel check him out, took the gun and swabbed around the mess on his face. All while taking photos up the fucking ass. Then they eased Keely out of his blue Subaru, onto a gurney, then bagged him up and towed away his car. The neighbors all gathered to gawk and looky-loo and weren't surprised to see dead bodies at my residence.
I was stressed out to beat shit all the way until the moment the ambulance and patrol cars departed, then I felt sicker'n shit. So I poured a full glass of whiskey, tapped in a fat packet of blow, stirred it good, then downed the whole fucker in a couple gulps. Breakfast of chumpions. Or better put, an "Eric Clapton and Stevie Ray Vaughan mouthwash and health drink." Yummy.
You may not know who Keely Jones was, but he was one of the sons who worked at R&R Automotive-owned by old man Bob Jones. My part-time boss and mechanic. Bob asked me if Keely was partying at my house the night he shot himself, which I admitted. He then asked if Keely was doing any illegal drugs, which I denied. Old Man Bob looked at me, then asked me how his son was in possession of gun used in a Federal Way homicide last year. I shrugged and feigned ignorance. Old man Bob Jones shook his head in disappointment, wiped his watering eyes and turned his back on me and walked back into the shop. After that day I never darkened his porch again.
Now, here's the icky part. Late night, November 1986, we got broken into. I was sleeping and heard my window sliding open. I grabbed my trusty baseball bat and waited to see who was fucking with me. It was a bad-ass black dude I sold blow to down in the CD, holding a pistol in one hand, bracing himself on my window sill with the other. The CD means the central district, known as George Town, or Nigger-ville. I waited until he was climbing in the window, stuck his head inside and looked around. I saw a clear shot, then I swung my baseball bat. Hard. I connected with his jaw and ear. Poor jive-bro fell in and landed on the floor out cold.
Then the back door and front door got smashed in and the dogs started barking louder'n shit. The jimmy-nigger jive-bro I clocked had two accomplices and were fighting with Dennis and Dale Campbell. Dale choked one nigger unconscious, Dennis shot the other. A quick accounting of our disaster revealed 3 dead robbers, my baseball bat injury was lethal, Dale broke a neck and Dennis's bullet worked miracles. Despite battling unwanted intruders, we agreed that calling the cops wouldn't look good. The frequent police visits and my repeated police contacts and arrests would've looked fishy. So Dennis schemed a plan.
We took all their wallets, money, jewelry and weapons offa them, grabbed their car keys, found their car a couple houses down the street. We backed their Buick Electra 225 into my backyard and loaded up our unwelcome guests in the trunk. Then we drove all the way up to my grandparent's 7-lakes property, dumped them in the fire pit, stacked a mountain of dead trees, branches, a bunch of tires and gallons of used motor oil and old paint all over them and torched the whole stack o' niggers. We stoked a super hot fire for hours, then after sunrise, when the coals were bright red and painful we let it simmer down.
Me, Dennis and Dale went into Grandpa's trailer, downed a lot of liquor, smoked a bunch, then crashed listening to the same Canadian news-talk radio station my grandpa Veinman had tuned to on their transistor radio since I was a little kid. The following afternoon, we pulled the un-burned logs out, then Dale stomped the ashes and brittle Halloween skeletal debris into powder. I raked and shoveled up all the ashes and crushed remnants and wheeled everything to the outhouse and poured it all down into the poop pit. I poured grandpa's bag of lime on top, then a couple bags of his steer manure as a delicious dessert topping.
We swore a blood oath to keep mum, cleaned out the car, hosed out the trunk and parked the nigger-rig Buick at the Marysville QFC grocery store near the old mall parking lot. I knew about this place from all the gun shows me and Pim rented tables at. We did brisk trade there unloading stolen and hot guns used in crimes such as shootouts and homicides. Them hillbillies, Aryan Nations and white separatist gun nuts wouldn't discover the origin of these guns until they were linked to bullet or shell casing evidence stored at the Washington State Patrol, SPD or King County Sheriffs. Even 40 years ago, microscopic bullet rifling marks and unique shell scuffs and firing pin signatures had been common police investigative tools for decades.
Dennis was the forensics expert so he wiped everything down inside the nigger-rig Buick Electra 225 Pimp Ride, left the keys in the ignition with the windows rolled down and we returned to Mountlake Terrace in my beater Dodge Dart. Leaving the keys in the ignition, with a half tank of gas and the windows rolled down left the black dude's car an invitation to steal and encouraged car thieves or punk joy-riders to hop in and book.
When we got home, the only person we told was my own brother waiting in my front yard when we pulled up. Cully laughed and thought we were bullshitting him, then he looked directly at us, saw our sick sooty faces and said, "Holy Shit." Our criminal reasoning was that we committed no crime and that our body disposal procedure was sound legal practice. There was a big pool of blood on the kitchen floor but the dogs had cleaned it up by the time we got back home. Yummy. We never heard a word about the 3 missing black dudes fixing to rob Lem's Mortuary so we figured those ghetto niggers had nobody that gave a shit about 'em. Yup, even over 30 years later I'm a Ewing from Appalachia, cwiminal genius and drain-bramaged hillbilly and goat fucker.
Remember that joke about dead nigger ghosts haunting the Veinman outhouse? I told Gordo the tale on a mish he'd tagged along with us to 7-lakes for a firewood, booze and LSD/sauna experiments in Altered States and Dennis and me were no longer worried by our secret. When Gordo came back from the outhouse after a piss, he said "why am I drooling like a shit-house nigger?" Then he spit out a quart of Red Man Chew drool. Gordo was always good for home-made whole-wheat maggot-infested granola-mamma crematorium humor.
I've visited that place in recent decades and everything is overgrown and choked with tall overgrown grass, weeds, bushes and small trees. I've no idea if Cully arranged the sale of the place liquidating the folks' estates, but housing developers won't ever discover any long-digested ashes of powdered bones and incinerated teeth. I'm pretty sure the new residents would shit there pants if they saw jive-ass nigger Poltergeists yelling for Dennis, Dale and Karl. Or worse yet, bitching for their shitty Buick. The outhouse was sagging and falling in on itself and even the firepit was filled in, smooth and level flush. The folks or my siblings landscaped it level and now it's grown thick with super deep tall grass.
These are the clearest memories I've retained, albeit far from brain cell total mass retention. I thought my stupid experiences in repeated treatments and mongoloid crimes against sub-humanity would amuse you. Marto and Gordo can fill in the details I might've mislaid.
I'm not sure about Larson or Callahan, but Cully, Renee, Dennis and Dale Campbell have all passed on, which leaves only us, a small fraction of our obsolete party crowd and survivors of moron crimes, massive drug and alcohol consumption. I'm the last to retell these silly mud-farmer goat-fucker tales. After I die, none of these crimes will have ever happened.
I was surprised at the number of Cully's musicians, namely yourself and all your band mates still breathing God's air. Maybe they went through multiple treatments like me, sobering up, recovering and maybe even earning redemption and living long enough to see retirement with a feigned smile.
Take note. From my AA meetings we learned this mantra: "On the road to recovery, relapse is normal." I relapsed a couple times, okay, maybe a million six. But the "only outcomes to drug addiction and alcoholism are poverty and death. Or recovery." You've seen that proverb actualized. Many times.
Treating addiction and alcoholism is the same cookie-cutter treatment plan for everyone. We all think we're special, unique, creative, talented and one-of-a-kind. An alcoholic ego is narcissistic and really fucking stupid. When it comes to addictions, we're all identical.
First rule, separate the alcohol from the alcoholic, bring the patient back to sobriety, treat the damage from chronic inebriation, then tackle the underlying mental illness. That's one tall motherfucking order there Troy. Placing a bet on Cully or the world, the world won that bet, not Cully. Nobody can out-smart AA, counseling and intense treatment. I fucking tried.
Separating the boozer from the booze is outside my family epistemology and accepting the simple fact that having an alcoholic in anybody's family increases the chances of ourselves becoming alcoholics. In our family, we got over half-dozen drunks. Suffering 50% alcoholic membership in my clan, we're a lost cause. Myself, Tobus, Cully, my sisters and parents have tragic histories struggling with absolute sobriety, making the rest of my dysfunctional family, by default, in theory and by association: screwed. Now that we're matured and wizened, I have mucho good comedic ingredients to write about. Earthlings always laugh hard at drunken humor, folly and silly pratfalls like mine. I might be repeating myself, but did you know I'm retarded?
Enabling, co-dependence and preventing a drunk from hitting rock-bottom only increases the likelihood of death and makes treatment evermore difficult. Impaired parents make poor advocates for sobriety and Cully never stood a chance with ours. Providing free housing and paid utility bills only delayed his inevitable recovery, speeding his demise, unknowingly fitting him for a wooden jacket.
Kidnapping is a felony, so by inaction, we all essentially helped Cully crawl into the furnace and will forever stare at us from inside a ceramic urn filled with cremains similar to those 3 dead niggers I poured into the 7-Lakes outhouse. Treatment is free, chronic consumption like mine, Toby's and Cully's is real expensive and only adds up to bankruptcy and rapid-fire back-to-back funeral pyres.
I'd sure like to roll and smoke a fatty, crush and snarf down fat white caterpillars and drink with ye. But I can't. I'm a Ewing, a Finn, clean and sober for WAY too long. I've barely survived stints in jail, hospitals and stupid employment. Adding more booze, blow and bud would kill me fer sure.
On a side-note: here's a noteworthy irony. Toby has been sober longer than anyone in my family and like grandpa Ewing, who shifted to absolute sobriety at the age of 50, will likely outlive us all. On his Veterinarian website he looks buff from lifting weights and I bet his lungs and liver are pink and perfect, plus he had a child some years back, so his seeds ain't all dried up and turned to shit like our sisters', wives' and girlfriends' dusty twats. He deserves props and comps, but I ain't man enough to give 'em to him.
I can't comprehend a sober Tobus, I been gone too long. No worries, my own clan could never comprehend my own hard-fought sobriety, long work history in police and retiring rather well-off, healthy and get this, fairly happy. None of this was possible if I'd malingered in Washington State. In all likelihood, I would've preceded Cully in death, self-immolation ass torching and ceramic urn diving, forever on some dildo relative's mantel.
Old friends, old taverns, local bars, grow rooms, cocaine parlors and drug emporiums are sure-fire environments that'd undo my decades of rational thinking and sobriety. My Washington friends and family are my own private Idaho and my personal soggy diaper daycare drama. Seeing and hearing my shrill impaired family qualifies as a serious fucking relapse trigger. If I leave Alaska and get within a thousand miles of any relatives, I'm drinking, smoking and snorting cups of blow. AGAIN.
That'd make me a goner fer sure.
Stay healthy and stay in touch. I'll think of and continue more silly playwrights starring me, Toby, Callahan, Marto and Cully.
Karl.
---
Troy Date <fishwithahead@yahoo.com>
To:karl_ewing@yahoo.com
Sun, April 16 at 10:14 AM
Re: UR Treatment, Cully's kids, Dead bodies
Hey Karl,
You write like Mark Twain books. good emails.
I heard from Cully about Gary Los. He told me about the dibetes hypo needles you guys snagged from you dad & sold or traded. Shooting drugs is shitty & risky. Cully said Pim was real smart but leaving Gary on his folks sofa wasn't cool. Kind of mean but his ID was perfect for buying shitloads of beer for us those years we were underage.
Renee told me about that mechanic that shot himself in your front yard. That's fucking harsh. She always doubted the suicide & told drunk murder theories. After you broke up & went to Alaska she blamed you selling Keely a Pim gun.
Dennis told Marto about the black dudes break in. Reminds me of you & Cully chopping up chickens & ducks & goats, method actors. Burning them blacks & pouring their ashes in the 7-lakes out house creeps me. We partied & took saunas & crashed in grandpa's trailer for years. I never seen any black ghosts or darky shadows taking leaks or dumps.
Since I used to live close by, I drove by 7-lakes while back. Same place, real overgrown tho. Your grampa's trailer is gone & the sheds are pretty rotting. Sauna barrel stove is rusted to nothing & the outhouse is a sagging stack of rotten boards.
I get fucked up reading you emails. Brings back good & bad thoughts & it's sad everyone is dead. Mostly Cully. He admired you lots. Followed you & Pim & Callahan everywhere.
On Facebook your classmates wrote your Hitler Yugen dudes Larson, Senn, Bjodstrup & you won gold in district & state swimming shit. Your orchestra won Music in May in Gresham, Oregon & went to Europe with some band. You kicked ass on guitar, never jammed with us. What's up with that.
On my other social media platforms, some native chicks claimed you were the father of there daughters. Some other claimed the same. Non-native tho. Blond girl, total babe. Not USA bait. The dead boy I'm searching.
I'll visit with Marto soon, I can't find Gordy Kelly. He lived 2 houses up from you place on 200th Edmonds, but no sign of him. I almost forgot he was our roomate for years. Spaced me.
50 years ago, I remember us neighbor kids waiting for you & Cully to sneak out & play with us up on the Maplewood School roof after dark. I sure liked your haystack fort you hollowed out.
I was 9 years old. I wanted goats, not kill with a claw hammer & chow tho.
Take care
-Troy.
To:karl_ewing@yahoo.com
Thu, April 13 at 8:14 AM
UR Treatment, Cully's kid
Hey Karl,
How are you doing?
I ran into Marto & he was real sore about Cully passing. He talked with him last year, said Cully looked dead man walking. Marto told Cully should go to that same psych lady courts made you go.
Marto said you went to a bunch of rehabs. AA, counceling & intense treatment at that shrink lady. Said he drove you to your Brain Scan dates since cops revoked you license.
Renee said Cully had a kid with Heather, her black friend near his house in George Town. U know, the CD. Was this tru?
Me, Scott, Paul, Loren & the guys wonder why you were in treatment & Cully never was. Now he's dead. just asking. Don't write so hard at us.
Take care,
-Troy
---
karl_ewing@yahoo.com
To: Troy Date <fishwithahead@yahoo.com>
Sat, April 15 at 10:14 AM
Re: UR Treatment, Cully's kids, Dead bodies
Hey Troy and crew,
The rumors are correct. I was in treatment a shit load, but to put context around what Marto called my "revolving moron treatments" and jail stints, I gotta think, recall and explain exactly how fucked up, impaired and retarded I was. Looking back at human evolution, even during this century, my family sure as shit ran up one hell of a banana bill. Of course today, it's highly likely I'm still "drain-bramaged."
Now focus on all the words I write. I know that you've heard snippets and rumors about me and Cully's rough upbringing, insofar as Cully's Neuroshima II song titled, "Buddy's Face." It's a true testimonial of 2 terrified and sickened little boys watching their pet goat get killed in front of them. With a claw-hammer in our dad's hands. It's time to put on your big girl panties and simultaneously put your slaves on cruise-control, you've got an appointment with some long-kept secrets.
As a preamble, you need to see Toby's, Cully's and my genetic and ethnic propensity for alcoholism.
1. The number one cause of death for Finns from 18-65 is alcoholism. Meaning alcohol related illnesses, alcohol related injuries and alcohol related homicides. Alcoholism kills us fucking Ewings. Think of me and Cully outside Goldy's Bar in Lynnwood, fighting other drunken fuckers, skate-boarding high as shit, racing back roads or doing brodies all over 7-lakes-fucked up. From our sliding out of our mom's uterus water-slide theme park, Cully and I depicted behaviors indicating we had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.
With Kenny Miller and 240 Gordy, me and Cully stole and chugged whole bottles of my dad's homemade wine, smoked 'lumbo-dumbo brown bud, then went berserk on rope-swings, bikes, skateboards, go-karts and automobiles. How we avoided dying much sooner is pure dumb luck, moments of clarity in the midst of our head-rushes flaring our brains inside a blast furnace or maybe it's true that God looks out for Drunks and Derelicts. Both of these 2 God-given qualities run deep and rich in me and Cully.
2. Finns lead the world in Type I Diabetes. That's the insulin dependent diabetes requiring numerous daily injected doses, not the fat ass (obesity) related Type II Diabetes that afflicts piggy-bloaters with insulin resistance. Fat fuckers don't need more insulin, they got plenty. Those pills and shots you see advertised on TV stimulate fat boomer-folks to piss and shit out their sugars and sweeten their toilets promoting healthy dog-watering schedules. Like me, dogs eat their own shit.
3. Finns also have what's called latent adult onset accelerated liver cirrhosis. After the age of 50, Finns suffer a 5-fold increase in liver cirrhosis. The same number of drinks yeilds a massive increase in liver erosion, disease and failure. And death. Like our genetic decrease in pancreatic functions producing our own insulin, as we age, us Finns steadily lose key enzymes in our liver that readily break down alcohol into it's headache rendering components. I believe its called a dehydrogenase enzyme that converts yeast poop into sugar. Then these sugars are dumped upon our failing pancreas, inducing Diabetic Keto-Acidosis (DKA).
Chronic alcoholism is a young Finn's habit. Old alcoholic Finns like my grandpas, dad and Cully die horribly: dementia and liver failure. Simply put, drunks and diabetics suffer when chugging yeast poops. If you add Tylenol or Ibuprofen, fucking forget about it, yer liver is toast and you best make an appointment alongside Cully for liver transplant. Officially, alcoholism is drinking that causes damage to your health, your job, your family and your finances. We witnessed our dudes suffering all four of these criteria. Me and my brothers are no exception.
Okay, back on the topic of my numerous treatments and counseling appointments and what Marto called "the revolving moron treatment program." I got busted for minor in possession of alcohol with an encore citation for marijuana possession. Eventually X2 each. Plus assault.
I was in years of treatment after I lived with you, Gordo and Brian (micro-dot) at the infamous Hash House in Mountlake Terrace where the daily menu included Lab Fresh Blue-Dot LSD Experiments, scoring, picking and sorting and eating entire fields of magic mushrooms. And growing serious buds.
*This first MIP happened when I got busted with Callahan for minor in possession of alcohol, then a month or so later I got tagged for my first minor in possession of marijuana and was directed by Judge Schillberg to the Lynnwood Drug Abuse Counseling Center.
I did the visits and counseling and after 6 months was discharged and given the proper paperwork I had to submit to the courts. Did. Done. Deal. Rehab: been there, done that. Got the T-shirt. And the blisters. Free to cruise.
*I got busted for minor in possession of marijuana. AGAIN.
I had to go 6 months with zero similar offenses, pay court costs and after a half-year staying clear of the cops, I was discharged from the court-ordered probationary conditions.
*I got busted for minor in possession of alcohol. AGAIN. The following year I was cited for my second minor in possession of alcohol with Pim at the Lake Chelan Park in Eastern Washington. We went to a big ass gun show, did good trade, sold a shit load of hot and stolen guns to the Branch Davidians, Ruby Ridgers and white supremacists, then got wasted at the lakeside beach. At my court appearance I was also in front of Judge Schillberg. AGAIN.
He directed me to attend 3 AA (alcoholics anonymous) meetings every week for 6 months, and since I was living in Mountlake Terrace, I attended the noon AA meetings in a bingo hall/utility room next to City Hall. I was living right around corner from the Hash and LSD House, operating a profitable crack house called Lem's Mortuary cuz me and Cully stole a Cemetery Entrance street sign and like a business shingle, I nailed it above my front door.
I didn't mind the easy walk to my Monday, Wednesday and Friday Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, cuz remember, I lost my driver's license for years due to speeding and reckless driving like a lunatic. And waking up behind the wheel doing 90. Ewing Drivers-No Survivors, so I walked to AA. I also took the city or Seattle Metro buses all over fucking hell. In my old age, I'd enjoy such a splendid bus system here in Alaska. On my million trips to Europe, buses were a much cooler form of transpo. We got zero mass-transit infrastructure here in my dildo zip code on the wrong end of the North American continent.
Ewing drinking and driving go hand in hand. Remember, I come from a family of tall alcoholics. My sisters either smashed gimps by driving over them, or humped and conceived gimps in motor vehicles-wasted. Look at the spouses my siblings married. If my poor in-laws were completely sober, we'd all be out in the front yard humping air. Or goats. My family is 100% pure drunken white trailer trash. Tobus, Cully and me are the only ones that readily accept this frightfully honest insight because we're the worst offenders and haven't lost our sense of humor.
We also breed like Appalachian retards. Add up all of our stray children and abortions and I have a dozen goofy cross-eyed nephews and nieces. That's not including my own rut-season mongoloid offspring in rural Alaska and overseas. I have 2 runt-native children here in AK and 2 more dull wiggers: 1 in Finland and 1 in Ukraine.
I'm kidding. They're all healthy and handsome and look disturbingly like my brothers and sisters, 2 mixed diluted hybrid Eskimo girls, 1 Finno-Ugrik girl I had with Kristin living in Inari, Finland. I also sired a boy with Nadia living near Chernobyl. The last email I received from Miss Chepkasova stated Alexi joined the Ukrainian military and was killed last year fighting the Russian Federation Army. Yup, just like good ol' dad, young lad couldn't stay away from gun violence. Funny, Grandpa Veinman fled Estonia, away from the Russians. A century later, his great-grandson was killed by Russians. I'm betting he suffered alcoholism like me and Slim too.
The dates of these pregnancies range from the 1980's to the early 2000's and coincide with my fish gut/crab slime jobs, narc jobs throughout Arctic Alaska and my dozens of travels overseas. Looking back, it appears I was a traveling sperm salesman. Have dick, will travel.
My last estimate is that Cully had 3 children. Cully had a baby with Mary, his girlfriend when he lived offa 164th in North Lynnwood renting the basement apartment from Mike Ford, his meaner'n shit drunken landlord. Mary was religious and vehemently against trailer nigger birth control (abortion) so she moved out and married another gentlemen. That's all Cully told me. I'm betting the child had severe learning disabilities like me and my brothers.
Cully's second child was with Heather McCoy, Renee's friend, the black gal that used to visit and party with us. She fell hard for Cully and after becoming pregnant, she bragged that she had "two chocolate babies and one caramel." You may remember her 2 first kids, Chucky and Didi, the cute dark kids I baby-sat for extended periods of time while she was nursing and doing all that mommy stuff.
I drove those kids all over the backroads of redneck Washington, belted in the back seat with Dopey the Doberman, separating Heckle and Jeckle, delivering coke and picking up dineros. Pim's racist joke was that I should put the Sambos up front like hood ornaments. My racist joke was that Cully's baby, the lighter brown one Heather had, was her only child that genetically regressed backwards and learned walking habitually on it's hind legs. Even Cully cracked up at that old Archie Bunker bigot-punt.
The last pregnancy Cully had was with Jamie. I don't know the outcome because she left him and he never heard from her again. These details are now pert near 30 years old. Any more recent vital statistics about Cully I've no data. He got upset at my police work, went silent and submerged himself in distilled bong water. Bong water that was 40% grain alcohol and chronic green bud smoke resin.
On a side-note, it's quite possible I'm haunted, cuz I frequently have dreams with Cully right behind me, watching what I'm doing with his big eyes, not sure if we're gonna get in trouble, go to jail or die in our own wreckage. I often wonder what happened to the heaps of equipment and musical instruments we acquired via unjust enrichment and unlawful criminal enterprises.
I've been accused of acting like a pussy, insisting Cully hold my hand and drive me to the Harborview STD Clinic. It's true. Both he and I made the trip there twice each. When it comes to catching bugs with our dicks, me and Cully brought home record-setting trophies. Imagine me and Cully, wearing smoking jackets in a gentleman's club room, smoking pipes filled with expensive green bud, drinking glasses of cognac, surrounded by hunting wall-mounts of dead, over-sized Chlamydia and Syphilis antlers, claws, fangs and heads covered with multifaceted fly-eyes.
I'm not sure I'd like to see me and Cully's STD's after they've been stuffed at a taxidermy shop. I saw pubic crab lice under a microscope and it looked like Godzilla from them old Jap movies. 1000X magnified shit was seriously fucked up. More terrifying was during me and Cully's last visit to the Harborview STD Clinic, his lab culture showed a microscopic King Kong fighting swarms of airborne crabs. And getting his ass kicked. My STD's came in pairs cuz my sex life inevitably was never monogamist, overlapping in unison to my blisters and creepy crawlers. If it wasn't for antibiotics, both me and Cully would be dead. Wait, that expression no longer works.
Me and Cully likely never wrapped our junk with trash bags whilst playing at the city dump. Which explains our hillbilly white-trash unwanted pregnancies all over fucking hell and frequent bouts of rubber cement boogers dried solid to the ends of our infected dicks. Come on, look at the huge parties we had, all the booze and drugs, Cully's bands, female attendees looking to fuck one, or both of the Ewing boys. I lost count of how many skanky farm chicks we boned, but shit happens when retarded white-trash mud-farmers drink to excess and climb onto fucked-up horny pussy, focusing our affections on the hind tit like wasted runtlets. Family tradition.
Mind you, alcoholism is a classic family affliction. You might remember when Tobus got busted for shooting DJ Forgaard during drunken marksmanship contests and menstrual duels, resulting in the cops raiding Cully's, Callahan's and Toby's kick-ass grow-room. Toby also earned the wife-beater reputation for punching a baby out of Patty (Tobortion). She rented a room from Renee and I so we heard every single shitty detail. Constantly. My retort to Patty's bitching about us drunken Ewing boys was, "What do you tell a hot-tempered red-haired bitch with 2 black eyes?" "Nothing, you already told her twice." My house, my jokes. Eat shit Patty, I didn't bone Tobus, you did.
As a grand finale, according to Pim and Fred, Tobus was arrested in Mexico for some drunk and disorderly bullshit (major Fred Factor). My dad was pissed off because he had to post a hefty bail. And even larger bribe. Pim's joke was that Tobus beat the shit out of a cross-dresser or drag queen. After gaping the shit out of her. (Or him). I frequently kidded Marto that he drunkenly sacked a chick that had an Adam's Apple, tucked scrotum and shaved poonus. Like Tobus, it's not true, but funny shit. Alcohol problems, bad luck and trouble are my family's middle names. Especially mine. My siblings' crimes are small potatoes-compared to the stupid stunts us mortuary and crack house employees pulled and were jailed for. That includes you lot.
Back to my court mandated AA meetings. My sponsor, the dude that signed off on my court mandated attendances, was Chief of Police Don Beuler (just like Ferris Beuler's Day Off). He was an alcoholic in recovery, earned a million sobriety coins and the meeting facilitator for all of us attendees that were court ordered to appear. He didn't like my wit: "Welcome to Alcoholics Anonymous, please present ID." We were destined to bump into each other many more times in the future.
I chose to attend the lunchtime meetings. The noon AA meetings didn't impede my business, so I did both: attended my Alcoholics Anonymous group chats and also sold a shit load of blow in the evenings. The coffee served at Alcoholics Anonymous was burnt, bitter and rotten, so I brought my own espresso grind and made a separate brew in one of the extra coffee machines I fetched from the cupboard, cleaned and made premium dark-roast coffee with. The old drunks that attended AA eventually migrated from the harsh red-can Folgers to my boutique blends.
It was a tragedy to watch my top-shelf high-dollar coffee get ruined with 4 scoops of sugar and 4 scoops of Coffee Mate. Alcoholics in remission replace their booze with strong coffee and TONS of sugar. Figure it out. I earned comps and props from the roached old drunks that looked just like Callahan's dad. Chief Beuler appreciated my help unfolding the metal chairs, so I showed early, made coffee and set up the chairs before meetings and put them away afterwards.
Since Cully knew my schedule, he'd meet me near City Hall, after my meetings and give me a ride home. He'd often greet me with, "Hey dude, how was your Faggots Anonymous meeting?" My retort was, "How was your day at UCP (United Cerebral Palsy)?" "Did you have to do any ass-to-mouth resuscitation on any gimp butts?" Cully liked my abrasive insults cuz he repeated them amongst his coworkers and got all the original creative witty cred during coffee breaks and earned shop-talk stand-up comedian guffaws.
The comment that he never shared at work was, "Shit Cully I smell something. Why do you have brown ring around your forearm?" "Did UCP have stage test screenings for mini-limber gimpoid sacks of shit auditioning in a porno movie called Deep Butt?" I wonder if Cully's gimp clients participated in PornHub listings for extreme anal insertions with Bill Pace's whole arm buried invisible in the screen shot. Bill Pace wasn't prepared for brotherly harassment, but laughed at Frank Zappa's quip during a concert in Seattle, "Fist fuck, Wrist watch, Crisco."
I'm now saddened that I'll never have any more witty banter with my younger brother. I've never had another comedy sketch partner like Cully. My other brothers and sisters took our back-and-forth as hurtful, but that perception couldn't be farther from the truth. Our traded barbs were fertile material to inflict upon other butt-fuckers at work or school. I've gotten blanched expressions from my colleagues at the police department after unleashing a witty sharp Cully Classic on their retarded cop-asses. "Yer dick is so small, you could fuck me, in my urinary piss tube." Pretty good insult from the Cully archives, huh?
Back to your query. The basic facts of alcoholism scared me. At some meetings we had guest speakers. One I remember was the director of the Gospel Mission, downtown Seattle, just up from Pike Place Market. His experience was depressing: the number one cause of homelessness is alcoholism. He shook his head when we suggested super killer drug names like "crystal", "crack", "meth", "heroin", "PCP", and "ecstasy." He said he'd never seen a homeless client addicted to any of those high-dollar drugs, all his homeless clients were street alcoholics.
Booze is cheap, available over-the-counter and easily affordable on a panhandler's budget. The cocaine and heroin etc. are only affordable for addicts if they stole expensive PA gear and electric guitars and traded them at Lem's Mortuary and Crack House. Come on Troy, how do you think Cully afforded so much expensive equipment? I always accepted equipment in trade for blow, then Cully surreptitiously and covertly absconded the shit back to his house and incorporated it into his massive racks and stacks of painfully loud sound-rendering iron werks.
The Gospel Mission director said that alcoholism is a family trait and that like child abuse suffered by kids, they then become violent child abusers themselves, "alcoholics come from alcoholics and the victims always becomes the abusers." He pointed at me and asked me to share my own family history with alcoholism. I stated that both my grandfathers drank to excess (grandpa Veinman), the other, after years of alcoholic violence, swore it off completely at age 50 (grandpa Ewing). I also added that my paternal grandma (Dorothy) had great difficulty with sobriety, whereupon the whole room of old boozers and inebriates chuckled at me like I was a lost cause. With Cully, Tobus and myself in mind, they were correct.
One old dude with rotten teeth and foul-ass butt-breath leaned over and whispered to me, "Hey kid, look around. Look where you are. Pull yer head outa yer fucking ass and wake up. You'll never drink like an Earthling." Earthling is the title AA members called naive normal humans in prepubescent denial and fearful of enlightenment. Worldwide, even casual drinkers live in petrified ignorance of alcohol's devastation upon our cultures, countries and families. Maternal alcohol consumption is the number one cause of mental retardation in children (FAS). Just look at me.
After our AA meeting and in private, I asked the Gospel Mission director if having a father that suffered greatly from alcoholism and violent outbursts injuring his wife, oldest daughters and sons, were a curse. He smiled and told me, "If you ended up here you've taken the first step towards getting help. It seems your only troubles occur when you imbibe." "Sobriety is where you'll find peace." I refrained from telling him that I already got peace, as in pieces of ass X2: Tisha and Renee. Those two alcoholic breeding relationships had been overlapping for years during this time period. At my old age crowding level 62, I doubt I'd be able to fuck 2 girls to orgasm, at the same party. Or drunk, together in the same bed. The male human anatomy allows us to both suck and fuck, at the same time.
Okay, funny shit aside, I was deaf and dumb, wouldn't listen my AA counselors and unlike Cully, I'm lucky to be alive. Cully, like my retarded siblings, denied the concept of familial alcoholism. Now he's dead, burnt toast and never coming back. Me and Sober Tobus will merely await to see who dies next, who does the cremation steel gurney fry pan gimp dance producing volumes of smoke that will inevitably smell like burning garbage.
My dad is such a drunken pussy. He beat the hell outa my mom, me, Cully and my sisters. When dumb ol' Freddy was drunk or hungover, we received wholesale slapping, spankings, hair pulling, belt whippings and paddling with sticks and boards. All these outbursts corresponded with his drinking. For a disturbing parallel, watch Tobus and my dad get drunk. Two identical chuckle-heads.
Many years later, when I was helping remodel my folks' rental house in Pullman, Washington, I asked dumb ol' Fred why he punched mom and us so much and he said "that's how kids were raised back then." My retort is "bullshit, that's how alcoholics beat their wives and kids today." I relayed to dumb ol' Fred my experience arresting violent native wife beaters and child beaters, he got a little pissy and drank even faster and passed out sooner. Booze is my dad's cure-all. When he's cold, it warms him up. When he's anxious, it calms him down. When he's depressed, it cheers him up. And when he's stressed out, it mellows him. Ask Cully, booze fixes everything.
Here's a parable that equates to Cully and I. In one of my textbooks on alcoholism were 2 brothers: one a successful surgeon and the other a chronic alcoholic. When questioned, the drunken brother blamed his afflictions upon his inebriated father. When questioned, the surgeon attributed his success upon his wasted fucked-up father. That's Cully and me in a nutshell. I blame my successes upon my fucked up abusive dad, while Cully malingered and died mirroring his own father's domestic violence, wife beating and child abuse, dying drunk just like dumb ol' Freddy. In private, ask Tobus and he'll freely explain our parents were "fucked-up sick freaks." Ask my sisters, they'll blush and deny everything and continue our family's disasters of alcohol intolerance, addiction, domestic abuse and early death. I'm surprised they haven't been killed by the jerks and losers they boned and married. Yay team, go niggers.
If we were born decades later, my parents would be in jail today and all of us kids would be in foster care. Likely with fat black women raising foster mutts like me just for the money. Being an ACOA (adult child of an alcoholic) has limited options and ZERO upside. Imagine the potential my siblings might have expressed artistically, musically, creatively or technically if we'd not had such terrifying fucked up drunken parents. In my old age, I look back at my siblings and see unfathomable potential: muted, stunted, buried and suppressed. And unexpressed. I'm safe to write volumes of cop-talk composts, cuz I'm long-gone, long-dead and live anonymously here in rural Alaska. Good luck locating my dumb ass. I'm finally safe.
Back to adventures in the AA show decades ago. I did all the AA meetings and learned some hard shit about alcoholism. Some of them old drunks suffered in the identical patterns as my very own brother Cully. This realization is startling and awful shit I could never discuss with my family cuz they'd never be able to go a year without a drop of alcohol. Meaning 100% abstinence, complete sobriety. One point I learned during my tenure at AA mirrored a lesson I found embarrassing at the police academy: "When it comes to alcoholism, mental illness and suicide, the family is always the last accept the truth." (If ever).
My kinfolk are real sensitive about self examination, family intolerance to booze, child abuse, domestic violence and our parents' and grandparents' battles with the bottle. Like you said, our family can never utter the word "alcoholic" and the only truly sober members of my family are Tobus and myself. The two I pegged to die first--not last. Me and Toby out-drank everybody, out-toked everybody and scuffed our knuckles way too much. Aside from Cully's arrest for furnishing alcohol to minors when the cops busted one of his parties on Fremont, me and Tobus were the worst convicts and inmates of our brood of turds.
Now that we've both sworn off all drugs and alcohol for decades, me and Toby will be tossing a coin or playing rock, paper, scissors betting who attends whose funeral first, his or mine. Of course long after we dirt-sleep the rest of our fucked up family. I say "dirt-sleep" euphemistically cuz I'm betting my sibs will all spend eternity as paper weights, representing wasted creative potential and battered self-esteems, whispering apologies from inside ceramic urns. Ain't enough room way down inside the 7-Lakes outhouse.
After the 6 months of thrice AA meetings weekly, I took my paperwork to court and was released from court supervision. I was completely cured and free to party. Sure as shit, I was a miracle cure. If I'm lying, my brother's dying. Fait a compli.
One year later I received a subpoena to appear for a follow-up evaluation at the courthouse. I showed up and was ordered directly to the probation office, that instant. For a fucking drug and alcohol urine-analysis test. FUCK! I tested positive for everything. Weed, blow and booze.
That's when I was directed to the office of Dr. Marilyn Grey, the school district psychologist who took some of the criminal cases from the courts. She turned out to be a really smart gal and soon was one of my best friends. Her comment was that "it's hard to believe such a smart kid came from such a shrill emotional wreck." Lorraine Ewing was her coworker and complained to the School District staff her older children were natural born disasters. Marilyn preached "Oh please put a cork in it Lorraine, there are no bad children, just bad parents." Dr. Grey also added many more definitions of behavioral issues suffered by ACOA (adult children of alcoholics).
She was reading my folder and chuckled at my drug test results. Dr. Marilyn joked that my piss cup should've melted, the smoke alarms should've exploded and my piss crystals should've killed the wanna-be cop examiner. She also joked that she had colleagues needing one of my pipe bombs placed under their cars. Ha ha, funny lady. She was reading my criminal records and thought bombing the YMCA was clever, but forever labeled me retarded. My dumbest crimes follow me forever.
Dr. Marilyn Grey was the one who sent me home with all those monster textbooks to read, take notes, prepare for vigorous questioning and return with a dissertation. I must have read a hunnert psych textbooks she pulled offa her shelf. They focused on familial alcoholism, child abuse, poor behavioral control, neurosis and generational cycles of violence. Marto and Callahan called my Brain Scan counseling retarded cuz I had to read all those monster shrink books while drinking, smoking weed and snorting cups of cocaine.
When I got arrested for an alcohol-related assault charge*, Dr. Marilyn didn't even blink and kept me reading my fucking ass off, absorbing whole forests of pulp dedicated to familial alcoholism, child abuse and mental illness. The story of my fucking life.
*I got arrested for an assault outside Goldy's Bar and Grill in Lynnwood. A rowdy group of drunks wanted to fight me, Cully, Larson, Callahan and Dennis. As we stepped outside I wanted to fuck up the loudest instigator. I got right up in his face, hooked his ankle with my foot and shoved him on his ass. He fell backwards, hit his head on the curb and didn't move. I get brave when I'm fucked up and got a crew backing me. Come on, Callahan, Larson, Cully and Dennis were all bigger'n me. What was I thinking?
Cully's only statement was, "Fuck Karl!" We booked from Goldy's and ditched the cops, but some customers knew Cully and I so the bacon-bits and piglets motored to Lem's Mortuary and Crack House the following day. The cops cuffed me up and I sat in the clink a few days, pleaded no-contest to assault, agreed to treatment, and walked to the bus stop. I caught a bus heading to the Park and Ride near I-5, then caught a transfer to Mountlake Terrace. Home sweet (crack house) home. I was received by a rowdy crowd that threw a welcome home-get out of jail party with all my favorites: liquor, cocaine and tons of green bud. The attendees were my own brother Cully, his band mates, 2 of my girlfriends and pals committed to co-dependent addictions and indulgences. God bless 'em all.
I continued my counseling with Dr. Marilyn Grey adding my new assault charges to the mix. She asked me why I hit everything in my path and not see I was trained and programmed to pound the shit outa humans close to me. When I'm consuming tonnage, I'm blind to family afflictions like alcoholism. The following year I told her I was heading to Alaska for work, she signed off on my paperwork and told me to have a good time, but don't come back.
Upon arrival and finding full time work, I phoned and told her I was employed at the local native village police department. She laughed and said "fantastic!" She thought my deviation away from friends, home and family was "fortuitous and constructive." My work at the police department, village patrols, state troopers and DEA narc jobs was self-actualizing. I was born for this shit. Cutting down hangers, arresting drunken wife beaters and child abusers made me feel right at home. I excelled at extra-judicial punishment.
*Okay, here's some of the heartbreaking parts of the story I've never told anybody, except Cully.
Pim and me were doing stolen gun business at Lem's, snorting piles of cocaine and he was helping me diagnose my old 66 Dodge Dart that was running rough. His buddy Gary Los was in the back room mixing his coke with a spoon getting ready to use a brand new diabetes hypodermic I stole from my dad. I stole cases and cases of diabetic syringes and included them with bulk purchases of premium blow.
Me and Pim downed some beers, smoked some bong rips and snarfed down lines of blow while he tuned up my slant 6-cylinder 225 cubic-inch Dodge Dart. Plugs, points, cap and rotor, set the timing and replaced all the filters and fluids. We frequently did this: fiddle, fart and fuck around with cars, stolen guns, hot guns used in Seattle area felonies and homicides. We frequently downed beers, traded and bartered illegal explosives he kyped from work on base, got stoned on green bud and wired on my best cocaine offerings as payment. I funneled the stolen and hot guns into my crack house channels, pocketing a decent commission.
After we were done, later that afternoon, Pim asked me the time, then yelled for Gary that they had to book. No Gary Los. We went back to check on him and he was blue, wide-eyed and really fucking dead. I told Pim that we needed to handle this, meaning it all had to go away cuz I'm a frequent flier at the local police department. We cleaned out Gary's pockets of contraband, Pim took the money and I took the drug shit and drivers license. Gary's photo on his license looked like my twin, so I kept it and legally purchased guns, beer and liquor for years. Rumor has it that I even received speeding violations, readily handed it over during fender-benders and ditched a wrecked car with Gary Los's driver's license dumped in the glove box. At a very young age, keen for ID theft, I was a child prodigy for retarded stupid shit.
Pim and I each took a shoulder and walked Gary out to Pim's car, climbed in and drove over to Gary's parents house. He lived downstairs and had a key on him. We carried him downstairs and laid him on the sofa, put a blanket on him, closed his eyes and silently sneaked out. We never heard a peep after that. His folks' knew he was a major druggy and likely fell for our ruse that he croaked there.
This wasn't over with. After one of my infamous mob parties, I awoke to the dogs whining and bugging the shit outa me. I got up and put them outside, then climbed back in bed to suffer one of my all-time 10 best year-long hangovers. The dogs only barked and whined louder. I went out front to yell at them and saw Keely Jones' sitting in his beater Subaru (Scuba-douche). It looked like he was sleeping against the window, but half his face was covered in mud.
I walked around the car and saw him holding one of Pim's revolvers with his face painted with shit, dead and ugly. It was obvious that Keely Jones shot himself, inside his locked Subaru, in my front yard. With Cully's band playing painfully loud, we never heard a thing.
I woke up Renee and Tisha, told them what happened and that they had to book. I ran all over the house, cleaned up any incriminating drug paraphernalia and all my packets of cocaine and green bud. Stashed everything in Cully's old green 66 Ford Van in the backyard and locked it up. I showered, downed some Alka-Seltzer and vitamins, coffee and bong hits, vacuumed and aired the house out, did 'Toids and Zeen (Altoids and Visine) then called the Mountlake Terrace Police Department.
Get this. The first to repond was Chief of Police Don Beuler, my facilitator for all those fucking AA meetings. The dogs were obnoxiously noisy, so I chained up Thatan the Afgan hound, Dopey the doberman and Scooter the old lab cuz they were upset and barking like motherfuckers.
Chief Don Beuler did a walk around, asked me if I touched anything, which I denied, asked I ever saw the gun before, which I denied, lying that I sold him one of the guns from Pim, then we went inside and had an interview. He asked me if I had a party last night, which I admitted, he asked me if I'd had any illegal drugs on-site, which I denied. He looked at me and then said "I'm deeply troubled at what I'm seeing here Karl, you might want to start attending our meetings again." Chief Beuler sighed and then said, "Okay, I gotta get a medic here and I don't want you going anywhere."
The cops used a slim-jim to open the Subaru (Scuba-douche) door, then took photos and let the emergency medical personnel check him out, took the gun and swabbed around the mess on his face. All while taking photos up the fucking ass. Then they eased Keely out of his blue Subaru, onto a gurney, then bagged him up and towed away his car. The neighbors all gathered to gawk and looky-loo and weren't surprised to see dead bodies at my residence.
I was stressed out to beat shit all the way until the moment the ambulance and patrol cars departed, then I felt sicker'n shit. So I poured a full glass of whiskey, tapped in a fat packet of blow, stirred it good, then downed the whole fucker in a couple gulps. Breakfast of chumpions. Or better put, an "Eric Clapton and Stevie Ray Vaughan mouthwash and health drink." Yummy.
You may not know who Keely Jones was, but he was one of the sons who worked at R&R Automotive-owned by old man Bob Jones. My part-time boss and mechanic. Bob asked me if Keely was partying at my house the night he shot himself, which I admitted. He then asked if Keely was doing any illegal drugs, which I denied. Old Man Bob looked at me, then asked me how his son was in possession of gun used in a Federal Way homicide last year. I shrugged and feigned ignorance. Old man Bob Jones shook his head in disappointment, wiped his watering eyes and turned his back on me and walked back into the shop. After that day I never darkened his porch again.
Now, here's the icky part. Late night, November 1986, we got broken into. I was sleeping and heard my window sliding open. I grabbed my trusty baseball bat and waited to see who was fucking with me. It was a bad-ass black dude I sold blow to down in the CD, holding a pistol in one hand, bracing himself on my window sill with the other. The CD means the central district, known as George Town, or Nigger-ville. I waited until he was climbing in the window, stuck his head inside and looked around. I saw a clear shot, then I swung my baseball bat. Hard. I connected with his jaw and ear. Poor jive-bro fell in and landed on the floor out cold.
Then the back door and front door got smashed in and the dogs started barking louder'n shit. The jimmy-nigger jive-bro I clocked had two accomplices and were fighting with Dennis and Dale Campbell. Dale choked one nigger unconscious, Dennis shot the other. A quick accounting of our disaster revealed 3 dead robbers, my baseball bat injury was lethal, Dale broke a neck and Dennis's bullet worked miracles. Despite battling unwanted intruders, we agreed that calling the cops wouldn't look good. The frequent police visits and my repeated police contacts and arrests would've looked fishy. So Dennis schemed a plan.
We took all their wallets, money, jewelry and weapons offa them, grabbed their car keys, found their car a couple houses down the street. We backed their Buick Electra 225 into my backyard and loaded up our unwelcome guests in the trunk. Then we drove all the way up to my grandparent's 7-lakes property, dumped them in the fire pit, stacked a mountain of dead trees, branches, a bunch of tires and gallons of used motor oil and old paint all over them and torched the whole stack o' niggers. We stoked a super hot fire for hours, then after sunrise, when the coals were bright red and painful we let it simmer down.
Me, Dennis and Dale went into Grandpa's trailer, downed a lot of liquor, smoked a bunch, then crashed listening to the same Canadian news-talk radio station my grandpa Veinman had tuned to on their transistor radio since I was a little kid. The following afternoon, we pulled the un-burned logs out, then Dale stomped the ashes and brittle Halloween skeletal debris into powder. I raked and shoveled up all the ashes and crushed remnants and wheeled everything to the outhouse and poured it all down into the poop pit. I poured grandpa's bag of lime on top, then a couple bags of his steer manure as a delicious dessert topping.
We swore a blood oath to keep mum, cleaned out the car, hosed out the trunk and parked the nigger-rig Buick at the Marysville QFC grocery store near the old mall parking lot. I knew about this place from all the gun shows me and Pim rented tables at. We did brisk trade there unloading stolen and hot guns used in crimes such as shootouts and homicides. Them hillbillies, Aryan Nations and white separatist gun nuts wouldn't discover the origin of these guns until they were linked to bullet or shell casing evidence stored at the Washington State Patrol, SPD or King County Sheriffs. Even 40 years ago, microscopic bullet rifling marks and unique shell scuffs and firing pin signatures had been common police investigative tools for decades.
Dennis was the forensics expert so he wiped everything down inside the nigger-rig Buick Electra 225 Pimp Ride, left the keys in the ignition with the windows rolled down and we returned to Mountlake Terrace in my beater Dodge Dart. Leaving the keys in the ignition, with a half tank of gas and the windows rolled down left the black dude's car an invitation to steal and encouraged car thieves or punk joy-riders to hop in and book.
When we got home, the only person we told was my own brother waiting in my front yard when we pulled up. Cully laughed and thought we were bullshitting him, then he looked directly at us, saw our sick sooty faces and said, "Holy Shit." Our criminal reasoning was that we committed no crime and that our body disposal procedure was sound legal practice. There was a big pool of blood on the kitchen floor but the dogs had cleaned it up by the time we got back home. Yummy. We never heard a word about the 3 missing black dudes fixing to rob Lem's Mortuary so we figured those ghetto niggers had nobody that gave a shit about 'em. Yup, even over 30 years later I'm a Ewing from Appalachia, cwiminal genius and drain-bramaged hillbilly and goat fucker.
Remember that joke about dead nigger ghosts haunting the Veinman outhouse? I told Gordo the tale on a mish he'd tagged along with us to 7-lakes for a firewood, booze and LSD/sauna experiments in Altered States and Dennis and me were no longer worried by our secret. When Gordo came back from the outhouse after a piss, he said "why am I drooling like a shit-house nigger?" Then he spit out a quart of Red Man Chew drool. Gordo was always good for home-made whole-wheat maggot-infested granola-mamma crematorium humor.
I've visited that place in recent decades and everything is overgrown and choked with tall overgrown grass, weeds, bushes and small trees. I've no idea if Cully arranged the sale of the place liquidating the folks' estates, but housing developers won't ever discover any long-digested ashes of powdered bones and incinerated teeth. I'm pretty sure the new residents would shit there pants if they saw jive-ass nigger Poltergeists yelling for Dennis, Dale and Karl. Or worse yet, bitching for their shitty Buick. The outhouse was sagging and falling in on itself and even the firepit was filled in, smooth and level flush. The folks or my siblings landscaped it level and now it's grown thick with super deep tall grass.
These are the clearest memories I've retained, albeit far from brain cell total mass retention. I thought my stupid experiences in repeated treatments and mongoloid crimes against sub-humanity would amuse you. Marto and Gordo can fill in the details I might've mislaid.
I'm not sure about Larson or Callahan, but Cully, Renee, Dennis and Dale Campbell have all passed on, which leaves only us, a small fraction of our obsolete party crowd and survivors of moron crimes, massive drug and alcohol consumption. I'm the last to retell these silly mud-farmer goat-fucker tales. After I die, none of these crimes will have ever happened.
I was surprised at the number of Cully's musicians, namely yourself and all your band mates still breathing God's air. Maybe they went through multiple treatments like me, sobering up, recovering and maybe even earning redemption and living long enough to see retirement with a feigned smile.
Take note. From my AA meetings we learned this mantra: "On the road to recovery, relapse is normal." I relapsed a couple times, okay, maybe a million six. But the "only outcomes to drug addiction and alcoholism are poverty and death. Or recovery." You've seen that proverb actualized. Many times.
Treating addiction and alcoholism is the same cookie-cutter treatment plan for everyone. We all think we're special, unique, creative, talented and one-of-a-kind. An alcoholic ego is narcissistic and really fucking stupid. When it comes to addictions, we're all identical.
First rule, separate the alcohol from the alcoholic, bring the patient back to sobriety, treat the damage from chronic inebriation, then tackle the underlying mental illness. That's one tall motherfucking order there Troy. Placing a bet on Cully or the world, the world won that bet, not Cully. Nobody can out-smart AA, counseling and intense treatment. I fucking tried.
Separating the boozer from the booze is outside my family epistemology and accepting the simple fact that having an alcoholic in anybody's family increases the chances of ourselves becoming alcoholics. In our family, we got over half-dozen drunks. Suffering 50% alcoholic membership in my clan, we're a lost cause. Myself, Tobus, Cully, my sisters and parents have tragic histories struggling with absolute sobriety, making the rest of my dysfunctional family, by default, in theory and by association: screwed. Now that we're matured and wizened, I have mucho good comedic ingredients to write about. Earthlings always laugh hard at drunken humor, folly and silly pratfalls like mine. I might be repeating myself, but did you know I'm retarded?
Enabling, co-dependence and preventing a drunk from hitting rock-bottom only increases the likelihood of death and makes treatment evermore difficult. Impaired parents make poor advocates for sobriety and Cully never stood a chance with ours. Providing free housing and paid utility bills only delayed his inevitable recovery, speeding his demise, unknowingly fitting him for a wooden jacket.
Kidnapping is a felony, so by inaction, we all essentially helped Cully crawl into the furnace and will forever stare at us from inside a ceramic urn filled with cremains similar to those 3 dead niggers I poured into the 7-Lakes outhouse. Treatment is free, chronic consumption like mine, Toby's and Cully's is real expensive and only adds up to bankruptcy and rapid-fire back-to-back funeral pyres.
I'd sure like to roll and smoke a fatty, crush and snarf down fat white caterpillars and drink with ye. But I can't. I'm a Ewing, a Finn, clean and sober for WAY too long. I've barely survived stints in jail, hospitals and stupid employment. Adding more booze, blow and bud would kill me fer sure.
On a side-note: here's a noteworthy irony. Toby has been sober longer than anyone in my family and like grandpa Ewing, who shifted to absolute sobriety at the age of 50, will likely outlive us all. On his Veterinarian website he looks buff from lifting weights and I bet his lungs and liver are pink and perfect, plus he had a child some years back, so his seeds ain't all dried up and turned to shit like our sisters', wives' and girlfriends' dusty twats. He deserves props and comps, but I ain't man enough to give 'em to him.
I can't comprehend a sober Tobus, I been gone too long. No worries, my own clan could never comprehend my own hard-fought sobriety, long work history in police and retiring rather well-off, healthy and get this, fairly happy. None of this was possible if I'd malingered in Washington State. In all likelihood, I would've preceded Cully in death, self-immolation ass torching and ceramic urn diving, forever on some dildo relative's mantel.
Old friends, old taverns, local bars, grow rooms, cocaine parlors and drug emporiums are sure-fire environments that'd undo my decades of rational thinking and sobriety. My Washington friends and family are my own private Idaho and my personal soggy diaper daycare drama. Seeing and hearing my shrill impaired family qualifies as a serious fucking relapse trigger. If I leave Alaska and get within a thousand miles of any relatives, I'm drinking, smoking and snorting cups of blow. AGAIN.
That'd make me a goner fer sure.
Stay healthy and stay in touch. I'll think of and continue more silly playwrights starring me, Toby, Callahan, Marto and Cully.
Karl.
---
Troy Date <fishwithahead@yahoo.com>
To:karl_ewing@yahoo.com
Sun, April 16 at 10:14 AM
Re: UR Treatment, Cully's kids, Dead bodies
Hey Karl,
You write like Mark Twain books. good emails.
I heard from Cully about Gary Los. He told me about the dibetes hypo needles you guys snagged from you dad & sold or traded. Shooting drugs is shitty & risky. Cully said Pim was real smart but leaving Gary on his folks sofa wasn't cool. Kind of mean but his ID was perfect for buying shitloads of beer for us those years we were underage.
Renee told me about that mechanic that shot himself in your front yard. That's fucking harsh. She always doubted the suicide & told drunk murder theories. After you broke up & went to Alaska she blamed you selling Keely a Pim gun.
Dennis told Marto about the black dudes break in. Reminds me of you & Cully chopping up chickens & ducks & goats, method actors. Burning them blacks & pouring their ashes in the 7-lakes out house creeps me. We partied & took saunas & crashed in grandpa's trailer for years. I never seen any black ghosts or darky shadows taking leaks or dumps.
Since I used to live close by, I drove by 7-lakes while back. Same place, real overgrown tho. Your grampa's trailer is gone & the sheds are pretty rotting. Sauna barrel stove is rusted to nothing & the outhouse is a sagging stack of rotten boards.
I get fucked up reading you emails. Brings back good & bad thoughts & it's sad everyone is dead. Mostly Cully. He admired you lots. Followed you & Pim & Callahan everywhere.
On Facebook your classmates wrote your Hitler Yugen dudes Larson, Senn, Bjodstrup & you won gold in district & state swimming shit. Your orchestra won Music in May in Gresham, Oregon & went to Europe with some band. You kicked ass on guitar, never jammed with us. What's up with that.
On my other social media platforms, some native chicks claimed you were the father of there daughters. Some other claimed the same. Non-native tho. Blond girl, total babe. Not USA bait. The dead boy I'm searching.
I'll visit with Marto soon, I can't find Gordy Kelly. He lived 2 houses up from you place on 200th Edmonds, but no sign of him. I almost forgot he was our roomate for years. Spaced me.
50 years ago, I remember us neighbor kids waiting for you & Cully to sneak out & play with us up on the Maplewood School roof after dark. I sure liked your haystack fort you hollowed out.
I was 9 years old. I wanted goats, not kill with a claw hammer & chow tho.
Take care
-Troy.
posted by Alaska: Local And State News. at 3:35 PM
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