If you spend your whole life online, why not your death?

Top of the morning gents,

Funerals are funny shit. I read obituaries and try to decode the cause of death from the fruity words the relatives compose. I've seen memorial photos of crispy old farts that looked like an "after" picture detailing the health risks of smoking, drinking and eating a shit diet with 907 road kill fer dessert. A lot of obituary photos are of seriously nasty old looking dudes that lived decades past their pull dates fer breeding and centuries past the date they entered a rest home where phoning Heaven is a local call and our children fondly call "God's Waiting Room."

You know some of the deceased are really smelly cuz the fugly old dudes often look like they're shrunken, rotten and already dead in their obit photos. Almost like their death-bed hospital photo will suffice and for the last many years, nobody could tell the difference. Some dildos write "gone too soon" and after examining the dates of birth and death you see some real fucking ancient grannies died at the age of 93. Too soon, shit, what a crock.

Additionally in a humorous vein, I've looked at obits with pictures of young men that looked a little gay and deduced they died from AIDS or ate a dose of HIV injected shit. Or worse, they collapsed and died after vigorous fag sex or were stabbed to death by jealous no-dick homos like Chuck Criss angry they're not getting raped, gaped and stuffed. I'm sorry, that is so gross.

There's a train of thought that some obits are covertly composed with coded word messages hinting that some femmy looking dude was fucked upwards and his shit was packed too tight behind his ears. Or worse, he heaved all his internal organs out his ass like fucking spaghetti. Another cause of death that populates our obituaries are drug overdoses, just nobody says so. We know a lot of Oxy and Hydro junkies died on the throne like Elvis Presley from massive constipation cuz their shit had turned to concrete a million fucking years ago. What the fuck, they could've barfed lungs out their ass like a hunnert buckets of fish guts.

David and Clifford Melton (stink-niff bros), David and Danny Burnor (sick white monkeys), or myself (goat fucker hillbilly) dumped thousands of totes of fish slop directly into the tidewaters and beaches of Kotzebue Sound. Fuck, more than a thousand, we likely pumped or dumped a million tons of fish guts out back behind Whitney Foods on 3rd avenue during fishing seasons a few centuries ago. If we dumped all that fish waste in June Creek nobody would notice shit. Except that sick old bag and Kotzebue Elementary School's namesake. A chronic Oxy, Valium and Hydro addict with a side-order of alcoholism. Mrs. June Nelson would've made a welcome party animal here at the senior center. Imagine an old broad that shows up to join the festivities and get wasted, BYOB with a shoulder bag filled with a ton of pharmaceuticals, liquor and cartons of cigarettes. My kind of gal.

Us fish processing dildos at Whitney Foods knew we only dumped fish guts. Smells don't lie. We would've known if we were dumping out humped guts from Gilbert Schaeffer, Auntie Charlie or Mike Tabor. It don't take much of an imagination to visualize emptying their chamber pots after a sneezing fit, convulsively blowing chunks in their honey buckets and overflowing them with tripe. Despite passing bomber joints of green bud or my bottles of Jim Beam, I think we would've puked or passed out if our buckets were filled with fag shit and not fish guts. Fish guts smell like the Tactical Women's Alert Team (TWAT) which comprises our old girlfriends that never graduated from high school nor completed their antibiotic regimen fer crotch rot. My beard itches.

From an Alaskan statistical perspective, the most common cause of death is coronary illness such as strokes and heart attacks. Men and women make up equal shares in these most frequent diagnoses and causation fer wood box packing. The second deadly killer in Alaska is cancer. Lung cancer, colorectal cancer, breast cancer, pancreatic cancer and prostate cancer eliminate our neighbors quicker'n Bubonic Plague or Kiana Herpes.

As the boomer generation, born between 1946 and 1966, ditches their vicious addictions to tobacco products, we see a drop in fatal lumps and growths reflected in a steadily diminishing of American tumor crops and thus, the overall rates of cancer in Alaska have subsequently fallen precipitously. Of course, booze is a close third behind heart failure, burst blood vessels and cancer. Here on the Kenai Peninsula COPD and liver cirrhosis compete head to head with the Grim Reaper's heart/vascular failures and neutron cancer bombs that metastasize and explode spreading faster than monkey pox at the Kotzebue Daycare.

Thinking back to the dudes I first worked with in Kotz, I'm re-examining my workmates, pals and girlfriends that have past away and I'm chuckling. To put dimpy reference and retarded context to what I'm giggling about, put a camera on our sick chums at the exact moment they pass away. Yup, install an anal-cam and a face-cam so that we can see the color drain from their faces and reappear down below on their bed sheets.

Now with that pleasant thought in mind, be quick and buy yer wives plastic sheets. Or like my neighbors here at the Senior Center, put yer spouses in plastic panties that come with super strength duct tape around the edges for a leak-proof high-impact secure bio-hazard safety fit. A side benefit is all their pubes get stripped off from the tape adhesive like epoxy Velcro and and their cooters, muffins and biscuits look a hunnert years younger. Stop what yer doing right now, grab a trash can and spit out your puke-flavored drool. Then keep reading.

With the "Internet of everything" and if we all owned smart phones, we could watch slow-motion screen shots of croakers as the blue color creeps across their gobs and pusses and blank stares lock up their peepers. You know, just like instant replays and freeze frames of race cars screaming across the checkered flag finish line, we could watch our coworkers choke and puke, shit and piss and gasp their last phlegm spray. Of course, as former cops, druggies, siblings, girlfriends and wives gurgle messy all over their dying bed, celebrate the fact that we'll never have to clean that shit up again. Also, when that moment passes, check yer watch, it's time to book over to Karl's place fer "one bourbon, one scotch and one beer." Or doubles of each. Tokes and lines of blow are optional. My Vietnam Vets ate of all the Oxy, Valium and Hydro pills, so yer shit outa luck on that action. Sweet huh?

We've had to bag up a shit load of dead bodies and our appearances were days, minutes or hours after they told us how much they loved us with graphic displays of affection like hydro-logical colonic evacuation fireworks and street-sweeping bladder and urinary fire hydrant water park action. Wake up fuckers, you coppers have all had to scrape crust, wipe magnum blast over spray and power-wash impact trauma offa baseball bats (Rick Miller the baby killer), rifles (Ethan Cooley), hand guns (Sheila Romaine), shotguns (Edward Wayne Henry), 4-wheelers (Katy Norton) and snogos (May Marlene Thomas). That postmortem cleanup also includes ice-roads (Bobby Henry), hotel rooms, private residences (Gill Hall) and car interiors. I've had the dubious honor of hosing out car trunks and wiping down steering wheels and dash boards after incinerating tar baby kin and pouring their powdered ash remains down onto abhorrent peaked piles of soggy poopage in an ungodly reeking, hunnert year old outhouse.

No matter the race or ethnicity of our deceased charges, the color still drains from their faces. I've retrieved dead pals that faded from pink to blue and dead niggers that faded from shit-black to ashen soot. The eyes do the same fixation and stare at space like a porn scene they were watching was put on pause mid-ejac and a hose clamp slammed shut on their crank. Or a leg hold trap. I might even request a film crew to post photos of my own dumb ass as I grit my teeth, blast a 24 pound steamer out my ass and sprout a side-dump coffin kickstand and sexy death tent over my flooding cheeks.

Don't laugh. Every dildo on planet Earth is plugged into their fucking phones night and day, why not living and dying. We could sit on the toilet and with our free hand holding our phone, choke out globs and watch a digital funeral of our own dudes and dudettes. Everything we do is online, why not include our passing. Kids suffer depressing mono-sexual online porn instead of having wonderful sex with stunning beauties at their workplaces, classrooms and college dorms.

The sin of masturbation is that nobody's sharing yer spastic goose bumps and sneezing scrotum yet online porn has less incidence of venereal disease. Online porn is also tragically lacking the maddening rush of romance and saddening crush of departure. Being a cave man and stone age mongoloid with far too many lovers under my belt, I might've avoided a shit load of penile infections and pregnancies if I jerked off on a smart-ass phone. Fuck it, my eternal burden is a hunnert foreign country stamps on my passport and a thousand broken hearts. Get this, even rabbits look at me in amazement. Alas, funny shit aside, I've still got eternal burdens upon my shoulders and heart, that is, until my appointment with a 45 and date with a shovel.

I've been accused of acting like a pussy, insisting coworkers hold my hand and drive me to the Manilaq STD Clinic. It's true. I made the trip there twice. When it comes to catching bugs with our dicks, me and my coworkers brought home record-setting trophies. Imagine me and a bunch of cops, 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 our 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 my last visit to the Manilaq STD Clinic, my 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, most of KPD would be dead. Wait, that expression no longer works.

We 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 attended at Brian Higman's and Ray Blanchard's, all the booze and drugs, female attendees looking to fuck one, or all of us boys packing drinks and tokes. I lost count of how many skanky village chicks I 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.

The reason I'm thinking about our pals' departures is on my daily trips in town fer mud, bugs and drugs I enjoy wonderful smells driving past Black Jack's BBQ on the Kenai Spur Highway. Year around I breathe in delicious aromatic flavors of smoked meats, sweet sauces and a blend of wood chips that yield mouth-watering aromas. Wood smoke does beautiful things to beef, chicken, pork and all sorts of fresh fish from the lakes, rivers, bays and inlets here on the Kenai Peninsula. Got wood?

I popped into Black Jack's BBQ to pick up a sample platter of their delicious offerings and commented that I enjoy inhaling tremendous odors as I drive by. I told the negro counter chap that during the super cold winter season, his barbecue smoke wafts in the still Arctic air and clouds the highway and my mouth waters as I breath in such heavenly flavors. The dude looked at me funny and told me that Black Jack's Barbecue is only open during the summer tourist season and closed all winter.

I insisted that every day, on my year-round winter drives and daily errand routes, his shop creates mouth-watering olfactory pollution I thoroughly enjoy tasting and sniffing. He glanced at Bun, then at me and said something startling. He advised me, "Dude, yer smelling Peninsula Crematorium." He pointed behind us and stated, "They're right over their, across the highway." My retort was, "Damn, someone's wife or auntie sure got a wonderfully high fat content and the seasoning is pert near perfect." "Can I buy a couple pounds of that shit?" Mr. Negro didn't think me funny, called me a sick fuckin' nigger and I'm no longer welcome there.

These last few trips by Peninsula Crematorium have been a different experience. They got a giant chimney at the end of their building that looks like an inverted Boeing 747 jet engine and when it's belching Chernobyl volumes of smoke, I hold my breath. You see, despite the delicious smoked aromas, I'm worried I could get lung cancer from second-hand dick smoke or second-hand combustible gut and shit byproducts or dry-rot cunt particulate. I'm lying. I'm worried I could get lung cancer inhaling plumes of evaporating skin and blood on fire, steamed butts, guts and nuts or blow-torched hair, nails and teeth that produce statewide smog as they shrivel, melt and turn to ceramic ash.

I also avert my eyes as the crews bang their shiny steel burn-gurneys on the edges of the dumpsters, scrape the burnt-on slaughter house crust off their man-sized frypans with a flat shovel and power-wash their chunky granny-shaped baking sheets into the rain water run-off drains that pour directly into the Soldotna Sewage Treatment Facility, then the Kenai River.

Shit niggers, that's the cycle of life. Pile up dead fat grannies and skinny grandpa emphysema corpses, take a torch and with a bong rip-like endothermic chain-reaction mixed with nutritious excrement, create high-dollar fish food. As the rain rinses metric tons of poop smoke and scrapings down the storm drains, we feed this summer's run of fat red salmon. To further increase our salmon yields, we need more really fat boomers.

Did you know obese dieters prefer toppings and dressings like soft-spread creamy feces on their weight tripling booger snacks. Just ask Gumby, Chief Ward or Cheryl Edenshaw. God bless our fat OTZ neighbors and if there was a crematorium in Krotchebue, the staff would get to use ash trays designed for really big women, which includes Gumby and Ed. When you tell yer inlaws to eat shit in a funeral parlor, use mine. Cake my high-fiber turds across their faces, then roach their corpses and as they circle the toilet drain, the fish in Southcentral Alaska will thank you.

Here at the Senior Center we hold Will Writing Workshops. I volunteer to type up their wishes and comments and vitally statistical data entry cuz when nobody's looking, I add finely printed provisions instructing the heirs to install coffin cams with Internet connectivity so the whole world can watch time-elapsed Microsoft Powerpoint Slideshows of shrinking and melting subterranean wooden box creatures we used to be related to and fuck. Shit I'm funny.

Mashburn always laughs retelling me the story about a hanger that was long overlooked inside that Friends Church pastor's cabin in Selawik. The Friends Church pastor was accused of porking little boys and fled town and his cabin was vacant for nearly a year. Some child gomer followed his footsteps and hanged himself there. Mashburn chuckled and declared the Arctic Air cured his corpse and was so light, "little pansy-ass Marvin could lift that bag of bones while I cut him down." Apparently the suicide was not noticed nor missed for almost a year and like Folgers Freeze Dried Instant Coffee the evaporation process left only a few pounds of rattling bones, teeth and hair for our VPSO counterparts to lift, carry, bag and bury.

Marvin Ramoth added that his wife Regina Swan hated the dead motherfucker so badly, she suggested their kids practice pinata batting on the aforementioned dehydrated crispy nigger while it was still hanging. Regina advised me and Bun that the dangling bone-dry corpse was a vicious child rapist and needed baseball bat bone-setting and teeth loosening, even postmortem and dehydrated. Marvin also chortled that this Chester's body bag was crunchier than a bag of Doritos. What's not so funny is Regina died of cancer and Marvin lost his sober wife and anchor. They'd been married since National Guard duty and stupid Ramoth dove into a bottle, lost all their kids to foster care, burned their house to the ground and has been fucked up since. What's tragic is he displays behaviors similar to me and my dudes in Seattle and my old fart gun repair attendees.

When me and Bun lived in Willow, our stoner friends were out hiking and pillaging. Phil Darling and Mary Brassfield found an old cabin and broke in to scope out any shit to steal. They were startled to find a crispy, bone-dry desiccated mummy sitting at the kitchen table. Their description of him was he appeared to be a super-dried dummy and shrunken hillbilly old fart redneck that ate a gun fer brekky instead of drugs and butt-pussy. After daring each other, they braved up sufficient gonads to pry and break the revolver out of the crispy stiff's hand. They showed me the gun and it was an older off brand 44 magnum that looked pretty nice after it was scrubbed, oiled and cleaned of its chunky jet-blasted boogers and reversed, back-splashed cranial unnuk.

I've bought and sold a hunnert guns that were used in armed robberies, shootings and even some confirmed homicides, but I never owned a gun used in a suicide. I offered a price but Phil Darling and Mary Brassfield both thought it to be a keepsake and demurred my hustle to purchase it. After their finding it on their grim treasure hunt, they felt it a noteworthy piece of loot to retain. In later months, after the troopers did a valley-(of trash)-wide sweep and arrested all my meth and cocaine vendors, criminal customers and retarded business partners, Phil and Mary no longer talked to me.

Shit, they wouldn't even cast their eyes in my direction cuz they were friends with some of the defendants now sitting in jail. So in wuss-ass retaliation, I described to my bosses at Mat-Su Narcotics the location of the suicide and where the gun in question could be found. The cabin was searched, the dead man was found and processed and the estate of the dead Cracklin' Oat Bran corpse and his gun have since been reunited.

Under duress and heated questioning, Phillip Darling and Mary Brassfield confessed to everything, explaining the dead fucker wasn't gonna need the gun any longer. Tyler, Bleicher and Bowman laughed that my friends were truly sick fucks for their evidence tampering by breaking a brittle hand just to steal a firearm. No charges were filed, just a heap of threats and police intimidation. Funny, I've never told a soul that story before. Even writing this paragraph cracks me up at what a petty shit I can be.

My old buddy Steve, one of the Vietnam Vets that joined me weekly for coffee, Hennessy and occasionally sad tales of long-gone buddies, would tell us funny shit. Pert near a hunnert miles down the Sterling Highway, he'd popped in to visit his neighbor Billy who lived in a dry cabin a stone's throw down the road. Billy sold good green bud and often welcomed other cabin psychos in for coffee and bong hits, or if later in the day, tea and tokes or green beer and green buds.

Steve hadn't heard from Billy in a few weeks and also hadn't seen him motor by on his wheeler. Billy was like a lot of us old boomers and lost his license years ago fer DUI's, so he puttered around on his Honda Foreman. We'd seen him a million fucking times rallying along the side of the Sterling Highway in the Clam Gulch area delivering weed or heading to the local Clam Shell Lodge for dollar-a-day coffee and talk shop.

Steve decided to check up on Billy, so he booked over and knocked on the door of his cabin. No answers, no "come in." Steve walked around the cabin and knocked on windows and even peeked in, despite his fear of sucking a rifle round through the eye. No Billy anywhere. So Steve pounded really hard on the door, even kicking it so loud you'd wake the dead. That morning the dead wasn't waking up.

Steve seen Billy's 4-wheeler out front, so he jimmied the door with a credit card and walked in to find Billy laying on his bug infested sofa, dead as shit. The cause of death was apparent because Billy still had his shirt over his heart wadded and twisted tight in his hand like a death grip. They say heart attacks are quick and painless, but the grimace on Billy's blue face said otherwise.

Steve marched all throughout Billy's cabin and gathered up all his guns, cash, booze, buds, pipes and bongs, plus all his Oxy, Valium, Percoset, Percodan and Hydrocodone pills he'd hoarded from the VA due to PTSD pains in his ass, back and temples. Billy was also a Vietnam Vet who lived alone, got wasted alone and died alone. Steve merely tidied up his cabin out of respect. Steve also ate all those Oxy pills during a gun repair workshop with Richard and Ron at my rest home apartment, then washed everything down with coffee and Hennessy I poured.

At that gun repair seminar I held at my apartment at the Senior Center, my old crispy dudes were real mellow on synthetic morphine prescription pills despite the strength of my dark roast heart-racing coffee. After the last pills were chewed, my old vets toasted another dead vet with a straight shot of my cognac, coffee chaser and watering eyes. With the Hennessy emptied, they all saluted the setting sun, got up and staggered down the hallway or drove home wasted. Despite their passing, I'll chime again, it ain't funny when a soldier cries.

All three of those dudes ate a bucketful of opioid caps and my engagement lasted all damn day. Steve, Richard and Ron looked like 80-year-old versions of myself when I was in my late teens partying with my pals at Lem's Mortuary and Crack House, or up at grandpa's 7-Lakes property. The phantoms of 3 dead niggers moaning in the outhouse were singing in harmony to our old Floyd toons and creepy space music. It's a sad parallel to experience deja-vu when really old soldiers bring to mind beaten and broken alcoholic children that look just like us.

Them old boys attending my coffee gun repair clinics even had their own phantoms that sang along their sad tales. Back a million years, our childishly complex alcohol and drug intake simply delayed our liver failures by diversifying our sickness portfolio with marijuana lung damage and cocaine sinus cratering. My dudes from way back never knew they were identical to my Veteran visitors rehearsing ride in a hearse. A big customized Cadillac that don't got backseats nor luggage racks. Ain't none of us anticipate getting stuffed into coffins lacking wi-fi, mini-bars, storage bins, coolers, interior lighting, espresso machines and ash trays. I'm betting that 6 feet of dirt eliminates any cell phone reception too.

Another time Steve cleaned up a crime scene was at the local bar in Clam Gulch. The Clam Shell Lodge had free or cheap flop house rooms fer drunks and druggies or men that needed a skanky piece of Alaskan ass in the form of old ugly white herpy broads that lived in that dive bar. Steve arrived early for coffee at the Clam Shell Lodge one morning, talk shop, chat grow-op tech and maybe swap weed breeds and toke strains at their hourly safety meetings out back. One of his buddies was sleeping off a major drunk in one of the flop shack rooms and wasn't up and about, so Steve went to check on him. The dude was dead.

He'd likely inhaled puke during his sleep. It's a common cause of death fer drunks cuz when we lay down all the booze and junk food runs back upriver and floods our larynx and esophagus, then our lungs fill up. Which also explains why our dads and gramps slept sitting up on the sofa on nights and holidays they got wasted and over ate. Seriously awful and sickening morning breath was permeating the room. I didn't ask and Steve refrained from talking about butt-leakage nor butt crust upon the sheets. Steve simply pocketed all the cash, weed, blow and all the assorted paraphernalia indicating drug usage. Then he notified the barkeep that their dude hadn't showed and maybe someone oughta take a look to see if he's okay. The dude was dead.

Like all Alaskans, Steve sold the blow, the weed and the cool glass pipes. He kept the cash and with the combined proceeds went garage sailing. Steve frequented junk shops, yard and garage sales looking for under priced treasures. Mostly guns and ammo. On that Saturday mish he scored a cool Glock 45 and a shot gun that was fed ammo from a box inserted underneath. Imagine a shotgun with a spring-loaded box of shells attached to the underside. The Glock he loaded and stowed under the driver seat in his beater pickup and the box-fed shotgun he showed me and asked if I was interested in buying it. Steve's price was too rich for my blood, but I sure liked holding it and even bun thought it bad ass.

I know you coppers are thinking: fuck Karl, I thought you'd quit yer drinking and drugging years ago. Well I did. But, being a good host for old vets means offering beverages for my guests. Not R&R rot gut butt douche and pouring Hennessy cognac to my dudes seemed polite. My coffee was the foundation, the cognac was the muscle relaxant allowing my dudes to sit and chat while tinkering with guns I'd partially repaired. Meaning I removed the wood grips and stocks, sanded and varnished them, leaving cleaning of the metal structure and parts for my dudes. The reassembly of the grips and stocks was like a game of connecting the dots for demented elders or a coloring book for declining old killers, tattered uniforms and broken hearts. Like you guys.

So no, I wasn't eating Oxy, Hydro nor Codeine pills, nor downing shots of Hennessy straight or with coffee. These coffee and gun meetings occurred long after I swore off all drugs, booze and weed. I'd be relapsing worse than a motherfucker if I did. You see, we're real fucking lucky we didn't have legally prescribed synthetic time-released morphine pills at our disposal when we were younger. Don't think we'd resist crushing them and snorting them, making cocktails with them or simply enjoying pharmacy fresh, legal God-smack. We'd be dead.

Decades ago, it was challenging enough acquiring good green bud and fine cocaine and the beer required fake ID I kyped from my pal Gary Los who died in the back room of our mortuary. The scourge of Oxy, Hydro and Percosets was a Godsend to thankfully happen decades after we drank 3.2% cheap beer, puffed rag weed leafy bomber joints and cocaine we only snorted or packed on bong hits of pot. By the time I was working with you lot, crack cocaine and free-base became the rage. Just bad timing and lots of good luck saved our stupid asses.

Thank God we had only cigarettes and alcohol to kill our brothers, workmates and pals from yesteryear at KPD and AST. Further evidence of good fortune is I should've succumbed to emphysema smoking so much green bud, yet here I am, offending the delicate palates of fine upstanding retired cops. Eat shit.

Upon waking, to document my existential longevity, I checked my pulse by wrapping my blood pressure cuff around my dick and posted the pictures on my Hellblog Alaska web page. Laugh it up faggots, that'd make a funny final departure picture. But no, I didn't.

I'm feeling a little gut-sick this morning though, that damn blood pressure cuff crushed one of my grapes.

Karl.