Salted roads, rusted cars and REALLY salty humor.

Top of the morning gents,

Fuck me running. I just paid $250 for a new driver's side ball joint and last month had a second brake job performed on our scuba-douche (96 Subaru Legacy Wagon). Needless to say, I was mildly irritated at the $886.00 brake repair bill. Shit! I had the rear brakes completely replaced 2 years ago, you'd think they'd last longer than that. I asked the young man at the counter (Brandon) why my brakes were "partially sticking in the closed position indicating locked up calipers and grinding the pads and rotors (disks) to shit." He explained that in the last decade the SOA DOT (state of Alaska-department of transportation) has been spraying a salt brine solution on all of the roads statewide, in addition to the sand/salt blend you may have already seen those big blade trucks spreading generously all over fucking hell. The corrosion from both salt and sand, plus the liquid brine is devastating and completely rusting the steering assembly and brakes on all the cars he services.

Brandon says I got off lucky. My frequent car washes and evening detail work in our heated garage was smart. Most cars driven during Alaska winters are suffering massive rust damage to their auto frames, bodies, braking systems, wheel bearings, drive train and steering and suspension assemblies. It's a new phenomena in the last decade since this new salt brine juice is sprayed all over the roads of Alaska and the northern states outside. The old school sand and salt mix worked like a champ, causing a rusting pain in the ass, but brine is even more of a killer for the chassis and undercarriage of cars. But of course, on the flip-side, a Godsend for driving safety. In short, many more Alaskan lives are saved at the expense of greatly abbreviated automobile longevity and more frequent expensive repair bills.

Across the country, in northern states, salt has been mixed with sand and scattered all over the highways since fucking forever. The salt melts the snow and ice on the roadways and the sand greatly increases traction. You see, this only applies to the northern states that have significant snow fall and temperatures way below 32 degrees, the freezing point for water. The number of states that suffer long arduous winters also allow studded tires. That number is actually quite small, 6 states to be exact, that allow studded snow tires and spread sand and salt generously with brine sprayed as a bonus. Despite improving traction, studs wear the shit outa pavement, regardless if it's asphalt or concrete, and costs mucho millions to the 6 cold winter states to replace or repair every summer after a winter of moron combat driving.

I can hear you. Don't the snow plows clean the snow and ice right down to the pavement? Well, no. The plows use those cool blades that lift and throw snow and ice WAY off the fucking highway, but leave behind a sweet layer of shiny glass a speed skater would totally dig on. The snow blades on state trucks are similar to cattle blades trains use to lift and pitch cows, buffalo and stupid Indians way the fuck off the tracks, high into the air and way out in to the boonies. Or for shits and giggles, offa bridges. They're called cattle guards but train engineers sure as shit laughed like motherfuckers whenever wastrels, drunks, Injuns and farm animals were standing on the tracks, spellbound then airborne, and tossed on their heads. The impacts are almost always fatal. Since early America, these railway clearing cattle guards created the predecessor to our use of the term "road kill" leaving corpses buzzing with flies and maggots. At that point of putrification, all the organs and tissues are useless for organ transplant recipients and serve only as food for crows, ravens, coyotes and wild dogs. Or drunken Injuns with the munchies.

Even with state road equipment blade work, crunchy sand blended with a million tons of salt pellets and high dollar studded snow tires, we have far too American citizens dying. Yup, deaths on the snowy highways in winter condition collisions are much greater than summer crashes giving first responders crushed cars splashed with strawberry jam to pry open and remove it's occupants. I ain't kidding, winter in America sends a million drivers to morgues and emergency rooms in numbers even you non-driving village chimps would find startling. The summer driving seasons in America are relatively safe, but cold weather conditions kill motherfuckers in piles. Automobile insurance companies covering these losses have raised a ruckus and pushed for legislation to improve road safety in the winter months so northern states have added another cool tool to their arsenal. That being those big trailers loaded with giant plastic jugs filled with thousands of gallons of salt brine the crews spray all over the highway.

The results have been startling. The drop in winter fatalities is far more than just "statistically significant." The drop in winter road fatalities had been pert near a miracle. Dumb shits that insist on driving too fast for road conditions with shitty winter cars, shitty winter tires and driving skills guaranteed to receive a DWO (driving while oriental) are now safely avoiding high impact crashes, ditch romances, dash board cranial bashes with a side order of infant brain juicing and cerebral grape stomping. Salt brine on highways has proved very effective in keeping our dumb asses between the ditches and keeping the rubber side down. To spell it out, rolled cars, flipped cars and inverted engines also implies inverted passengers with broken necks or air-born occupants partially or fully ejected from the car, becoming pressed rat collections from a 4 ton rolling pin.

What only you coppers understand is the number one cause of childhood deaths is automobile collisions--and the little niggers ain't even behind the wheel, their wasted, distracted fat retarded mommies are. Now put on yer legal-beagle cop thinking cap. In your insurance paperwork, you'll see AD&D stands for accidental death and dismemberment. The death part is cheap, the dismemberment part is a ball buster. Dead bodies only cost insurance companies a flat fee of $250K per accidental death, but years of hospitalization and rehabilitation runs into the millions. Therein lies the bitch of the bunch.

When you roll yer car or truck and succeed in staying inside yer car, all the garbage, dirt, sand, groceries and beer bottles are bashed all over yer fucking face as you toss your car like dice to see which side ends facing up. Sand and dirt is in yer mouth and inserted in yer eyes blinding you and garbage and pets get ruthlessly bounced offa yer kids' soft puny skulls. Rolling cars commonly cause sideways whip lash trauma giving the occupants injuries pediatricians call "shaken child syndrome." Seat belts and air bags do zero to protect us from these side-to-side paralyzing injuries. Sucks huh. Those rolling auto injuries are the mother of all fuckers for your insurance company to hump.

The 6 northern states' DOT agencies have documented that with the addition of applying salt brine on top of sand/salt flavor coating, almost a third less winter road fatalities have occurred. No shit, one third less. That's almost as dramatic as lowering speed limits to 55, enforcing drunk driving and seat belt legislation. Cars are stupid consumer gadgets in that above roughly 50 miles per hour, our brakes and steering decline in effectiveness. No shit, very few cars brake or steer worth a shit at higher speeds with most cars doubling and tripling their stopping distances once they exceed 60 mph. Of course, if you're on your roof, you ain't stopping fer shit until you slam into a unmovable solid object. Like a bridge abutment or some shit. Or a Peterbuilt double trailer fuel truck in the oncoming lane.

When the Carter Administration lowered the speed limits from 70 to 55 mph, that was for fuel economy, the road safety improvement was an unintended consequence. The big 3 (Ford, General Motors and Chrysler) conferred and asserted that the double nickel is the speed with which Detroit steel gets the very best fuel economy, meaning peak miles per gallon. Everybody gets shit mileage in the city, but on America's interstate freeways, that boring 55 mph yields our top fuel economy. Even today with new cars, wind resistance, engine friction, transmission inefficiency related power loss, wheel friction and overall drag on a vehicle pushing past 50-60 mph experience greatly shittier fuel economy. Race cars produce more horsepower in a single cylinder than your whole engine, but also average less than one-tenth your fuel economy.

Quite a few states have returned to their old speed limits and you'll shit yer pants driving on crowded Washington highways at over 70 mph and in Texas over 80 mph. Of course, the collisions have returned and are nearly always fatal, but with superior auto design such as air bags, crumple zones, 3-way seat belts and anti-lock braking systems (ABS) the number of collisions has seen some improvements in survival But when high speed collisions do occur, it can get real fucking cowboy. Meaning real ugly for the vehicle occupants ending up dead in horse-drawn prairie schooner Conestoga wagons bouncing up to Boot Hill with yer ignorant hillbilly clan, dressed in black weeping over yer stinking croaked ass. The only upside is that in modern times, we get all their salvageable body parts. Which is good for boomers like us that will soon be requiring a bucket full of replacement organs, eyes, hearts and lungs. Plus square miles of skin to replace the shit we burn sleeping with wheeze-bitch smokers.

Many decades ago, I worked for years doing a restoration on an old hotel in Seattle built in 1889. It's now called the Campus Apartments and my good buddy Donald Heupel (D. Hypes) was the manager. He hired me for years as we worked our way through all 40 apartments, adding 6 more units utilizing old storage rooms and subdividing apartments way too large for UW students. While we worked, Don told me a shit load of funny tales of driving in Buffalo during their notoriously awful winters. He impressed me with stories as a child growing up in Buffalo, New York climbing and sliding down 40 foot tall snow drifts blown in off the Great Lakes during Arctic storms. As a young adult he cracked my shit up with tales of off-the-hook skating, sliding and broad-siding his huge American made automobiles to and from work as a press photographer. Arctic Alaska ain't got shit on Buffalo winters.

Heupel explained that in Buffalo folks drove 2 cars: one for summer and one for winter. The winter cars were big heavy sedans with digger snow tires and sand bags in the trunks for weight over the rear tires. He also humorously detailed the massive corrosion that wasted and rusted autos from the million tons of salt that was dumped on all the roads. Don stated that most winter cars, being already mature cars, would be scabbed out and rotted from salt after just one or two winter seasons.

D. Hypes also said that a popular Buffalo hobby and favorite pastime was playing bumper cars when drivers cross it up sideways around corners like Steve McQueen, slid through stop signs like Stevie Wonder and crashed into other junker winter cars skating into parking spots like John Belushi. Nobody stopped to inspect the damage, they just continued onward leaving paint and trim pieces all over the freshly dented cars covered in heaps of rusty slush and dirty snow. That sounded cool to me. Besides, yer fancy sports cars should be garaged and not out in the dark winter combat zone. That'd be stupid.

Heupel worked for the Buffalo Press as a photographer and used to race out to building fires, natural disasters and bad car crashes for front page headlines and graphic snap shots for publication. In addition to his crime beat, he also covered the hazards of winter driving. He scanned police and fire radios and with his press pass was allowed entry to emergencies to photo and tape record details of the crashes from first responders. Like all of America and Alaska, Buffalo, New York had much higher highway fatalities during the winter months.

A side note Heupel mentioned was a tax on all new cars totaling roughly $400. It was a fee assessed on all autos sold in New York State to offset the expense of fetching and retrieving abandoned cars all over the fucking place. After a couple winters, folks would simply pull the plates, tags and paperwork and leave their battered rusted winter cars wherever they broke down and stopped running. New Yorkers simply walked away and hailed a cab. Do the math butt fuckers, there's over 10 million residents in New York State so that's a lot of wrecks left on the roadside every year needing impounding, crushing, melting and reborn as new metal stock. Even if you dispose of your own rusted junker car at your own expense, don't be a fucking Jew and ask for a refund, this is New York ye fucking moron. Not goddamned Indun givers.

Even here on the Kenai Peninsula, borough mayor Peter Icky-mitts lifted heaven and Earth to set aside a multi-million dollar budget to tow away the thousands of abandoned vehicles rusting away on back roads, parking lots and ditched on private properties when the owners were out of town, down south leaving their vacation properties ripe to become dump sites like the now closed Northway Mall. Folks ain't dumb, instead of paying big bucks to dump their shit at Anchorage transfer stations, folks now drive to the Northway Mall and kick shit out their truck beds and drive away. I saw the place last month and it looks like a new adhoc recycling center for old fridges, washing machines, dryers, water heaters and a hunnert junk heap cars. Back here on the Kenai, in the first 6 months our borough blew through ALL the funds set aside to pick up the cars and trucks left to rust and rot on state, borough, federal and private property. Over the last 60 years folks been pulling the same shit my buddy Don Heupel explained in Buffalo and the greater New York State. We got junked cars up the fucking ass.

Get this. The Kenai Borough towed away over 500 dilapidated cars and trucks from back roads, alongside highways and city lots. Yup, that's a half a grand and you wouldn't even notice a dent in the number of junkers and fucked up vehicles polluting and decorating the supposed vacation capitol of Alaska: ghetto mod Kenai Penicillin Pit. Welcome to Niggerville schmucks, we're almost as ugly as the Mat-Su Valley o' Trash. The primary reason for our local government expenditure is for the obvious reason being the unsightly and ugly eyesores junk cars and trucks create. Wrecked cars breed like crazy and quickly create blighted communities and neglected neighborhoods like the innumerable black towns my gramps torched to the ground. Another reason is the leaking and dripping motor oil, glycol (antifreeze) and assorted hydraulic fluids used in transmissions and brakes. One single drop of these old, awful, used, burnt petroleum fluids will make 1,000 gallons of aquifer water unusable and unfit to drink. All these oils quickly leach into the well-water reservoirs under ground on the Kenai Peninsula--and they're all interconnected. I taste butt.

Heupel and I never discussed the impact on well-water plus we didn't discuss the upside to so many winter car crashes, being organ harvesting because this was back in the dark ages of tissue rejection and only early experiments were performed. Larry Hagman and George Jones' liver transplants topping the medical journals back then. Now in the 2020's we can harvest anybody's organs and install them in waiting patients statewide and nationwide. Back in the 80's when I was working with Heupel, we never comprehended the medical value of car crashes and gun shots to the head. Dudes, pull yer heads out yer asses, including gun fatalities, car and motorcycle accidents are God's grocery cart for organ donor recipients. Gunshots and car crashes are music to the ears of patients dying fer fresh meat.

No shit, adding car accidents and gun fatalities, it's like Christmas Day for a million fucking sick people needing used body parts in good working condition. With so many Americans on waiting lists for replacement organs, hand guns, rifles and shotguns and the highways are the cornucopia bonanza gift aplenty for organ recipients patiently waiting for packed coolers full of hearts, kidneys, eyes etc. Instead of coolers filled with beer, you may soon be enjoying bits and pieces or large bloody parcels sealed tight in a cooler from the meat wagon on the highways of death or suicidal trans-corpse kids, retarded faggots sucking pistols and mongoloid gun owners using firearms as butt wipe and hemorrhoid treatments thus allowing you to live decades further. Don't forget 80% of all gun fatalities result from suicide, so hand 'em out to your in-laws and wait patiently for the BOOM, then with a net, you can catch bright, pretty red body parts that all us withering boomers need so badly.

You may disagree with me harvesting organs from dead cops like Erlich, Octuck, Nay, Jewell and Westlake but damn, despite being tobacco junkies and alcoholics, they gotta still have a few usable spare parts left on board. Don't overlook the millions of abortions every year plus dead niggers behind the wheel, cut up and put in a cooler. Those valuable organs just might persuade you geezer coppers that an organ bank fully stocked with human innards may likely save yer shitty dicks and rotten asses. Wake up fucks. Swiss time is running out on yer shrunken graying gizzards.

I'm betting our native pride, uppity nigger attitude or white privilege (racism and xenophobia) will vanish when we're presented with replacement gook kidneys, slant-eye pancreas, dink-slope eyeballs and welfare nigger lungs and hearts. Shit, after receiving a gut full of minority sausage fixin's, I seriously doubt I'd experience a moment of awakening and start writing WOKE, gay and faggot LGBT-Q scribbling. Seriously fucking doubtful. However funny, there's zero probability I'd become a born-again homosexual after a thorough organ replacement regime. Modern medicine ain't like old black and white movies where we behave like the serial killers we harvested, that only happens in Hollywood and is proven retarded bullshit.

Back to my purchase of Japanese Subaru beer cans. Well, I was wrong. They're not Jap rice burners nor Chinese wheeled vibrating anal sex toys for fat women here at my senior center. Subarus have been wholly manufactured in America for the last 3 decades and are more American than Ford, Chevy or Dodge/Jeep junk. Those vehicles are sourced from China and Mexico and only assembled in the lesser 48, finally getting shitty plastic badges and gay emblems indicating a bogus American name. Totally hokey. Chevy and Dodge ain't built Ford Tough, they're stealth chink, beaner and wet-back ghetto sleds made specifically for ignorant hillbilly white dudes with fat bellies and tiny dicks that'll never see the mileage I'll be seeing on my odometer.

I've been questioned by newer car owners why we bought just 1996 and 1997 Subaru Legacy and Impreza models. Well the answer is simple, they're the good ones. You see, later models offered slightly larger displacement more powerful motors: 2.2 liter engines upped to 2.5 liter engines. Two worlds apart in quality and durability. Ask any Subaru aficionado and they'll tell ye that despite being Alaska's best selling and longest lasting automobile with the very best full-time all-wheel drive system, the upgrade from the smaller 2.2's to the stoked-up 2.5 resulted in timing belts falling apart and head gaskets getting blown out. Souping up and stressing smaller motors frequently delivers you a pain in the ass.

Remember, me and bun never owned cars during our 30-year residencies in Kotz and Barrow. We walked our dicks off and rode mountain bikes during the summers, junking the mountain bikes every fall. They were rusted, beat to shit and worn out after a whole summer of use. I'm cool with that, but after 15 years in Barrow and coming to "crackerville and hymie-town" (Kenai Peninsula) we needed an automobile and after researching the shit outa the topic, the older Subarus were a no brainer. We looked for cars in decent shape, good care and reasonable price, grabbed cash and made offers. We don't buy pet owner's cars nor smoker's cars, that's gross. I always look at the upholstery for dog scratches and claw dents in the vinyl, lift the rear carpets, look for micro-trace dog hair and sniff fer cat piss and tobacco. I never found a pet-free tobacco-clean scuba-douche, so I never made an offer.

The cars I ultimately bought were already gone through by the Subaru shop nearby and he'd haggle with me, take my money and even offer a bit of a warranty on a handshake. We've bought 4 Subarus since retiring out of Barrow and with good care and frequent cleaning, they look really nice after I drive them roughly 100K or more miles. That's when I unload them. I try to sell them when they approach the 300K mileage mark cuz the paint and body panels start to show a few spots where tin rats been nibbling on them. Meaning despite numerous car washes and my detailing them in our dang nice, heated garage here at the senior center, the road salt eventually starts to show little pockets of corrosion. So, at the right price, I'll unload our used Subarus for a pretty penny, cleaned, tuned, full tank of premium and looking good. The last few years of skyrocketing car prices proved fortuitous and I nearly cleared my original purchase price for the cars that had an additional hunnert thou we added to the odometer.

Don't get me wrong, I spend a bundle on our retirement pleasure driving. We try to only insure one car at a time, only use the best fuels, oil changes every 3000 miles, professional upkeep and drive like crazy. Our insurance is about $250 every 6 months, basic liability cuz the cars are paid for and a bank don't hold the note (title). Even if we total them in a crash, our insurance carrier will likely pay us a skimpy coupla hunnert bucks cuz Kelly Blue Book values have zero relevance to well-maintained, 20-plus year old Subaru values in Alaska.

I've added "uninsured/under-insured motorist" coverage and Roadside Assistance in case we're plowed into by some shit-ass redneck hillbilly lacking any coverage whatsoever or break down driving over the Turnagain Pass. Not a place ye want to get stranded. A sad fact is Alaskans are reluctant to purchase insurance, cuz with drunks, druggies, cell phones and 1000 pound moose all over the fucking road statewide, insurance premiums for Alaskans can be spendy. Do the math, with zero tickets, no claims and a dick head driver that has weaponized the speed limits, our total annual outlay for basic liability and roadside assistance is about 6 hunnert bones or $50 bucks a month, plus change. Shit, I spend way more than that on coffee, super unleaded and car washes.

Mind you, I drive a lot. We drive from way out in the woods of Nikiski to Kenai every morning to lift weights at the Kenai City Rec, returning home for a scheduled lunch. I do my chores like vacuum, dishes and laundry, cuz I only use my clothes and dishes for one day. Then we drive back to Kenai or Soldotna to grab a few sticks of groceries, book to the library to check emails and post stupid shit to a bunch of fucking cops. Some times we drive all over the peninsula visiting cabin psychos, then onward to Homer or Seward: just for fun. On some days, I'll take a quick peek at thrift stores for old collectible watches, gold or silver jewelry and even drop off my own used leftover shit there.

The watches I've snagged were Movado, Tag Heur and Rolex. I've never seen a Patek Phillip watch. Those fetch a quarter mil and aren't worn by hillbilly inbreed Alaskans. I have Walmart install new batteries and then take them to a jewelry shop at the University Mall in Anchorage. Carl's Jewelry would open a wholesale/retail price catalog, show me my watches, then offer me the price they published. I always accepted his numbers he showed me. What the fuck, a couple hunnert bucks is decent hobby money. The gold and silver jewelry we take to Oxford's in Anchorage and let 'em sort them all out, separate metals (silver vs. gold) and then take whatever they offer. In the last few years, the pickings have dwindled to near zilch cuz everybody is flocking to thrift and junk stores doing the same thing as me.

It sounds like I drive thousands of miles fer nothing, but I also run important errands. We both hit the Denaina Vagina for dental appointments every 3 months for cleaning and exams, we hit their eye clinic on each of the scheduled time slots and we also pop in for blood panels every 6 months. Now add trips to ANMC and a bunch of chiropractor appointments: we've a busy calendar. Plus add twice weekly trips when we "check mail with David Burnor" at our PO Box in Sterling. A million years ago in Kotz, it seems I saw Burnor checking mail at the same time as I did, during mornings before swings or after graves at the cop shop. We'd chat business, do trade, smoke a bowl, down a strong mix, then I'd grab Dopey and head onward home bound and nap before my shift at KPD.

Wake up fuckers. Despite 40 years pissing and shitting in Alaska, I ain't one yet. Even in my younger years I was committed to frequent visits to dentists, optometrists, general practitioner MD's and thoroughly enjoyed the visiting chiropractors when they flew up to Kotz and Barrow. These habits started when I was a kid, so why fuck up a good thing. Get this, I also follow the doctor's orders. I eat very few carbs, lots of fruits and vegetables and high grade meats. No booze, no cigarettes and zero drugs. I may live at a senior center but my neighbors sure as shit don't look like me. They look like my fucking grandma. Dirt and all.

I chat with an older gentleman who works at the gas station and he regales with tales of riding his motorcycle. He's an old beat up alcoholic who looks like he's 80, but is actually much younger than I. He had to give up riding his Harley cuz he was getting knocked off more and more frequently. His explanation was "shitty fucking drivers, dark tinted windows, cell phones and driving with their heads up their asses." He's right you know. He may be a crispy wastrel who will work minimum wage at a gas station forever, but he's dead on correct about drivers not paying attention fer shit.

I've seen a million drivers looking down, texting messages or messing with their gay music, fag tunes or nigger beats. I've also seen tinted windows that invariable reduce visibility during dark winter periods, which is like, all fucking year. The reason I'm leery about these drivers is cuz they're prime targets for staged crashes for the insurance payouts. It's the near perfect crime of insurance fraud. Crews of vehicles roam Alaskan highways looking for distracted drivers, scatter-brained women drivers and elderly prunes peeking over the steering wheel. These crews box in drivers and abruptly stomp on the brakes when they see the gullible targeted driver not watching the road. Smash! Works every time. Usually wrecking more than just the car immediately in front of them. A lot of time the sucker target will swerve and wreck one of both cars to the sides.

Now add crooked back doctors, lawyers and vulnerable insurance companies and you got a decent pay check for only a minute's work. If you got a half dozen drivers with a collection of mature cars you can rack and stack insurance claims. It's also called serial crashes with injuries and laddering bogus insurance claims. My old attorney Dennis Principe told me to stay away from teams of cars driven by Methicans or ugly white dudes looking to set up a "framed crash." 1-800-stage-a-crash is what he called them. So avoid the boxes. Old scam and nearly impossible to prove criminal intent because the investigating cops know cell phones don't lie. The duped driver was plainly using their text functions and has plainly smashed one or more automobiles. Tough luck fucker, cops always seize and examine yer fucking phones. Now yer screwed. Pay up bitch. Oh, and if yer also high and texting, learn to suck nigger ass real good. In jail.

My old friend Pim used the same scam a few times. He'd look for cell phone drivers, move in front and when their eyes were cast down, he'd hit the brakes. To avoid lighting up his rear brake lights, sometimes he'd pull the parking brake abruptly. The results are inevitable and he'd ask for a couple grand and not report the incident to police or insurance. The last time he pulled that stunt, he was rear-ended by an off duty female SPD detective. She played along with him, listening to his scheme, then put him in cuffs. I know, my friends are dopes. At least he didn't offer to show this plain-clothed cop his trunk filled with hot guns: stolen guns or guns used in shootings and homicides. Or worse, explosives I likely made for him. He occasionally bumped into crack nigger gangstas and sold them guns outa his treasure trove of stupid felony firearms. I still have nightmares of getting arrested by you guys for selling "Pim guns" to the gooks at shitty restaurants in Krotchebue or the Thomas niggers in the apartment downstairs from us. It's been 2 and 60 years and the longer I live, the more crimes I worry.

I'm enjoying my daily drives. They're an extended vacation and retirement package. We discuss other options like returning to Anchorage when we're infirmed and no longer running over homeless relatives. We also contemplate moving to other old folks' homes, tapping into our SOA LTC (State of Alaska Long Term Care) when we're needing that kind of structured care environment. It's scary and difficult to discuss the days ahead, but being witness to numerous friends that didn't plan ahead fer shit, my decisions are inevitable. I ain't gonna wake up some day, young again and fit and healthy, looking to start a new career in crack house porn. Even with a butt load of new organs and tissue from winter car crashes and mental fuck heads eating guns, that shit ain't happening.

I won't move in with Bun's kids or grand kids, cuz they're awful retards and worse, they're natives. I've lived centuries in native communities and I've had my fill. Fucking welfare communities filled with shitty niggers and believe it or not, I deserve better. So does bun. Besides, she's the only ice negro I let in my house. I avoid contact with miserable people, poor communities and the criminal element at all cost. Which means, rural Alaska and large swaths of the Kenai Peninsula.

When I look in the mirror I no longer see a narc, jailer, VPSO or criminal dandy, I see a handsome old man. A man with a wife who's a classy fucking broad and good looking dame, good money in the bank and we're isolated in literary heaven. No shit, no TV, no cable and only a radio if I choose. Most of the time my house is quiet and me and bun are reading or she's doing puzzles, crosswords and I'm clattering away on this laptop. Since I won't be listed in the NANA Memorium, you'll know I'm occupying a ceramic urn when you no longer receive moron fucking updates and shitty cop humor in your email in-boxes. Unless of course, you fuckers die first. Then you can meet me there and buy the first round to help me get my legs back under me.

I'll miss driving the most. Well, that and coffee and bong hits fer brekky when we worked narc squads and wore younger mens' uniforms. That recipe is a lot of fun. I'll also miss bright marijuana grow rooms and the exhilaration of inhaling it's output. I know folks vape their weed or eat edibles to save on lung damage, but that's not what I enjoy. Like cigarette smokers, I like the actual smoking of crystalline bud. I'm a monkey human that found great enjoyment in this daily (and hourly) ritual. But my lungs would be shit if I continued. My liver would be Swiss cheese if I continued my fashionably heavy European drinking too. Driving a car, smoking pot and drinking like a Finn ain't a combination that would keep me outa jail. Out of hospital neither. I'm forthright and tell Doctor Mitchell everything and he's convinced I might have decades more to write.

Doc Mitchell knows about my gramps that quit everything at age 50. Just as I did, but gramps lived to over a hunnert. You boys know better and it'd be a fucking miracle if I pulled off that same stunt. Come on, think hard which of us grunts got that much mileage left on our odometers. I'll grant you that my gramps had the same injuries as we did such as bad backs, cut scars, busted knuckles and round circular entrance and exit wounds that we've no recollection where they came from. We was really drunk at the time. My gramps even has the similar chronic lifelong diseases at we do. He took meds for cholesterol, blood pressure and boosted doses of insulin to keep his blood sugar at a safe level. He maintained a good tan golfing all over the states while owning a course himself.

He even left behind a questionable life of crime, turning completely legitimate at the same age as I. One difference is that his crimes were legal work a century ago. Slavery, child prostitution, laudanum (heroin) smuggling and human trafficking was honorable, as long as the stock was beneath our station and wouldn't survive without our intervention giving them a job. Albeit in a Nome or Klondike Gold Rush brothel, cotton or tobacco fields at gunpoint of a nigger shooter or building America's railways in small chains fitted fer chinks. You see, we ain't much different than our ancestors centuries past.

You fuckers read me like a retarded child's coloring book. I'm ambivalent. If we was alive a century earlier, we'd be lying to ourselves if we abstained from marketing slaves, purchasing children at Pacific Northwest orphanages and shipping them to the brothels of Skagway, Ketchikan and Nome. I'd also be disingenuous if I believed for even one second that I'd choose not to get rich smuggling Chinese immigrants from Canada to the Dalles, Oregon for work on the railways. Dudes, nigger is as a nigger does and like fucking Christopher Columbus, we'd be all in.

Another significant factor to consider is that all the above trades were totally legal in America and Alaska. No shit, all forms of slavery, bonded servitude, prostitution and forced human transport were completely above board and not one of us would've looked down on such ventures. Worse yet, I'm of the opinion that all of our ancestors made bank engaging in these industries and the payday is happening right now.

Looking back a century or two, I'd likely do what I'm doing now. Shrug my shoulders commenting that it "sucks to be you nigger" and put on any uniform relevant to the time period. Just like we did during this lifetime. We ain't dumb, we wanted to work, needed a job and had families to feed, clothe and house. Fuck it, I'm getting mine, ye best git in line our you'll lose your share.

What the fuck. I'm spending proceeds with origins in these black markets, washed in real estate and golf course greens fees and finally laundered in an elderly Eskimo woman's bank accounts, creating the image of honest, hard work and diligent saving. I got no money, all those zeros are my wife's dineros. Her wallet is heavier, cuz it's packed full of Native money. Believe that?

I'm a descendant of brutal Alaskan history and a retiree from KPD, AST, Mat-Su Narc Squad, NSB cops and outfits overseas I can't remember the names of. All money is blood money. I simply plug my nose. My pay is derivative of stolen minerals, oil unlawfully appropriated offa first nation's real estate. Fuck first nation's reparations. That's like repaying niggers fer slavery. Sure, here you go coon boy, take my share of a multi-mil estate. Banjo lip would be broke in minutes.

What I'm trying to say, is my resume reflects crooked criminal Alaska employment. If I hear any of ye declare you were clean as the driven snow, free of corruption, honest and hardworking, I'll punch you in the puss, cuff yer eye and give ye a freshie.

Had we stayed in our shitty hometowns yonder 48, we'd be ugly, illiterate, broke old men. So get off yer fat lazy hillbilly asses and get in yer cars and drive like crazy. If you see any niggers, chinks, natives or child prostitutes burping sperm, tossed to the side of the road in the wake of DOT's snow plows and sanding trucks, run them ugly minority shits over before yer Jap car falls apart from salt corrosion and rust.

This is Alaska fuckers. The only good Injun, is a dead Injun we can harvest for organs. All the rest is road kill we torch at the dump.

Oh, and in regards to my grandpa, "It's a family tradition" (Hank Williams Jr.).

Smell ye later, unless you smell me first.

Karl.

I speak fluent Inupiaq when I'm breathing heavy.

Top of the morning gents,

I've been seeing news articles about missing and murdered indigenous women. The usual content concerns reserve girls, red bush, native lippy and squaws. Meaning reservation native women that were last seen at truck stops, bars, thumbing rides along highways and traveling alone outside the reserve. More striking was the contrast with violence upon women outside their reservations, versus inside. In Alaska this criminal statistic in reversed, the massive risks of violence inflicted up native women occur at home, in village or at camp and not outside rural Alaska. In the cities and urban wastelands we normally see wasted natives begging change or sleeping rough on sidewalks or storefronts. Just nobody rapes past out nuggers.

I've broached this topic of violence against native women with a diverse mix of Alaskan citizens and the responses were vague, discriminatory and mostly wrong. The most common explanation was "they were drunk" and somehow deserved to get dead. I attached some news clippings below and I was stunned to see that the unusually high violence, highest in the nation against Alaskan natives occurred mostly in a native village you coppers patrolled for fucking decades. A village called Kotzebue.

To quote Henri Poincare from over 150 years ago, "We know how cruel the truth often is, and we wonder whether delusion is not more consoling."

My experiences in Kotzebue were mostly of fucked up assholes wanting to get past Dopey the doberman and steal booze or take a swipe me or Brian, resuling indubitably with horrible outcomes to them. Minor injuries to myself of any consequence was only lasting hospital bills from dog bites wrestling Harley's pit bull Dino and chiropractic visits from sore backs slopping fish totes and tossing freight with Nush at Ryan Air. On our trips to every village for inventory audit work, we stayed clear of locals interested in the possibility we brought liquor and green bud. We did, but consumed it in private. Me and micro-dot were highly trained in the ways of espionage. Well, countering efforts to snoop us.

In town, my home time experiences were of drinking native women hot-to-trot invading Higman's house on second avenue. House #321-2nd avenue to be exact. We lived there for years until I moved in with bun and Sara and Brian left town, likely saving his life from lethal near-death alcoholism. And a slew of STD's. During our parties at Brian's we discussed typical concerns like ANCSA, ICWA and AST and KPD. Mostly chatting about sex, drugs and lousy music on KOTZ 720 AM. Yup, we also chatted all sorts of sex and the many aspects in the arena of breeding, consensual, non-consensual, lethal and near-death fucking.

I was interested in hearing from my native female guests. I've no need nor interest in discussing sexual matters with dumb ass dudes, that'd be duplicative. And gross. My conversations across the gender divide were semi-coded or toned down similar to sex with prophylactic protections and birth control: faux breeding, fake intercourse veiled in counterfeit proper English. Slang, jargon and mixed Inupiaq terms kept us from being too direct so we could broach the topic of rape and murder obtusely. We also kept discussing VD in terms veiled and medical nouns shrouded.

Fuck counterfeit proper English and polite speech. You coppers have proven tough, not faggots, so I'll try to be forthright and brutal. First point. We all know that nobody likes to fuck a tarp, so condoms have their shortcomings. Bad pun, sorry, but nonetheless, natural warm (and hopefully moist) tissue on our own warming cockles brings a tear to our one-eyed trouser mouse. Or specifically, in your cases, uncontrollable salivation outa yer rabid trouser sewer rats, feral rodents restrained within titanium banana hammocks and crotch rocket swamp monsters straining their leashes. Lacking morality, kindness and compassion, a stiff dick also has no conscience.

I'm also thinking that a hard swollen ovary may undermine common sense and drive native women to do stupid things in order to get fucked. Meaning DNA driven sexuality yields results we've partaken and pursued but after putting on our uniform and gunning up, we professionally investigated, documented and prosecuted. In ancient aboriginal communities, even the selfish gene and it's drive to reproduce seems oblivious to tasteless sex and brutal rape.

Now on the topic of condoms and the small matter of not seeing ANY for sale at AC, Eckhardt's, Valu-House nor Hanson's Dry Goods. Our adult years started at the dawn of the AIDS/HIV era with scary public safety commercials up the fucking ass all over TV and radio. But not a peep was spoken in Kotzebue. Condoms and native pussy seem to be mutually exclusive. Come on fuckers, with numerous examples of pretty white children that look like us, when was the last time you stretched a tarp over the head of yer trouser snake?

I suppose, if we could purchase a rubber with all kinds of knobs and long tendrils that'd tickle a girl's hoo-haw, I'd be tempted to stretch one over my Johnson like a sleeping bag with a cute Santa hat. Not just some silly dress-up rubber, I'm talking a full-on clown costume I'd wear during sex that would feel like off-road tires and snow chains for both myself and the broad I was fucking and sucking.

I'm thinking all sorts of dragon's head adornments and soft rubberized bristles so that it would be best if I don this scary toy in the dark so's not to terrify my impending victim of sexual assault and historic satisfaction. Let's be real. I'd happily wear a condom that provides more than just safe sex, cuz a little clean play rape makes fer serious screamers. With an appearance similar to a toilet plunger and a lion's mane and dish scrubber, this prophylactic device will happily turn a bitch inside out. No runs, no drips, no errors. In addition, no babies, no infections. That there is an Trojan ad slogan and I'm reading your minds and hearing, "Fuckin' A dude. Giddy-up!"

I've heard numerous comments from pretty girls of any age that large junk on a dude is visually erotic, but forcing too much, too soon, way up in a cooter was a buzz-kill and seriously wrecked the mood, moment and prospects for another date. Being a tall moron, these comments were invaluable to me. My assumption and response was to invoke the use of the second best seat in the house, my nose. Well, that and my mouth and tongue. I've gotten a million neck and throat cramps sucking the brains outa red snappers and war-torn hoochie-koochies, bringing color to ripening tomatoes with a suction that made my ears pop.

When asked by inquiring dames, what my experience was with different females I've loved, I was flummoxed, stymied, gobsmacked and dumbfounded because telling the truth to a woman is stupid, disastrous and damning. Since I won't be chatting with my crispy haggard bitch-folk neighbors here at the senior center and not pursuing leg, gash or snackage long-dead at your respective rest homes, cabins, shacks and trailers, I can now be bluntly honest. You see, men lie like fucking dogs when faced with a prospect of fucking a dame with our faces and slobbering between fine ass yams. One look at yer neighbors, in-laws and spouses, it's without question, sex is definitely off the table.

In my humble opinion, I don't have any preference in the ages of shapely, curvy and really pretty women whatsoever. I've sacked girls much younger and older than myself with ages ranging from 17 all the way to 71. My girlfriends during my twenties were challenging, rewarding and also delivered me trips to the STD clinics. I've enjoyed the company of naked women in their 30's and 40's and those eager beavers nearly busted my hips and pert near twisted my neck off amid seizures and shrieks. These spinal hazards similarly apply to my older concubines and to quote Ben Franklin, "women of a certain age are most appreciative." As I was saying, ain't nothing better than lapping them ripe tomatoes.

So to differentiate broads, gals and dames, Nurse Diesel and the Herp Queens, truck stop lizards, bar flies and skanky boozers with simple demographic markers, I start with girls that never had children, those that have and girls that have achieved menopause and those with pending reservations.

Young girls that are sober tend to be smart, cautious and reluctant to engage in high risk behaviors. Namely leaping, taking air and aiming their octopus suction cup directiy towards the front of a bearded Finn. To derail this apprehension I kept champagne and wine coolers on hand, proving that the world's number one date-rape drug is fermented grapes or grains. I firmly believe we owe most of our sex lives to the hard work of microorganisms.

Yeast being on top of the list. Or more accurately, yeast poop. Alcohol is the waste product when yeast chow down sugar and excrete liquor. The reason wine and champagnes max out at 12-13% alcohol content is because their environment becomes too shitty and poopy to survive, hence that 12-13% alcohol content is the point of extinction fer yeast. For anything stronger like brandies, bourbons or whiskeys, we require distillation to raise the content higher, separating water and dregs from pure ethanol. Fine booze is tasty and also lethal to yeast, so humorously in context of yer careers, alcohol kicks ass by exterminating living yeast and thus yeast becomes the first of many alcohol-related deaths. Not a very pleasant thought. Here, take a shot of clear distilled amoeba dumps.

Come on fuckers. Remember your college years, even if you were working instead, a couple cups of liquor or wine in a girl made them smell better and even taste better. I actually recall fond memories of gorgeous girls that became slightly sweet smelling after a generous amount of alcohol. Their skin smells wonderful, their breath reflects the drink they chose and of course, when aroused, their most beautiful parts beneath harness and garter became ever so delicious, tasty and snack-worthy. Okay, get a grip you labia lip slurpers and wipe yer face, yer drooling. Also, you'd better wear eye-protection, yer trouser monster might spit ye in the eye.

Alcohol is the wonder drug that works wonders. Imagine an ad campaign for an alcoholic beverage, whether beer, wine or hard liquor touting the purity, clarity and flavor of premium yeast crap. The same yeast shit and microscopic turd loafs makes us stagger, sprout boners tackling traditionally disadvantaged vertical smiles, overlook poor hygiene and blindly suck and fuck really foul snatch. Had we been sober, we wouldn't even look at skanky broads like that without eye protection, nose plugs and a level 3 bio-hazard outfit. Broads so nasty, we wouldn't fuck 'em with Westlake's dick.

Alcohol dulls our vision, hearing and sense of smell and illustrates why bars are dimly lit cheating you coppers of how truly ugly some of the broads you boys have climbed on, hungry fer whorehouse cologne reeking gash on the bottom of girls that insisted on giving you a number, instead of trying to remember your name. The last time I went astray out back of a bar in Kotzebue, my dumpster-side sex partner called me 1003. Looking back, I’ve since dubbed her Penicillin Penny. Of course after doing the nasty, numerous cops have been forced to put a torch to their bed sheets and pour bleach on their dicks. In worst case scenarios, the other ways round.

I believe we have all been blinded by beer goggles and awoken next to dames that required us to stealthily flee the scene of a criminally nasty act of ass busting to avoid waking the handicapped Down Syndrome girl with prosthetic legs and a gash in the wrong place. My solution is to disable her wheelchair then escape by fleeing out windows or outhouses floors to avoid another nightmare involving breakfast pussy snacks in bed with the Bride of Frankenstein, Chinese Roadkill, cross-eyed African centerfold or Mrs. Mud-Rat Inukun looking like patients in the ICU suffering gangrene infections. To exemplify such a delightful scenario, I was approached by a native gal that said, "Hey Karl! Look!" She lifted her shirt and stripped naked, breasts and all. What I saw was a nightmare. David Ann Russell was showing me her stab wounds all over her upper body and they looked disturbing like poorly healed labia lips. Her joke was she now had 11 pussies. "Want one?"

Morning after sex with a farting cripple, meaning round two with a daylight hangover, humping a cross-eyed deformed special needs gimp can prove puke-worthy and burn an image in our brains we'll remember forever and curse our memories till the day we suck dirt. More than one of us has staggered home with Helen Barger on our arm, thus proving God invented whiskey so that ugly women get laid. It's also the reason we'd never leave our broken down cars, wheelers and sno-gos in front of her house. Folks might think shit. 200 years ago, Manilaq fucked Annie Cyr and was banished to Nuvruk for being so nasty. Poor fucker was accused of using an ugly native woman, who was unwashed and barely conscious as a cum dumpster and "try be white."

"History is indeed little more than a chronicle of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind." A writer in the late 1700's named Gibbon forgot to include "woman-kind."

Come on fuckers, we've not changed much in the last 100,000 years and fucked and sucked Homo Erectus boon poon. Even modern fucking is nearly identical to rotten utch, poopy butt cave man porn. I suppose looking back 1 million years might be kinda gross, but in context of sucking on Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon sugar frosted vermin seasoned crotch lippy, we're still sawing away on grossly similar ovarian reception foyers, slippery catchers' mitts and Fallopian tube sperm vacuum snorkels.

To find examples of aboriginal inbreeding, look no further back than 2 million years to Homo Habilus whom fought and fucked Australopithecus adding twists to our DNA. Of course it's our own hard dicks and overheated gashes that tangled our genetic lines and forever confused our evolutionary history. Sex during this prehistoric era was likely long before alcohol Viagra (whiskey dicked) and wine and roses. Showing up on a cave date with a dead animal was sufficient aphrodisiac and twat lube. Fuck it.

If we examine our rampant sex lives 20 million years ago, we'd gettin' wood and climbing all over tarsiers in estrus or lemurs in heat. Put that image in yer photo album, swapping out yer great-grandparents fer small fury animals. It only gets worse. 40 million years ago, we were sprouting wood underground in clans of shrews. I smell rodent 'tang. What's funny, is that our maternal mitochondrial DNA hasn't changed in all these years. Male DNA is all over the place. Big eyes, big muscles, big brains or faster legs. No matter, woman harvested men like a crop and kept our planet packed full of babies diverse like so many sorts of rug munchers, paycheck suckers and beer budget drains.

Fermented fruit and grain beverages are only 4,000 years old and our indulgence in alcohol is a proven preamble to getting our groove on and alleviating the nervousness of our first sexual engagement with a strange new lover. Even if she's a Big Foot upriver village cave bitch and got more hair than us. And numerous rectums all over her body. Wrecked-ums being euphemisms for the infected cultural tattoos all over her shit and ear, lip and eyebrow piercings, all leaking our sperm. Welcome to Hell nigger, you just fucked and sucked a Nunapichak bitch. Ye best follow me to the local STD clinic. I'm there dude. On numerous occasions.

Getting wasted at Kotzebue bars and railing on First Nations 'tang is typical wherever cultures clash. We tend to laugh at my stupid claims that cute aboriginal girls are attracted to taller white men with bigger dicks but those trite cliches are little more than a racist self-aggrandizement. Ain't none of you coppers have slept with more than a few white chicks and a hunnert native girls, but if the lights were dimmed and Thomas Edison aborted at birth and electric lights never invented, we'd have babies with every race of women and never know the difference. Well, maybe.

Imagine recent history, like 1792 when America undertook it's first census. The count was a little under 4 million Americans with roughly 700,000 slaves. Now turn off the lights and see what happens. We'd be fucking our own farm equipment that had a asset class tax value in the billions. So we imported slaves, sold them at auctions, and fucked 'em. At least until the sun rises and our daylight hangovers cleared. And we're startled to discover the bitch is a bearded African spear chucker midget with 2 sphincters ani: front and back, leaving evidence on our dicks that one of those orifices might've had fangs. And badly needed a shit, shower and a shave.

Only a mere century ago, tallow, whale, seal and walrus oil was so expensive, we dimmed lantern lights and snuffed candles quickly to save money. Of course, if we arranged a late night rendezvous fer some strange 'tang, the alien poon we snacked on might've inevitably resulted in sex with girls we didn't expect. Even black girls or Asian girls wouldn't be noticeably unique to any of the naked booty mustaches you coppers wrestled and raped during frenzied moments of ass-railing and blind fury intercourse in the pitch dark.

To tell ye the truth, if yer in the embrace of a hairy, naked, lunatic vixen prehistoric creature bitch and she's singing real pretty in yer ear, wrapped tight around your torso and also wrapped tight around your wanger, well shit, it don't get any better'n that. Who cares what race she is and what color her hide becomes at sunrise. We can overlook all the facial hair covering her legs, back and jelly roll and what planet or continent she came from, as long as she came. And was long gone, wiping her slug tracks back home before a patrol car picked us up fer graveyard shift at KPD.

When I was working at the Welfare Desk in Kotzebue, the poorly educated female applicants like Jaynor Clark and Merci Ann Henry were required to supply the father's names to each and every child they had sucking on the government tit, meaning food stamps and how many children were pissing and shitting under their respective roofs, meaning HUD Housing fer niggers we'd referred to Inupiaq Housing. HUD apartments at the A-1, A-2, A-3 and 16 Unit low IQ housing buildings fer talented darkies, gifted midgets and genius niffs.

The reason the state required the names of the sperm donors is to bankrupt the responsible stubby cookoos who fathered these hybrid mud-tards and bend them over on the front desk of CSED (Child Support Enforcement Division). In most cases them dullard fertile Myrtles had no idea who the father was. You boys know the truth and that most of these aboriginal humpsters were wasted at the time of their super hyperactive vaginal gaping and raping. Tell me I'm wrong, but unlawful entry rapes make fer happier Kivgiks, appuattis, potlaches and whaling feasts.

In some cases, the prego-bitches declined to supply the father's names of some of their children because the paternal sperm donors were teachers, coaches, borough mayors or presidents of native corporations and the hot to trot Eski-hoes feared reprisals. Now tell me, why does Craig McConnell and John Schaeffer Jr. come to mind? Like father, like son. Thinking about nasty old ugly June Nelson getting mounted, boned and creamed pregnant still gags my shit. My lasting eternal image of her is seeing her corpse after she overdosed eating a thousand jars of opiates and puked liquor postmortem, requiring us to transfer her from her soggy dying sofa, to a gurney and lug her 10-ton fat drunk liquefying ass to the ambulance, then onward to the dump. We unceremoniously placed her burping fuck hole on top of the stacks of dead dogs, and then torched the whole motherfucker.

If the NANA Regional Corporation and Northwest Arctic Borough School District had to pay the child support arrears (back pay and accrued interest) for all those unclaimed bastard children Craig McConnell and John Schaeffer Jr. spooged, you chimplet first monkey nationals wouldn't see a single dollar in native dividends and tuition to attend public school on the Kikikchimprunt Peninsula would be so exorbitant, it'd cast a shadow far above the tuition my parents paid for Sara's private schooling in Seattle.

They ain't the only motherfuckers that raped wholesale wasted drunken native pussy. There's a shitload of numerous other impaired butt fuckers that collectively create a legion of skanky dudes we personally know and were ground zero fer herpes, hepatitis, AIDS, monkey butt-pox and Chlamydia. They'll all go to their graves, or already have, with mucho scabs and scars on their tiny cookoos and evidence of viral deterioration on their brains. Don't laugh, but genital herpes is incurable. A skanky dude can take Acyclovir to reduce the bleeding symptoms but the latent adult onset evidence of Alaskan mixed-mud blisters or aboriginal herpetic citizenship mirrors dementia and Alzheimer's. We just tell NANA shareholders that Schaeffer & Son only got acne. On their tiny dicks.

I know a lot of cops were also sick-ass rapists too. Just recall Dean Westlake or Augie Nelson: father and son rapists. If we could rebuild and restore the chronic alcoholic brain damage in the female native population, besides Craig McConnell, John Schaeffer Jr. and Senior and Junior Augies and Westlake, they'd see romantic visions of fat old men like Jack Nanini, Roger Nordlum, Ron Brown, Lynn Johnson, Jake Rogers, Brian Higman, Kenny Euben, Ray Meyers, Tony Richardson, Hank Shimshatt, Bob Douglass, Mike Spezak and Jim Rood climbing offa them, retching sloppy seconds and spitting lumpy pube clusters on the carpets, then wiping their dicks off on the pillows and drapes. Don't forget, in rural Alaska, ye can't rape the willing or kill the dead. If they're passed out, you double the number on yer retarded pussy Bingo score card cuz another dude's sperm is a natural lubricant and flavor enhancer. The reason I omitted Lincoln Sato was cuz he wasn't heterosexual, he was no-sexual. He lacked any genitalia of any significance or consequence whatsoever.

Here's a weird family circle. David Craig stated Brian, his adopted son was a half brother of Ben Brantley Jr. I asked who the dad was and he told me that Ben and Brian's dad was a cop in Kotzebue years ago and was quite promiscuous with the sporting ladies of the evening: Ben Brantley Sr. He also told me that Nils Gregg and Brian were also half brothers due to having the same mother, Rachel Gregg. David Craig's church is responsible for tracing family histories and the Mormon Church owns Ancestry.com, the nation's largest lineage resource. Mr. Craig also confided with me that Ben Brantley Sr. had an estimated 8 illegitimate children across the NANA Region. Fucking A dudes, that boys got highly infectious sperm and knocked up a shit load of niffs, niggers and natives.

What David Craig meant by sporting women was an old school euphemism for bar flies, buttered biscuits or better put, wasted ladies of the night barfing about back of Alaska bars, getting wasted and pregnant simultaneously. I'd phrase it, wasted women that liked to fuck around and then adopted their children to their aunt, who was also named Rachel Gregg, later Rachel Craig, David's wife of over 50 years. No matter, Nils died of cancer, Ben died of cancer and Brian was an FAS pain in the ass that died fucked up and frozen out on Kobuk Lake.

More aptly Brian, like Nils and Ben Jr. inherited defective genes and those boys also died of a disease called generational alcoholism, all 3 showing greater or lesser degrees of fetal alcohol damage. Alcoholics come from alcoholics and all 3 are a product of Alaska's historically famous bottle disorder, drinking disease and legendary fetal alcohol spectral disorder. Thus proving the Tagruk drinking age is actually negative 9 months. To illustrate the cultural violence, unwanted pregnancies and retarded children, I pulled an article from The New York Times and enclosed further down.

To dilute our culpability in the white on native sexual assaults, we could add other players of diverse skin hue, brain sizes and dick microscopy. An example that comes to mind is Fernando Robles. He poured liquor directly down the throats and up asses and into vaginas of brown maidens of single digit age, naive to the inevitable outcomes and how generational STD's are transmitted. Fernando was an inmate on numerous occasions, finally fleeing Alaska and moving back to his own kind. That being Methicans, beaners, spicy taco snatch monsters and wetbacks with assholes possessing dentition.

Frank Lane was charged and convicted of sexual assault when he poured liquor and mystery drugs down the pie hole of a white girl. While climbing aboard and gittin' a nut, she awoke mid-jizz, rolled him off, called KPD and ran directly to the hospital. Frank Lane now has a shredded anus the size of Kobuk Lake and wets himself whenever he sees pictures of naked men. Or KPD uniforms.

Some shit runs in families. Like Mark Bird's homo-boy, his homosexuality was inherited. As listed above, you'll see Kenny Euben enjoying group sex in an airport hangar, alongside other members of his Hillbilly Herpy Clan. His son was similar in DNA in that he was convicted repeatedly of furnishing alcohol to minors, knocking them up, then denying any such crimes. After his tenure in Anvil Mountain Corrections, he now prefers humping older men and sprouts a boner after smelling a spilled honey bucket. He's also another example how farts make a gay man horny.

I still rib Higbitch for killing a broad. My joke was that since he was so cute, short and tiny, camp girls trading cooze fer booze, preferred he skull fuck 'em. It's no secret that Willie Hailstone oft repeated the Micro-Dot sexual slogan, "It's not the fuck you face, it's the face you fuck." Or better, "the smaller the tit, the more the monkey." Poor Brian now stands accused of skull porking a native girl from camp, right in the eye. If you don't believe me, you all might recall a gal that died after traumatic rape, dying of an eye infection. Yup, Carol Nelson Wilson passed away after Higbitch humped some ocular pussy, right below her pubic eye brow. If I ever hear a midget Irish drunkard yell, "Hey Carol! Here's spit in yer eye," I'll die laughing, then puke. Then punch Brian again.

On a sad note, you all remember Peter Vance Wilson, a man accused of kidnapping, sexually abusing and killing 10-year-old Ashley Johnson-Barr in Kotzebue in 2018. He pleaded guilty to first degree murder and first degree sexual abuse of a minor. Ashley Johnson-Barr disappeared Sept. 6, 2018, prompting a citywide, multi-agency search. After eight days, her body was discovered on the tundra more than 2 miles from a playground where she was last seen. Investigators found extensive evidence of sexual assault, based on the medical examiner’s Sept. 15 autopsy, with cause of death labeled as asphyxia due to obstruction of her airway and constriction of her neck. I'm still wondering why none of the KPD jailers helped Peter Wilson perform auto-erotic asphyxiation and kicked his honey bucket out from under his scrawny creepy ass mid-shit with a turd only half out his ass.

Let's not forget recent history. You all may remember a Kotzebue man was sentenced to 20 years in prison followed by five years of supervised release for charges relating to the repeated sexual abuse of a minor. I'll cut and paste directly from the ADN.

"According to court documents, Wally Carter, 62, was indicted by a federal grand jury in January 2021 and pleaded guilty in July to one count of human trafficking. Carter became the subject of a federal investigation in December 2020 when the FBI received a tip alleging a minor had been sexually abused by Carter approximately 15 times between 2015 and 2017. The first instance of sexual abuse occurred when the victim was only 10 years old. As part of his plea, Carter admitted to sexually abusing the minor victim multiple times, giving her money after each instance and often giving her alcohol and marijuana before or after the sexual abuse. The sexual abuse happened in Carter’s home, his vehicle and on one occasion, Carter took her by boat to a cabin, where the victim tried to escape from him at least five times."

“The defendant’s actions are unconscionable and robbed his victim of her trust and innocence at a young age,” said Acting U.S. Attorney Bryan Wilson of the District of Alaska. “This sentence sends a strong message that crimes against children in rural Alaska will not be tolerated and those who perpetrate such crimes will be held accountable.”

“Treating children as sexual commodities is appalling. The FBI will vigorously investigate these matters to protect the most vulnerable among us," said Special Agent in Charge Antony Jung of the FBI Anchorage Field Office. “This case exemplifies the ongoing efforts of the FBI and our law enforcement partners to combat human trafficking in both urban and rural Alaska, while using a victim-centered approach to vindicate the survivors impacted by these crimes.”

The Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) and the Anchorage Police Department (APD) Task Force Officers investigated this case collectively as part of the FBI’s Child Exploitation and Human Trafficking Task Force, with assistance from the Alaska State Troopers (AST) and Kotzebue Police Department (KPD). Assistant U.S. Attorney Dan Doty prosecuted the case."

These are merely a subset of a massive population of bug-infested clap-infected sperm donors that ejaculated inside the cooters of thousands of comatose native broads. And native children. Native dames that would freak if they knew who gave them their dimpy slow hybrid-tard children, incurable nasty vaginal discharge puddles and painful leaking bumps on their uchuk. To further your nausea, some of the old broads that boned the above list of slimy white dudes were actually super horny sex monsters and thoroughly enjoyed these gang-bangs. No shit, Bob Douglas bragged of boning an old native gal whose initials are Lance Kramer's mom, tag teaming with Jake Rogers. Both alternating ass and pussy. I'm thinking of these ass-raping men and can imagine their tiny blistered erect cookoos, dead, enjoying postmortem liquefaction, flooding, soaking and melting in their stinking coffins. Possessing tiny junk, death be not proud.

Rob Brown and Kenny Euben did a tag team gang-bang on old floppy hooter Ramona Nichols, and bragged about it. If you remember, Ramona Nichols was the victim a cat fight brutal assault over Jack Nanini. His other ho was Sandy Russell who didn't like Jack Nanini slobbering on bigger floppier boobs and scrawging way up inside another old broad's bearded clam. So Sandy Russell took a ball peen hammer to Ramona Nichols' skull, bashed her about and left Ramona with bruises and lumps on her cranium, brow and cheek. Mrs. Russell is a nut-case and a ho-fo-sho leaving slug tracks all over the cookoos of far too many diseased men. Jack ain't any cleaner nor healthier. Like the gals I've detailed, Mr. Nanini is a leaking slut too, cuz he was boning Sandy Russell, Ramona Nichols AND Lillian Lewis. What a stud. I'm gonna barf if I think of that sickening trio of wet-farting grandmas climbing on Mr. Nanini. Or any of you coppers.

Ron Brown oft recommended I bone "the moaner" Ramona Nichols, but I took a pass. I fled Seattle to escape rashes, sores and that constant drip of gonorrhea. I've not the heart to tell Margie that her husband took part in alcoholic Mazola parties down at Ram Aviation. Imagine Mike Spezak, Tony Richardson, Ray Meyers and Tommy Sharp all playing Ring Toss and Leap Frog in a big stinking flesh pile. Wasted, high on Capone cocaine and not a condom within miles. Serious ick factor there dudes. Since everybody in this tale is either dead, in jail or dying from crotch rot, the gal that waylaid all these men sired Ralph and Rex Lewis. Figure it out. Then help me toss these ass-raping old white dudes into Kramer/Unnuk Lake, I mean Davis Lake, tethered to a refrigerator with a chain tied tight around their face like Amos Moses.

Shit niggers, that's not the only R&R honeymoon we're aware of. I'm thinking more than half of the troopers, VPSO's and KPD grunts awoke with massive hangovers, sick as a dog, wearing a wedding ring, with dog treats (grass and barf) in their mouths and stinging from VD. If I add all my old party dudes and fish slimers at Whitney Foods and Ryan Air, well shit, I'd have most of the registered voters, licensed fishermen, convicted sex offenders, public safety grunts and pedo-felons as a population base for our statistical analysis and simmering gene pool of impaired retards. Why bother, Father's Day in Alaska is real fucking confusing. Or a complete mystery. Who's yer daddy?

Okay, you've heaved and chuked at my strident caricatures of doubtfully consensual interracial intercourse that make up a million Pondu scum and Bottom of the Whale romances in the Kotzebue mud, bugs and drugs. To put my claims into terms you numb-nut senior citizen cops can understand. Convert the movie Scrooge into all the girls ye boned over the years. Ye got ghosts of pussy past, ghosts of pussy present and ghosts of pussy future. With our marriages to really old chicks, the last 2 categories oughta be a non-existent number.

But if we clear our tobacco and alcohol damaged brains, scrub the crusty drug residue and cocaine plaque, sober up and look back at ghosts of pussy past, besides ourselves, half of Alaska should hang their head in shame. I picked half, cuz women are held harmless in this game of male dominated backwards view of buying drinks fer chicks that really didn't need a drink and are on the verge of burping barf, yet we smiled at our swollen dicks and kept on plowing onward and inwards. Drink bitch. We gonna git some.

Aa stated above, I kyped a paragraph from the New York Times. "Alaska’s crime rate isn’t uniform across the state. Like most states, cities usually have the worst crime rates, while small towns are typically safer. However, Alaska is abnormal in that some small villages have the worst crime rates. The most dangerous place in Alaska is a small town by the name of Kotzebue. This small town has a population of 3,273, yet it is one of the most dangerous places to be in Alaska. Isolated far from other cities and located on a small fishing wharf, this area is prone to high violent crime and high property crime. Despite community efforts to limit or restrict the sale of liquor, Kotzebue is rife with generations of chronic alcoholism and Kotzebue residents have a 1 in 30 chance of becoming a victim of violent crime. To put that number in perspective, on average, most states have a 1 in 10,000 chance of residents becoming victims of violent crimes. The property crime in Kotzebue is also extremely high, with a rate of 1 in 23. Essentially, living in Kotzebue is extremely dangerous."

Now let's get back to my four categories of females I seduced with my over-sized lock-pick genetically designed fer knickers, britches and diapers. We got pre-baby, after baby and pre/post menopause. I couldn't tell you coppers my favorites because being a hopeless romantic, I fell in love way too fast to remember that my foray was to find rape relief and disastrous DSB release (deadly sperm build-up). I'm not the only one either.

A funny thing about male human beings is that we are attracted to the heavenly outward topside heavy mammalian displays, flared hips and heart-breaking pretty faces. Within a tragically short period, we've fallen in love with another human being, forgotten our rapist's lust and are now smitten, overly fond and trapped. I've had great sex and been tossed on my head during one-night stands and quickly discovered I've been tricked into going on shopping sprees for silk under garments, new Sorrel boots and parkas, irresistible gold nugget engagement rings and houses all over Arctic Appalachia.

What the fuck just happened? This ain't fair. I think I was just tricked. My dick was doing all the talking and something outsmarted my evil intentions of being the sexiest man on planet Earth. Now I'm running around pussy whipped and longing for another wrestling match trying to get even with a female human being that I suspect, outsmarted me.

I'm well over 6 feet tall, over 200 pounds and I got totally beaten into submission by a beautiful girl that now has numerous properties in her name. I thought I was being sneaky and now it looks as if I'm a just a pawn in a stupid game, winning stupid prizes. Am I merely an extension of a cat's paw and tricked by a pair of ovaries 10 times the size of a man's gonads?

Human women are far more wily and deceitful and in possession of a very clever snatch, attached directly to a pair of much bigger ovarian brains. Us big men got gonads that are puny and microscopic compared to the big dogs on the block. One ovary wouldn't even fit in our busted craniums. Comparing our ball cheese machines to a girl's ovaries, we're dragging a burlap sack filled with small potatoes.

Didn't I ever tell ye coppers that men may likely have 3 brains, but we're still intellectually challenged dwarf-nads? Yup, I just reached down between my brains and found gonad #3. Oops, that might be a cyst or tumor or some shit.

When my third gonad becomes the size of a woman's ovary, I'll take a picture and email it to you coppers. Then I'll book to the Denaina Vagina Health Center and have a complete junk-ectomy. A procedure that will lower my IQ, more than it is already. Remember my line of work. Can't get any more retarded than that.

The best cure for sex is old age. The best cure for old age is death. At least we'll all think clearer in a dark box, sniffing dirt. Goddamned women are so distracting.

Ye ever get the notion that God is actually a woman and laughs at our retarded sexual follies? We are so cool and smooth, scheming and deceiving ourselves that we're gonna get some fine 'tang, but if Her goal is propagation of the species, well hell, we're just stupid numb-nut motherfuckers. We ain't fooling anybody.

And being sneaky bastards, we thought nobody knew our evil intentions.

Karl.

Insulation and Kotex Maxipads.

Top of the morning gents,

I was chuckling at a snide remark from my buddy Marto. He was griping that if he got sick from that pile of polio blankets, I was gonna owe him a case of beer and fat bag of buds. Oh, and a blow job. As per the traditional KPD response to such requests, we'd all recite, "I want a meal, not a snack." Or in reference to Rodent Rectum Rachel, "my beaver teeth in my ass need filing down." Human males are so gross. And really fucking funny too. The polio blankets Marto was griping about meant the stacks and bundles of old blue and green wool blankets Cully scored from work and dropped off. Like us pensioners, the old green army blankets were clean, but old.

Me, Brian Higman, Gordon Kelly and Troy Date all moved into a house that we called "the hash house." It was around the corner and a few years before we created Lem's Mortuary and Crack House. The house was an old cinder block house that had zero insulation, built in shitty tracts for low-income families by the Army Corps of Engineers right after WWII. They were so cheap and cold we decided to remedy the problem with an odd assortment of stupid shit.

This stupid shit included a whole bunch of garbage bags packed with styrofoam packing (worm) pellets, dozens of bean bags, a hunnert old wool blankets and a ten foot tall stack of thin mattresses. The Styrofoam packing pellets were at Atlas Van Lines Moving and Storage and the FREE sign was all the encouragement we needed to take all of them. The hunnert bean bags Brian brought home were from the thrift shop he worked at. Nobody bought used leaking bean bags, so we fetched all of them for FREE and brought them to our trashed and drafty abode too.

The blankets and (feminine) mattress pads were hospital surplus so the risks of infection made good comedy. Cully asked me to go with him to his work at Care (less) Medical and clean out the back warehouse of old hospital blankets and mattresses. The mattresses were thinner, shiny vinyl and little more than pads, hence the Kotex Maxi-Pad moniker. They were twin bed sized pads that you'll see on hospital beds when we pull yer tubes and unplug yer machine the moment you stop breathing and your eyes fixate finally staring at what the universe is really about. A giant empty space, cold and lonely.

Marto joked that the Kotex Mattress Pads were big enough to cap an elephant's (Kwethluk) pouch of bleeding monkey nuts. I add the Alaskan village names more recently, so you coppers don't nod off and fall asleep. We lugged out the whole wall of bundled wool blankets that must've dated back to Typhoid Mary or the Lincoln Administration when Honest Abe decided to ship infected blankets to the Indians. Hence America's first use of biological warfare weapons of mass destruction. Sickness and disease killed more native Americans (good Indians) than any amount of liquor, guns, cannons or hang man's hemp rope.

Over a couple weekends, we drove both of Cully's vans to Careless Med, loaded them to the roofs and brought the Maxi-pads and blankets to Gordy's, Higman's, Troy's and my cheap rental house. My brilliant idea was to re-purpose all these free surplus materials to help warm a chilly and drafty house. Mind you, winters in the Mountlake Terrace woods were dark, rainy, damp and occasionally snowy. Heating was originally with electric baseboard heaters, but when ye want to put in a marijuana grow room, ye had to keep yer power meter readings to a minimum, so no grow room halide lamps until a wood stove was installed and all the electric baseboard heaters shut off.

To start with, the attic and walls were empty, just sheet rock was nailed on 2X4 beams, on top of bare concrete walls constructed with cinder blocks with an air gap between. The attic was simply empty troughs between ceiling beams, so we cut open a dozen or more old bean bags, climbed into the attic and poured the tiny Styrofoam beads down the open wall slots. I used a doweling pole to push and pack the wall slots until full. After packing all the exterior walls full of bean bag Styrofoam beads, we dumped out a foot of the Atlas Van Lines Styrofoam packing pellets all over the entire attic. I thought I'd run out of Styrofoam packing worms and bean bag pellets, but we had way more styro-shit then I expected, so we simply poured all the remaining bean bags and packing pellets all over the attic until the depth was more than 2 feet deep and completely hid all the ceiling beams.

You're laughing, but the house immediately warmed up. I ain't kidding, with only a wood stove burning everything on God's green Earth, that house slowly became livable. At this point in our work we textured and painted the ceilings throughout the entire house. We ignored the cracked, smashed sheet rock walls, to repair that shit would've required replacement of all the wall boards and I already had an idea how to cover them shitty walls. The ceiling texture came out real nice. All Marto did was mix latex paint 50/50 with mud (joint compound), then paint the gloppy shit with really thick nap paint rollers, taking care to match the creamy strokes with all the ceilings in the hallways, bedrooms, kitchen and living room. Two coats of this thick paste mud paint did the trick, it looked perfect and covered any cracks, tape marks and stains with a half-inch of super hard colorized paint and mud. Our finished product looked like we were professional artists. Baked and slightly drunk artists.

To make use of the giant stacks of blue and green wool blankets, me and Marto grabbed our staple guns and starting at the far end of the house, we stapled the blankets on all outward (exterior) facing walls ignoring the interior walls between rooms and the hallway. We went crazy stapling right over all the windows, flush with the ceiling and left the extra on the floors. We grabbed our razor knives and cut around the windows, then cut the excess along the floor. After detailed cutting and trimming, we stuffed the surplus wool blanket scraps into the wood stove to burn for heat. Then we fetched all the paneling from my folk's basement, loaded it into Cully's vans, drove it to our "hash house" and stacked it inside. The paneling was purchased by the previous homeowners, stacked 40 pieces high, covered with boxes and dust, so by default, had my name on it.

Marto and I oiled the paneling with Liquid Gold to restore the pretty wood tone and shine back to life. We then measured the height from floor to ceiling and cut the paneling with a fine-tooth circular saw. With these pieces we nailed the paneling over all the outward (exterior) facing walls that were covered with wool blankets. The result was mind blowing. Instead of peeling, patched and beat up sheet rock walls, we now had shiny wood tone paneling for a decorative wall covering with a layer of wool blanket insulation underneath. All that was needed was to replace the trim boards on the floors and around the windows.

Marto looked at me like I was stupid and asked me why I was gonna nail shitty scabby old white painted trim back up. I shrugged and asked what else were we gonna use. He punched my arm and said we needed saw horses and brown "gasoline paint" to match the trim with the paneling. We drove to his house, loaded up the saw horses and grabbed a couple quarts of gloss-brown alkyd trim paint that was roughly the same color as our paneling. We also snagged a gallon of paint thinner, hence Marto's term "gasoline paint" cuz latex paint doesn't work well on wood work and fuming enamel paint sure as shit does.

Of course we grabbed dark brown beer on our supply mish, then laid all the trim pieces on the saw horses and Marto painted them with the brown gasoline paint one-handed. The other hand holding imported dark beers that I recommended after returning home from Europe. At my North Seattle drug dealer party houses, imported beers became the rage from 1979 onward. The flavor and much stronger alcohol content left watery faggy beers like Rainier, Lucky, Hamms, Oly (Olympia) and Budweezer in the dust. Like frosting on a turd, inbred hillbilly retards can indulge in some of the finer things in life. Just look at me.

Still being minors, I used the ID from Gary Los to buy our expensive imported European brews. Gary Los died of a cocaine overdose in the back room and it was fitting I purchased the beer with his driver's license. Whenever I lost my license due to suspensions or revocations or was in an accident, I used the driver's license of my dead friend, 5 years older than I, whose ID photo looked like my twin. Of course you coppers know that I'd sold him the blow and also provided him with a box of diabetic syringes I stole from my dad. You also know that me and Pim carried Gary Los downstairs to his parents' basement sofa, covered him with a blanket creating the appearance that he died there during nap time, after snack time, with cartoons on TV. My first lesson in Crime Scene Masterpiece Theater.

While our trim board paint werk was drying we smoked mucho bowls of weed, jammed tapes of Cully's recent Neuroshima space music and caught a serious dark beer buzz. Finally tuned up nicely, we nailed the trim boards back around the windows and along the floors. The finished product was fucking awesome. The attic and walls were filled with a sound-deadening thermal barrier of Styrofoam and the walls were double-insulated with a single layer of old wool polio blankets and half-inch sheets of paneling. The house was so quiet our ears rang.

The back room was formerly a garage that was converted into a large living room. We called it the jam room cuz Cully's band rehearsed there and also performed there at our monstrous keg parties. This was the intended target for all those Kotex mattress pads. We snagged long screws, slipped on large washers and by leaning the mattress pads against the walls, we screwed them vertically, floor to ceiling, side-by-side, covering all four walls. We even covered the cracked shitty single pane window facing the driveway. That lousy cracked single pane of glass was a serious thermal and noise leaker.

The effect was really fucking weird. Completion of the last room at the hash house rendered it absolutely silent of any noise from traffic and the rest of the house. Remember, besides keyboards and guitars, we had to quiet down a set of drums and that noise was what the neighbors complained to the cops about. The overhead lights were banks of fluorescent tubes and worked good enough, but Cully's band needed access to the electrical outlets and light switches we'd covered. So Marto and I unscrewed the mattress pads over the outlets, cut rectangle holes in them giving us their locations, then we screwed the mattress pads back up. We fetched longer light switch and electrical outlet screws and some cool looking shiny metal face plates and presto, the plug-ins and light switches were easy to see and use. When Scott, Cully, Loren, Troy, and Mike got warmed up and wailed their industrial space grunge, the outside noise escapement was nearly zero. You bet, no more cops to be called by the mean ugly redneck neighbors with noise complaints.

The flooring in our shitty white trash ghetto rental house was scabby threadbare carpet that stunk of leaking pets and sick humans. So we ripped it up and burned it in a bonfire in the backyard at our next keg party. Callahan grabbed all of us and we booked to a Lamont's store that was getting remodeled and the old carpet was stacked in long rolls and you guessed it, had a FREE sign on it. So we loaded Callahan's truck and both Cully's vans with the rolls and headed to our warmer, quieter shitty rental house in the middle of crackerville and hymie-town.

We unrolled the carpets in the front yard and picked out the worn and faded carpets as phase one. We covered all the floors in our slumlord's hacienda with the shittier carpets, face down. Yes you heard me, fiber side down with canvas backing facing up. Then we laid another layer on top, face up. The top layer was the really nice stuff that looked almost brand fucking new. With 2 layers of carpets, the first facing down and the second facing up, we'd effectively turned a hard concrete and asbestos tiled floor into a much more comfortable floor covering. Our white nigger poverty property rehab was coming together.

Under two feet of Styrofoam beads and worms in the attic and over styrofoam packed walls, we had brown paneling nailed and screwed over a layer of wool blankets, trimmed with high gloss brown painted woods, then all the floors were covered with 2 layers of commercial gray carpets resulting in a WOKE moron recycling and re-purposing garbage program that worked like a champ. We used rubber cement to secure the carpets by painting the shit directly on the floor all around the edges and then did the same to secure the upper layer of the better carpet on top.

We were sick, nauseated and twisted from the gallons of rubber cement we brushed on the outer edges of the floor, in each room and hallway and also globbed the stinky rubber cement between the layers of carpets like a glue sniffer sandwich to secure them. The fumes from the buckets of contact rubber cement were a killer by the time we completed our white punk lodging upgrade. Shit even Martha Stewart would've given her "really pretty" gold seal of approval. Of course she would've had to avert her eyes to avoid seeing such an ugly collection of dirty white boys doing the work in such an awful neighborhood filled with parasitic Terracites, named after our poor city of Mountlake Terrace.

The big room with the walls covered with Kotex brand mattress maxi-pads worked remarkably well to contain the noise of Cully's band. What's significant to all you coppers Alaskan was the poor man's house overhaul and the parties we threw at my shitty rental houses were attended by lads you all met up in Kotzebue. Myself, Scotty Wade, Cully, Marto, Brian, Harley and Dale Campbell. You see, this crew of sick orphans was highly mobile and followed the work wherever it led them. Even way North to a neighborhood near you.

Brian you remember from KOTZ 720 AM radio. He and Dan Newberry flew to all the villages and broadcast every single highschool basketball game for years. Cully flew up and attended Dan and Elizabeth (Elizabitch) Newberry's wedding and I suspect Kathy Milligan and Sara Quinn had a thing for my brother too. Cully also flew with me up to Point Hope for a midwinter arctic tour vacation and he did interviews at KOTZ with Brian discussing recording and playing tracks from his Neuroshima albums and explained the technical and logistical challenges doing gigs all over Seattle. Brian didn't ask, and Cully didn't acknowledge jamming at the massive parties at my hash house, then later my crack house and mortuary.

David Caleshman interviewed Scott Wade at KOTZ and let him blast his Jimi Hendrix extended version of the Star Spangled Banner. After I helped haul Scott's equipment into the KOTZ studios, I booked with a smile on my face as my pal and idiot savant guitar prodigy went crazy, unleashing scary good solos and terrifying the native radio station staff shitless. David Caleshman later told me that he'd never seen such fascinating high speed guitar and signal processing work in his life. David ain't dumb. He fancied himself an educated man with a minor in Music History and major in Accounting, eventually convicting Chicky Swanson of embezzlement, stealing the radio station blind and sending Len Anderson to Charter North escaping the ruckus and fallout, finally getting sober.

Scott, Dale, Marto and Harley helped me with houses 711, 676 and 369. What is important to know was that all of these kids (now old men) were children lacking one or both of their parents due to early death or incarceration. If you attended my dysfunctional daily rituals in the hash house and later the mortuary, you'd see an ugly collection of orphans that coalesced around me and Cully, all snug as a bug in a rug, smoking weed, drinking expensive coffee or overpriced beer, joking like diseased coppers working on the house or watching VHS tapes of old porno backwards. Just imagine John Holmes making cool faces, arching his back, stroking his donkey, vacuuming globs of pecker snot offa faces and rectums like a shop vac. I ain't shitting, that cracked us up every time.

One group activity was walking miles through the woods and picking buckets of magic mushrooms. We'd bought a psilocybin handbook with color photos indicating edible and hallucinogenic mushrooms. Fucking A dudes, we exploited that booklet frequently and froze and sold fresh magic mushroom by the ton. Earned moneys we spent on rent, dark beer, expensive coffees and overpriced green bud. Another expenditure we indulged was sheets of super strength, lab fresh, blue dot LSD. All the other acid we traded and bartered, but the blue dot LSD was a real treat. Brian Higman's code name was micro-dot and he had connections with top-shelf LSD that'd blow yer mind. The blue dot had a pleasant uptake bringing chuckles and giggles, an extremely high altitude trip and enjoyable taper-off and come-down.

We'd all gather at the hash house and each of us chewed a dose of the premium LSD, listen to music, drinking dark European beers until we started really tripping. At that moment we took off and hiked the wooded parks or climbed up on the roof an elementary across the highway and watch late night truckers stream by or just look up skyward and engage our chemical star cycles. Recently, LSD and magic mushrooms are used to treat returning veterans suffering PTSD. Well shit, us kids weren't strangers to gun violence, poorly healed injuries and child abuse, so all my hillbilly comrades were as usual, way ahead of our times.

My experiences with gun violence started by getting shot through the leg during my senior year. The bullet went clean through my ankle and I tumbled down a cement stairway outside Edmonds Community College. When I was in the emergency room, the bullet hole was hard to dismiss and the cops grilled me. I'd no answer to their questions and finally got a big cast put on and went home. To this day, I only have suspicions who shot me, namely my hard core gun pals with names all of you know.

The second episode of gun violence happened down the street from the hash house. Frank Empfield had a killer grow room and we were sitting around smoking out, when the door was kicked in. Rodney Beavers and his ugly thugs walked in holding all of us at gun point. I was grabbed and pistol whipped, cutting my ears, temples and lips. After shooting rounds inside the house, Franky caved in and unlocked his grow room, showing him only trays of cuttings. The dried buds were in the attic but Rodney and his asshole buddies took all the cuttings and left. We declined contacting the police due to the illegal nature of their visit and my status as a frequent flier with Detective Beuler at the Mountlake Terrace PD. My injuries healed quicker than my bruised ego and shocked nervous system. Guns scare me.

The most memorable gun crime was the 3 niggers that attempted entry into our crack house and mortuary. One gangsta was climbing in my window so I swung my baseball bat at his ear and jaw. He fell in on his head and shoulders, dead on arrival. The back and front doors were kicked in simultaneously forcing Dale Campbell to break a nigger's neck and Dennis pulled a junker 38 revolver out of the sofa and shot lucky nigger number 3. You boys already know how we burned them and dumped their ashes in my grandpa's nasty outhouse.

A more recent gun experience happened when I was in uniform for the VPSO's up in Kiana. Mike Wilson was way fucked up, yelling in the CB radio and daring anybody to come near and get shot. Of coures, I walked over picking up Mr. Dorsey along the way and we knocked on the door of the Wilson abode. Mike swung the door open and pointed his 30.06 rifle at me and was drooling, spitting curse words at me and stating he was gonna blow me away. I believed him. Dorsey was to the left and grabbed the rifle and pushed Mike back into his house yelling at him like his very own retarded son and sole employee. Which he was.

I phoned the troopers and they arrived minutes later cuz Dial was at the airport, in his airplane, doing BS like cleaning and sorting his emergency equipment. The troopers (Von Clausen, Kozloff and Nay) went wheels up and zoomed over the mouth of the Noatak and touched down in Kiana. The standoff lasted hours resulting in Mike Wilson's arrest and conviction of weapons misconduct violations, alcohol possession in a local option area,felony assault and in general being a fucking pedophile and child gomer extraordinaire. That experience rattled me and earned me stupid insults from Steve Gomez, but kind words from all my current and former bosses at AST and Mat-Su Narcotics.

Back to the hash house renovations, an improvement you'll enjoy was my solution to the flooding rainwater, clogged gutters and the mess the downspouts created. Along both the edges of the roof, both ends and on the front and back, we climbed with a ladder and scooped decades of goopy leaf shit out, then cobbled 4 second-hand downspouts at each end of the roof, both front and back. The rain water still gushed all over the fucking place so me, Scott, Marto, Brian, Troy, Dale, and Harley kyped a couple hunnert feet of 6-inch plastic drain tubing. You know that stuff that's black, slotted and ridged for strength used as culverts.

We dug trenches at each corner where all the flooding occurred, away from the house, into the yards, 3 feet deep and 30 feet out. We poured rocks, bricks metal shit and any shitty scrabble we could find on the bottoms of our trenches, cut four sections of our slotted 6-inch plastic drain pipe and connected the slotted drain pipe to each gutter down spout, then laid it out to the end of our 30 foot trenches. We covered all our slotted drain pipe with a shit load of old 3 tab roofing, sheet metal, plastic sheets and plywood to keep dirt out of our drain field systems. Then covered it all up with dirt and rolled the cut sod back on top.

The next rain storm downpour, all the water from the gutters went out the gutters, down our drains into our slotted black plastic drain pipe that evenly dispersed our flood waters into the rock, brick, scrabble drain system 30 feet out and simply disappeared. The drains never backed up and we fixed the water problem that was previously flooding the four corners of the house. Just imagine a long narrow drain field like a septic system, but for rain water, not yer poop, piss, showers, dishes and laundries.

To list the congenital challenges these bastard party animals overcame, we start with Brian Higman who was in a fatal car accident when he was just a toddler and his mom was killed right in front of him. Marto's parents were hospitalized and jailed for their chronic alcoholism, chronic child abuse and domestic violence, then adopted by his current parents. Harley was a homeless boy at age 14 and started hanging around helping out on jobs doing mud, tape and painting with us at our job sites, earning food, a couch with the dogs and free bong hits.

These skills employed Harley working for me on spot-work at the 3 Kotzebue renovations, then later with Tom Peters, eventually employed full-time at KIC for decades that fed and paid the rents for his family with Francine Harris. Dale was also a homeless kid living in a tent in his sick-ass mom's backyard just like the tragic Slingblade movie, in complete squalor a few blocks from my ghetto rental. He heard the loud music and started hanging around to help fetch firewood, lug heavy building materials, bounce asshole drunken men and women out of my parties and whatever duties assigned at the hash house and the mortuary we moved to just around the corner.

You thought our parties and drugs held these boys together, but no, it was the work. You see, we're all composites of the deeds we've performed. We're all the ingredients to projects we've completed and the finished product is as good or as faulty as our own sorry asses. Like the surplus packing Styrofoam worms, recycled bean bags, polio blankets and sick hospital mattress pads, we're nothing but a hodge-podge pile of our own doing. I'm laughing that none of ye have seen any of my pals in recent decades and likely don't know how old they are. And look.

Brian Higman is a bald old man crowding level 60. Marto is a fit and trim ex-convict displaying the violent alcoholic behavioral genetics from his original parents. A couple years ago, Marto, Troy and Higman attended their 40-year high school reunion together and apparently they caused quite a stir. Higman had lost his cool lion's mane hair-do, Troy, whose dad died before he could remember, grew his hair down to the floor and Marto was fit, buff, punchy and tough from his years in prison yards lifting weights and fighting. The whole room went deathly quiet when those three notoriously talented criminals entered the rented hall. The rumor of their disappearances and deaths was greatly exaggerated and entering the festivities scared those normal dildos shitty. It took raunchy jokes, Marto's crude prison humor and Brian's alcoholic Irish sparkle to defuse the tension and get his aging classmates back to drinking and laughing again. All 3 of 'em told tales of our remodeled party houses and startling stories of Kotzebue.

Big Dumb Dale Campbell is now a broken old codger and rumor has it that he died a few years ago in the dirty industrial city of Everett, Washington, likely in an alley, park bench or prison. Harley Bronson is now a balding old man living in Fairbanks, separated from Francine, hopefully raising his kids that are now adults themselves. I worried he'd abandon them like his own parents did him.

Maybe my horrible influences sculpted them like a finishing school for proper speech, manners and domestic duties. They grew up and learned construction, live music performance set-up and drug dealing skills living in a hash house and later a crack house. Those boys helped me rebuild, maintain house projects and help burn leftover building materials at 2 of my projects in Mountlake Terrace, the 3 more projects in Kotzebue. Who says I don't have a positive influence on a kid's growth and development.

Brian flew up to Kotz a few short years after completion of the hash house renovation, Gordo took work upstate, Troy moved near Canada in Bellingham with me following Higman up to Alaska shortly thereafter. The only repair I did on the hash house since they moved out was to hire Marto and his paint sprayer to blast the exterior with a Hodge-podge mix of left over random color paint. The whole outside of the house was now one color and the landlord was jazzed. He even returned all of the deposit to me.

You'll enjoy this parallel ending to those 3 dead gangsta niggers that tried to break in to Lem's Mortuary and Crack House, rob us and kill everybody on site. They got dead, burned to ashes and dumped down in a soggy poopy outhouse up north in Marysville. Marto emailed me and told me that the hash house we'd insulated, covered the walls with wool blankets and paneling and laid 2 layers of carpet caught fire a couple years ago. The renters were junk and garbage hoarders and somehow the place caught fire. Marto's reason for contacting me was to laugh and tell me that once the fire started, the Styrofoam shit we packed into the empty walls and poured over the entire attic caught fire and accelerated the rapid incineration of our old hash house. The mushroom cloud stunk terribly and was seen for miles.

The internal temperatures of this styro-inferno was so high, it was impossible to put out so the fire crews let it burn itself out and only intervened to water the neighboring structures and cool the hot spots remaining after the funeral pyre for so many parties, acid trips and hard construction work finally died down. Marto told me that after the fire, the only structure standing was a crumbling concrete floor and brittle cinder block walls that tumbled when kicked. Not for a second did I consider the fire hazards of filling the walls and attics with explosive melting Styrofoam fuel-cell fire-balls.

You see, most building materials like concrete, sheet rock and fiberglass insulation resists fire, or are treated with fire-retardant chemicals. Fuck it. The shit I recycled and repurposed worked beautifully until a flame ignited a 4th of July fireworks show and turned the walls, floors and attic into a reverse rocket pointing skywards.

I'm thinking that the bright flare-up, super high temperature and ash residue might've indicated a massive amount of accelerant to the Fire Marshall. Fuck it, I'm far beyond arsonist's culpability and the fire was decades after we all left and my retarded recycling, re-purposing and remodeling mission was never considered to be the cause of the inferno.

History may not repeat itself, but it sure rhymes and none of my drug dealing, home building party animal pals can escape their DNA. Including myself. On numerous occasions involving obvious arson, my grandpa took advantage of something he called "Jewish Lightening." When asked about a warehouse, whorehouse or an entire black community that had burned to the ground, he's say, "Shut the fuck up! That's not till next week."

Here, take my card. Just call 1-800-torch-a-dump.

Karl.