Happy Birthday to us.

Top of the morning gents,

I am impressed. I just heard Tom Cruise turned 61 years old. His birthday is July 3, 1962. You'd think he was much younger, but no, he ages just like us, one day at a time. You'll hear dumb fuckers spout stupid shit that life is speeding up and we're all experiencing a quickening. Piss off. Atomic clocks around the world haven't changed, altered or skipped a beat and time has been a predictable constant since like, fucking forever. From a pickled toddler to a crispy crotch licker, we're all getting older at a steady pace and so are Hollywood movie stars.

Pull yer head outa yer ass, time waits for no man. You all have witnessed wastrels that've sat around playing video games and fingering their shitters on their phones and posting these tasty moments on anti-social media. And achieving zilch, zero, nada. Additionally, these fucking geniuses never gained membership to Mensa. Once these zomboids wake up and see our numerous uniform alterations, career changes and zip codes, these stunted welfare slugs and WIC warrant whores likely believe their entire lives have evaporated while we were working graveyard shifts, exaggerating our time sheets and punching a clock.

An older Irish gentleman I lift weights with told me that Alaska's state flag is actually the Food Stamp. Poor fucker suffered abject poverty during the Troubles in Ireland, hiked Europe and Australia looking for work and finally arrived in Alaska to work a few dozen fucking years at an elementary school here on the Kenai Pen. His claim was that most of his students attended school all damn day and all year around, just for the 3 free meals and no-cost daycare, everyday. Including summers.

Feeding children real food and caring for them ain't a priority for ignorant poor Alaskan parents with pockets full of public play money, lungs sooted with tobacco, guts full of booze and arms scarred from dope. Hence the acronym, SNAP: subsidized nicotine and alcohol programs. I told him the shit ain't no different in the fetal alcohol zone (FAZ) beyond the roadway and north of the Arctic Circle. All of us may have witnessed or experienced varying degrees of neglect such as this, so we're qualified to nod, comment or rage.

I never asked, but from my best guess my Irish gym rat-mate is a little older than us and he's a fan of working out for the rest of his years, providing I show up to match dim wits and harass him. He told me that Crocodile Dundee (Paul Hogan) turned 84 years old this year and had a stroke bench pressing WAY too much weight. Mr. Dundee (Hogan) has always been an avid fitness buff and his physique shows it. I'm cool with that. My Mick pal was working in Australia when the Crocodile Dundee series was released and became a worldwide phenomena. The original intent was simply a marketing scheme to promote tourism to Australia and the short commercials were so popular, a silly movie was cobbled together and it exploded. Ye gotta admit, Mr. Dundee is a strikingly handsome son of a gun.

I did some digging and found the ages of our most favorite actors and one was Bruce Willis who is 66 years old. So is Liam Neeson. Bet you didn't know that. Here's another stunner: Tom Hanks is 67 years old. Fuck me, my birthday is June 30, 1961, therefore I turned 62 a short while ago. Surrounded by age peers such as Bruce, Liam and Mr. Hanks, I don't feel so old. You shant neither.

I laugh at the classic country geezer ballad from George Jones where his chorus is "I don't need no rocking chair. Yer Geritol or yer Medicare." George Jones is a generation ahead of us, so his birth date might likely be a decade or more ahead of ours. Like so many of our boomer peers he died of liver failure due to his incurable alcoholism. Addictions are out of our control. God only knows, it's not what we would choose to do.

Another country singer, Waylon Jennings died at the age of 62 some years back due to complications from his diabetes and alcoholism. Waylon Jennings is a famous party animal and declared that he and his band mates consumed "$10,000 dollars worth of cocaine every day." Imagine that disaster: alcoholism, diabetes and an industrial cocaine diet. Oops, we all may have walked that same path but for the grace of God, there go us. Truth be told I've not enjoyed such luxuries since fleeing to Alaska. I swapped my expensive chemical habits fer shit work and new friends, goddamn cops. I doubt you rusty killers start yer day smoking a bowl, downing expensive coffee and then puke. We're only ordinary men.

To illustrate a career filled with contrasts and extreme flexibility, Waylon Jennings originally played bass guitar and sang back-up for Buddy Holly and the Crickets. I'm thinking he was fucked up or hungover and missed the flight that killed Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper and Frankie Valens. It ain't that uncommon to die in plane crashes racing from show to show. Jim Reeves, Patsy Cline, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Jim Croce and Stevie Ray Vaughan all died abruptly transitioning from cruising altitude to sea level. Still with me?

After the death of Buddy Holly, Waylong Jennings went on to make a career in country music. His biggest smash hit was the theme song for the original TV series, "Dukes of Hazard." Waylon wrote and recorded that familiar jingle, "Just some good ol' boys. Never meanin' no harm." That song and numerous other country hits put him alongside the Highway Men with Johnny Cash, Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson. Not bad for a diabetic, chronic alcoholic and massive cocaine addict. Regardless, 62 is too young to be a corpse but you couldn't tell him any different. To quote Frank Sinatra and his occupational drinking and smoking, "I did it my way." It's best ye shut ye gob, Jennings and Sinatra never asked us what we think of them.

I've always believed sleep to be a cousin of death and like you coppers, I suffer a syndrome. Late at night while I'm sleeping, my brain replays horrible nightmares mixed with pleasurable scenarios for my very own benefit. You boys would sport wood if you could see those powdered piles of sparkling white, crushed yellow glass, smoked green bud and distilled liquor. In my dreams I thoroughly enjoy those flavors, tastes, odors and head-rushes and they take center stage in my dreamscape film projector. There's someone in my head and it's not me. Some motherfucker grabs the conductor's baton, swaps out the sheet music and takes my stupid ass on nocturnal extinction drug and liquor binges. Frequently. Dreams are funny shit, so I ignore them. I'm lying. I cling to the dreams of naked young women loving me and singing in my ear. The sun is the same in a relative way but we're older.

Fat is flavor. Starch is cheap (New England Culinary Institute). Like so many Native Alaskans, us Northern Europeans have challenges with America's super high sugar and carbohydrate diet. Our sweet tooth and hunger for starches like rice, potatoes, chips, cakes and breads results in our pancreatic failures, barely hobbling to keep pace with our big mouths and absorb such insane loads of blood glucose. I don't need to tell you humans are omnivorous, eat everything and carbs equal energy. Blood sugar that doesn't get absorbed circulates our bodies creating log jams consisting of saw blades. Hence the occurrence of "seepers and leakers." Drinking even small amounts of liquor spikes our blood glucose levels but downing heaps of carbs like breads and mashed potatoes guarantees pancreatic insufficiency, vascular damage, shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Of course you coppers know this shit. I'm betting your doctors recommended modifying your diet and increasing your daily exercise as a two-pronged approach to lowering your bleeding sweetness. Diet and exercise are a good start. A further benefit is taking the medication the goddamned doctor prescribed you. For Type II Diabetes it's daily pills, for others with Type I Diabetes it's daily injections of insulin. Insulin is the hormone our pancreas produces allowing sugar to be absorbed into our muscles and burned during workouts or stored as fat while we park our wide-load asses on the sofa and stare at the boob-tube.

Our failing pancreas is epidemic to us pale Negroes, our aboriginal wives and mixed-mud children. Diabetes Type II results from a life being overweight and it's sufferers don't require more insulin, they got plenty. What's unique to Type II Diabetics is that they've become resistant to insulin absorption, so to lower their blood sugar another way, we gotta take medicines that stimulate pissing and shitting our sugars out, therefore sweetening the toilet water and encouraging more frequent dog watering. You see, like dogs, I eat my own shit. It can't be helped, there's a lot of it about.

During an interview on NPR, Johnny Cash's daughter Rose stated her father suffered from diabetes and alcoholism, the same blasted curse as Waylon Jennings. Booze is a major blood sweetener and counter to his doctor's efforts to lower his blood sugar to a safer level, Johnny Cash continued killing himself with his heavy drinking and poor diabetes management. I've always admired honesty about alcoholism. When I was composing strident obituaries about my brother Cully's alcoholism and death from liver failure, my siblings predictably got hacked at me. Of course I relished this animosity, I enjoy shit like that. To quote our blessed Chief of Police, "when it comes to alcoholism, suicide and mental illness, the families are the last to accept the truth." Amen.

Johnny Cash told his daughter Rose, he'd purchased thousands of dollars worth of books only to find he couldn't read them without super hero strength corrective lenses. And surgery for his diabetic retinopothy. To you dumbshits, that's hillbilly code talk for reading glasses and diabetic macular repair. Diabetes is America's number cause of blindness. High blood sugar seems to causes our retinas to become brittle: macular degeneration. When I was having my eye surgically repaired for a detached retina from using my head as a punching bag and high-kick impact bumper, my doctor noted damage from diabetes and insisted I check my blood sugar more frequently, continue lifting weights, eat a carb-restricted diet and of course, shoot lots of insulin numerous times a day to keep batting down those ever rising blood sugar levels.

I had to start using "readers" and had eye surgery during my 50's and found a shit load of misspelled words and silly typos I would've missed composing my daily missives to a bunch of fucking cops. I actually needed reading glasses much earlier. When I finished the Associates Degree at Chukchi College and transferred to the UAF campus for the BBA and MBA gig, I needed to turn on every light in my dorm room including an overhead desk lamp so I could see my text book reading assignments more clearly. Computers were easier with adjustable text sizes, but books required me to squint or move the books further away. Instead of buying reading glasses as I approached my fourth and fifth decades, I simply needed longer arms. Yup, I'm an idiot.

Mind you, the 90's were the years of Windows 95, Office 97, Netscape (Nutscrape) Navigator and Internet Explorer, so I could basically cheat my steadily failing eyesight by boosting the brightness, contrast and text sizes on each computer I used. To conceal my stupidity, every morning when I opened up the computer lab, I adjusted all the monitors in the entire lab so that every station had bright and clear displays. Again, this is the 90's so we lacked hi-res flat-screens and used those suck-ass old-school fat-ass lard-butt computer monitors that looked like TV's from the years of Leave it to Beaver and Gilligan's Island. Poor kids, I may have given my younger students fucking headaches from so much glare.

What's significant is us boomers are actually living longer. Much longer. Our parents born before and during World War II set a pretty high standard, but the post war generation gained serious mileage with vaccines for every fucking deadly disease that shortened life expectancy worldwide. Get this, my dudes here at the Senior Center nearly 2 decades older than I all had Tuberculosis, Small Pox, Diphtheria, Polio, Measles, Mono and flu strains we'll never visit upon our children and grandchildren. Remember, F1 Munson's brother Tom Munson had a gimpy arm and my neighbor Jim Prichard suffers a limp, both from Polio.

Grandma Magdelene was born in 1919 and Eskimo children weren't named until the age of 5 due to such catastrophic rates of infant and child mortality. The reasoning for withholding their names was that nameless children that died at birth or during early childhood wouldn't burden our hearts and exacerbate our sorrows and our surviving children with familiar names would move to the fore and captivate our attention and affection. I seen moms walk home from funerals and cheer up as soon as they greet their surviving Siberian Mongol baby chitlens.

If you walk the long hallway from the main ANMC complex to hospital housing, you'll see historical pictures of President Nixon signing the Indian Self-Determination Act which is the mechanism used to create Indian Health Services. On the earliest panels you'll read the justification to build the original Alaska Native Services (ANS) Hospital and village clinics were due to the "grim health conditions Alaska Natives suffered." What an understatement. Just 50 years ago we witnessed billions of federal dollars spent throughout Alaska on village clinics and native super hospitals. Bitch all you want, but if you First Nation copper tops leave the state and look for dental and medical services at native clinics outside, you'll be greatly disappointed.

On my extended ANMC vacations, I can't tolerate the cable TV in the Q-house or Hospital Housing units, so I've had hours and days to meander the halls of ANMC or linger in the cafeterias drinking awful coffee. I'm the designated escort for Bunnik and she's been hospitalized for long stretches receiving minor procedures including knee surgeries, colonoscopies and endoscopies. Two of these diagnostic procedures are to catch and treat familial medical conditions and predictable causes of death for her family, culture and age peers. Oral, esophageal, throat, stomach, intestinal and colon cancers are the dance floor and workshop for the Grim Reaper on the Kikiknigrunt Spit. On our last mish bun had a knee completely replaced and I strolled those hallways for weeks. I'm a regular fixture there and a lot of staffers know me. I never said they liked me, my native humor is stupid.

Back to aging pop stars. Our British Invasion rock bands were all crewed by chaps born in the 1940's so it's not surprising to see Paul McCartney or Mick Jagger celebrating their 70's to their 80's and beyond. Of course some of their band mates died early in life. George Harrison, the guitar player for the Beattles died many years ago from colon cancer and John Lennon was shot down and killed in New York before Mr. Harrison's passing. Just this year (July 7th) Ringo Starr turned 83 years old. Ringo was hospitalized for over a year as a child due to TB and burst appendix. If you examine his birth year, you'll deduce Ringo (Richard Starkey) was born in 1940, just prior to the outbreak of World War II. Now pay attention. The Beattles only worked as a band for 8 years.

John Bonham and Keith Moon were drummers for Led Zeppelin and The Who and like America's country music stars, died from their Herculean alcoholism and forced the dissolution of their bands. Men are funny. Replacing the original band members with stand-ins only breaks the hearts of the surviving original members. The Who tried to hire different drummers to replace Keith Moon, even Phil Collins did some gigs with them. Alas, The Who folded up their show. John Bonham's passing ended Led Zeppelin's reign at year number 14: 1967-1981. For the Beattles, Who and Zeppelin, that's a shit-load of recorded material produced in such a condensed period of time. Since Stones drummer Charlie Watts died last year, I doubt there will be any new material released. These British rock bands were all formed pert near our birth dates: 60 years ago, plus change.

Keanu Reeves and Brad Pitt are both 58 and Johnny Depp is 60 years old. George Clooney and Eddie Murphy are both 62 years old and aging just as fast as you and I. I'm sure you fart dusters know that Clint Eastwood is over 90 and Robert Redford is burning through his octogenarian years right behind him. Of course, ain't none of us are as good looking or handsome as these sun-ripened finely-aged screen legends, but I won't stand by and witness any of you pussies rolling over and playing dead like road-kill possum or for that matter, smelling like one.

So get off yer asses and do the 3 chores every soldier and cop is expected: shit, shower and shave niggers. And put on freshly laundered and pressed clothes. If I do the sniff test and bust you for wearing clothes more than one single fucking day, I'll punch ye. You whining punk-ass bitches are barely in yer 60's so that leaves a couple decades remaining to do something extraordinary. Again. We may be tasked with burying our wives, but that ain't nothing. They've lived farther and longer than anybody expected. In native years, our wives lived longer than any of us could dream of.

You boys are blasting past level 6 on the score keeping clock in your virtual rural Alaskan gun-slinging computer game careers, but your wives suffer aging similar to canines perishing at a 7:1 rate quicker'n us scrote bags. Native years are a 2:1 ratio to Earthlings born with Euro-trash DNA, medicine, nutrition and dentistry. Bun ain't 72, she's 144 years old. Now think of yer wives' ages like yer drug and alcohol capabilities in college and double them. Dig me?

Here's an encouraging fact. In the most recent Indiana Jones movie, the star of this 50 year old kick-ass franchise is Harrison Ford. Big deal right? Grab yer dicks and hold yer hats, Harrison Ford is 80 years old. For another stunner, Robert Dinero is even older and so is Al Pacino. Who'd ever think actors would find lucrative employment in action movies with drivers licenses displaying birth dates over 8 decades ago. Or more impressive, Robert Dinero fathered a child at the age of 82. This is the fucking guy that creeped me shitless a hunnert years ago in Taxi Driver. Just recently, Dinero held his golden trophy up high and yelled, "Fuck Donald Trump!" at the Oscar Awards Banquet. What a guy.

If yer thinking we're past our pull dates and expired beyond another career or field of work, you are dead wrong. Dying ain't on our To-Do list and whining like a bleeding buggered arse hole ain't on your Bucket List neither. Besides, niggers are annoying enough, but there's nothing worse than whining old white dude. So suck it up and think of a part-time gig, hobby or side-job you'd enjoy on the way home from the bone yard after throwing dirt on the box containing the mother of your children. I've always been pretty good at encouraging pretty young girls or elderly women to find a new job, find a new drug, walk their dicks off to another village or march back to university. My altruistic goals are likely disingenuous, I'm a frenzied wombat hungry for swollen womb and easily distracted groping mounds of round and eating far too many tasty arrow quivers.

You uniformed dill-rods are reading and comprehending my stupid drivel, so what the fuck. Ain't none of ye got dementia. You boys are probably sick and tired of our president's amnesia and old-timer's stutter. Fucking A, I am. I heard an appropriation of the acronym LGBT-Q and it goes like this: Let's Get Biden To Quit. Funny huh? I've grown weary of that sad sack of shriveled dog turds mumbling and stumbling on camera. It's shameful and embarrassing. Not every old fart is a useless douche bag, but that crispy nigger in the White House sure as shit is.

He's got Alzheimer's worse than fucking president Reagan and got more scabs on his dick than Clinton. And her husband. I wouldn't back another George W. Bush either, he might be our very own retard but Dick Cheney's got a brown ring around his forearm from years operating that stupid puppet. I'm not sure if I could handle another bitch like monkey-butt Michelle Obama, but I kind of liked the stage presence of candidate Obama. Tasked again he should work the stand-up comedy routine more and scrub his tenure of that underground butt-hole railway malarkey called Nigger Chimp Obama Care. Blacks gotta earn their own BIHS. Baboon Indun Health Services.

I kind of like my AETNA Tier I pension health care package, but I won't hand it over to a barrel full of monkeys. I got white privilege, Ice Niggers and Afro Buttfuckers don't. Diamonds are Forever and so are illiterate and poorly educated voters. This next election will be interesting and I'm betting our children elect a hero their own age and not some leaking fart bag or some stitched old cunt with diaper rash sporting dates of birth preceding us. That's real fucking old. Education still may be the best form of birth control and like me, will eventually vote to legalize all remaining hallucinatory drugs. If you want to reduce an activity, tax the shit out of it. Legislating something illegal only makes the industry more profitable and lays opportunities for organized crime. Illegal booze created modern day gangsters that have plagued us for over a century.

On the bright side, Prohibition brought about the advent of our popular cocktails. Booze mixed with sugary sweet sodas, fruit juices and icky syrups. You see, during Prohibition, 80-90% of all liquors consumed in America were poisoned with adulterants and dilutants. Such liquor containing the equivalent of the "cut" I dumped into nigger cocaine tastes like shit, so ye gotta add all kinds of crappy mixers to improve that awful bath-tub gin and 24-hour backyard vodka taste. Or worse, Mashburn's home-brew he sold to the ice midgets and mud-bucket dwarfs in Selawik. That's gross. Real bourbon like Jim Beam or whiskey like Jameson's poured neat from a sealed bottle don't need shitty cheerleader flavorings like Coke or Pepsi. They are delicious and aromatic like fine vintage wines and boutique beers with their own unique bouquet, nose and mouth feel. Maybe I'm mentally unstable and retarded. The lunatics are on the grass and I might've accidentally put ass-douche R&R whiskey in my insulin epi-pens.

What I'm trying to get at is that being way past retirement age, we see old movie stars taking leading roles in movies, and kicking ass. A lot of old men enjoy sitting in a recliner, watching TV with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. My imagination plays games with me and creates derivations of this retirement lifestyle with weed, booze and blow. I'm not sure any of us would survive another decade if we resumed bad habits like that.

To mimic Pacino, Dinero, Neeson, Willis and Harrison Ford, we have to take extra precaution to stay fit and healthy to extend our working lives more than just beyond our next heart attack or stroke. Not wasted, bloated and dying from opiate constipation and perforated intestines on the toilet like Elvis Presley: stoned to the bone, dead on the throne. Elvis died at the age of 43, so I guess that example is moot. Pointless too. Eddie Van Halen died at the age of 60, but he was a self-proclaimed alcoholic, diabetic and heavy smoker. Tom Petty died at 68, he overdosed on heroin or a synthetic version like Prince so that existential cull-de-sac was predictable and inapplicable. And pisses me off.

I don't care about Michael Jackson's early death from his overdose on the concentrated opiate Propofol. That freak-nigger sucked ass. Little boys' ass. I should invent a big-lipped toilet seat with Michael Jackson's face on it, equipped with a mechanical ass-vacuum and pre-moistened tongue to clean our shit out. I'll call it the Jackson 5 rubber nigger butt cushion and poop cleavage cleaner. For another $50.00 you can get a gonad tickler and a milking machine to drop yer donkey into and get a rubber nigger blow job. I'm not sure if putting Peggy Brown's or Lulu Wright's face on this cushy rectal scrubber and wiener vacuum would help us sprout wood or bust a nut any quicker. Probably not. With a 3-D printer you could create a rubber toilet seat to look like Nils Gregg or an extra large butt cleaning pillow looking like James Rea. Shit I need counseling. Or jerk off.

When it comes to starting over, you guys invented this shit. I seen you coppers take work all over God's creation, expanding your horizons and your resumes working crazy jobs in places I'd fear to tread. I've heard rumors of you boys taking work at the Exxon Valdez Oil Spill, Red Dog Mine, Private Security in Anchorage and also working gigs in the Valley of Trash. I am impressed. Our generation likely won't follow the old fashioned patterns with our wives outliving us. I'm worried that we'll be left naked, stoned and sad, all alone without our wives and looking for work that'll keep us from dying of boredom. Remarrying ain't likely cuz how could anyone measure up now after such a love as this. Additionally, living alone is real fucking boring, so you see, killing time ain't murder, it's suicide. My notion is to hire part-time teenage nannies and young pretty companions.

I don't golf nor volunteer for charities. I won't take on a brood of foster children and I sure as shit won't move in with Bun's kids nor grandkids. Talk about a miserable nightmare. Or a comic disaster. Moving back to rural Alaska isn't an option. Me and bun discussed moving into the Kotzebue Senior Center, but it's been demolished and Manilaq Assisted Living ain't fucking happening cuz her retarded brothers Billy and Charlie live there now and being a neighbor to those two ripe buzzards sounds shitty from the get-go. Besides, I couldn't fool anybody into letting me move into the Manilaq old crippled biddy house for aging copper heads if they see me everyday lifting thousands of pounds at the Kotzebue Rec. With my dick.

In summation, retirement is a reflection of our lives. Which means we'll all carry on our same stupid roles as playground teachers, volunteer community police agents, gym rats or coaching large breasted girls jumping rope naked. That's without bras. That last option sounds perty fucking good, but we'd probably end up in hospital with sweet smelling dicks. Or burst capillaries in our eyes, tongues and gonads. I'll stay here on the Kenai Peninsula until I need to cash in on our Long Term Care insurance we purchased when we completed our PERS paperwork. But truth be told, I'm still thinking of coaching large breasted girls jumping rope naked. Without bras. Hide that smile you lecherous assholes.

Dying or laying about will likely happen when I'm tired of robbing organ banks or stealing, hot-wiring and installing prosthetic limbs on my dumb ass. The world of Artificial Intelligence, mechanical limbs and sensory organs is exploding all around us. Us boomers are stubborn old fuckers and elected officials our age know we vote harder than all the other demographics. Yup, cross your fingers. Medicare and AETNA dollars will push the developments of new high-tech mechanical skeletons and replacement under-carriage drive shafts for boomers. Available soon at your local NAPA body parts store.

Shit, we may get merged with our cars and motor around lifting our tires pissing on darker cars. Or like movie stars we could watch ourselves in our very own home movies that look like Terminator, Transformers and extreme hardcore porn starring us old boomers and large breasted young girls jumping rope naked, pole dancing on our dicks. I see we're stuck on that image.

If you choose to merge with a robotic automobile, it'll be easy to spot you fuckers on the highway. We'll see sparks flying out back cuz you'll likely be dragging yer donkey dicks on the asphalt impaling cute little Jap cars, opening them up like can openers. We could burn hash oil and ethanol and not need breathalyzers nor condoms. In my next incarnation I'll likely look like a double-decker bus, cuz I'll have a sporty little bitch car underneath me parking my trailer hitch way up inside her trunk leaking oil all over the fucking place.

Some shit never changes. It's my nature. Besides being a motor head, I'm a dick head.

Karl.