Death and Taxes. And something else far worse.
Top of the morning gents,
About 50 years ago the phone rang and being psyched to talk on the telephone and practice my good manners I ran to answer it. I said hello and was astonished to recognize my grandfather's voice. He had a hard European accent with English being his third language and Estonian (Baltic German) and Russian his first and second. He greeted me with, "Hello Karl, what are you doing today." My response was that me and Cully were feeding the horses and playing cowboys and Indians. Grandpa laughed at my tale and advised I be careful standing on top of galloping horses and shooting my cap guns like trick riders on TV Westerns. Me and Cully had been hospitalized for injuries doing stupid shit just like that. Sometimes getting gored by goats' horns, kicked by horses or flipping our bicycles. You coppers see a reckless, suicidal pattern emerging don't you? As I compose this am cop-talk email, you'll likely see many more devastating life patterns emerge.
After our preliminary greetings my grandpa asked me if I could help him and I said I'd be happy to. Grandpa stated that he was at the intersection near the Genessee Bar and could I steer him towards our house. I smiled because that was the tavern he took me and Cully to sit at the bar and drink make-believe adult beverages and listen to the other old men's childhood tales of World War One with impossibly accented English. On numerous occasions the bar tender served us brandy or Guinness beers too. We were 10 feet tall and practicing for a life of alcoholism. Go figure.
I'd memorized the route from grandpa's house to the Genessee Bar and the roads he took to drop me and Cully off at home so I was the right guy at the right time for this duty. I was 10 years old and looking to prove I was worthy of my grandpa's request for directions. I explained in exquisite detail the direction and the roads he needed to drive to come and pick me and Cully up and go drinking like grown-up old European men. Which is what grandpa had originally planned before getting lost. My directions had to paint detailed vivid images and striking pictures to trigger impactful memories fading inside my grandpa's storybook and with a few flourishes from my paint brush on our shared visual white space canvas, gramps thanked me profusely and the old man was down the road.
As you coppers can decipher, it's the same method of communicating as I use scribbling these emails to a bunch of fucking public safety grunts. It ain't no secret that we're all losing a battle like my grandpa, so with the use of actual arctic Alaskan addresses, specific names, SR data points and criminal details, I can cause explosive retrievals memorable within myself and my readers. Someone's gotta look after you crippled killers. Looking back I assumed my gramps was a little tipsy and just needed 2 little boys as copilots and navigators. I was sadly very, very wrong.
Grandpa's phone calls to chat with me for directions became more frequent and more complicated. He'd phone from damn near the Canadian border and I'd instruct him to re-enter Interstate 5 and drive south 120 miles to come pick up me and Cully. I also advised him to drop by the Blaine Texaco station and top off his Volvo with Sky Chief 104 octane High-test Ethyl. He'd chuckle and state he'd be by in an hour to pick us up and go drinking with his pensioner pals at the Genessee Bar. Fucking A dudes, if you do the math, he'd have to drive at 120 miles per hour to come and pick us up, which to me and Cully was WAY cool. The federal speed limit was 70 mph, but he averaged 90-100 mph and arrived in slightly more than one hour. Regardless of his age and level of intoxication, we were totally psyched at that action.
Here's the honest truth. He wasn't drunk at all. He was slowly succumbing to Alzheimer's and I was too young to know what the fuck that meant. I was also complicit in keeping these secret chats from my parents how often grandpa phoned for directions. It was a little boy's secret and I even kept a folded map I kyped outa my dad's glove box so I could examine where he thought he was, then direct him towards his favorite grandsons: Team Volvo racing mates, pit crew and little drinking partners. Looking back, I wish he was simply intoxicated and not the other awful alternative. I never forgot how badly I felt hearing mere echoes of a once wonderful old man that adored his grandsons. Now it's our turn to be missed by darling little boys that tragically admire us.
As I entered my teen years I experienced a tearful transition in life. My map reading skills became obsolete and my duties were taken over by Seattle PD, County Sheriffs and Washington State Patrols. My grandpa was forgetting the phone number to connect with his lifeline and favorite grand kids: me and Cully. Shortly thereafter he lost his drivers license and my grandma assumed the driving duties. Besides improving regional highway safety, me and Cully never again got to go to the Genessee Bar and visit our crew of old men with harsh European accents. I also discovered that death slowly kills children while simultaneously killing their grandparents in evermore sorrowfully painful steps. They first forget their ways home, then your phone number, then your names. His absence was horrifying and these same heartbreaking realities you coppers all feel and suffer within your own families.
Fuck it. Even at the age of 10, some shit never works out the way we planned. You see, it wasn't supposed to be this way. I had everything schemed to the most minute detail. Like a proper schoolboy I put check marks on all my chores, then much later, our jobs laid off, resigned or terminated, most concluded with cases closed and body bags zipped. We weren't gonna see our shit get old and waste away like pulverized roadkill. We were gonna go out admired, honored, dodging bullets, cutting throats, breaking necks and batting softened heads clean off shoulders like Arnold Palmer or Lee Trevino's tee offs. In parallel centuries it's likely a little boy dearly admires us and will surely miss us when we no longer remember his name nor spend time chatting with him. It's also okay to weep and sob silently way down deep inside, we all were little boys a million years ago. Now we're the fading grandfathers. Getting killed in the line of duty is far better than Alzheimer's. I worry about you graying gunslingers.
In previous incarnations with you coppers as my coworkers, ain't nothing better'n combatants muted, faces blanked expressionless no longer breaking our ribs, crushing our windpipes leaving us whispering through wine-free grapes crushed. Your instructions were to keep shooting until every goddamned hostile tango was no longer a threat. Since eternity, us aging male humans prefer an honorable death going out in a blaze of glory 6-gunned to bits or obliterated by shotguns or machine gun fire and if that don't kill us, we'll be kicking and stomping our foes collapsed, dispatched lifeless. AIn't no time to slow down to catch your breath and wipe the guts off yer uniform, there's little children silently crying and praying you'll show up and rescue them from monsters they mistook for parents. Or a little boy awaiting his grandpa's visit with him. That grandpa being you coppers.
We prevailed in a shit load of mortal contests and guess what? The prize is senility, infirmity and indignity. 3 words I use when I'm writing in my original stoner convo, merging towards rude, punchy cop talk, then to my stilted, dated tone of early 19th century novel of manners. So what I mean by these 3 shit-ass symptoms of living too long is Alzheimer's, the most common form of dementia. Fuck that. On both sides of the law my cell mates and fellow soldiers are dust long forgotten and tonight's bleak nocturne is miraculously metronomed by my own fading heart beats. Our brains will harden and get lost, but the hearts of little boys never forget their aging heroes. Where did it all go so wrong? We weren't supposed to be here. I had dreams of shoveling piles of shiny white or yellow glass, rich green smoke bobbing in solvent dishes of ethanol preservatives. The ends our lives hurt so much we may need to relapse together at an old European man's bar drinking brandy and Guinness beer and smoking pleasant cigars. First round's on me.
Outdated uniforms are terrified of being cleaned, pressed and shelved for eternity or stored in a trunk in the basement collecting dust. I prefer mine torn, perforated, soaked in red shit, discarded in rubbish bins or blown to threadbare cloud-bits. Wheelchairs, medals and parades only serve to exacerbate desperate survivors' guilt. As we age, we'll be forced to eat evermore lonesome guilt served us in ever larger helpings. Bun commented that all the names in my phone book have lines drawn through them. lf you coppers look at your dust encrusted email address folder, you'll see that you don't have any friends, they're all dead. Seems to be a lot of that going around. Being alert and on duty, I was always ready to call in back-up while watching over you fuckers on active shooter gun calls. Sad to say, I figured you'd be first to go. Not last. I hope and pray you don't forget about the man in Dispatch worried sick about you.
Crippled ancient servicemen detest help of any kind and are painfully aware that the definition of sympathy is bookmarked in the dictionary right between shit and syphilis. May I call you coppers ancient servicemen? Okay, not ancient, but we sure as shit failed our own extinguishment and this mucous butt-seepage is long stale. What the fuck. Our bodies are still relatively vibrant and radiant, virile vigorous and potent, not sub-dirt with pals at ease, still on perimeter, patrolling boot hill. Double shifts lugging gurneys, loading meat wagons, cutting down hangers or holiday overtime hourly pay to most coppers is thought to be bone-grinding tough. Nup, clocking off shift for the last time and returning home to a patient little boy awaiting our visits and will surely miss us dearly after we no longer remember his name will prove most difficult. Take a moment to sit with him as soon as you get your emotions in check.
What's real fucking tough is counting pension checks, shrinking behind heaps of grand children's storybooks and their adventures and our spouse's death vigils in non-native clinics wiping wetted eyes. You see, this shit is infinitely harder than long hours working with me. Retirement and wasting away ain't the menu I ascribed in bad English. Since acquiring fluency in Inupiaq I discovered our marriage vows included a finely printed foreign language clause declaring, "I won't remember you." When your wives are on their last brain cell, feed 'em a gun. Their demise was intended to be a celebratory percussion cap eating a shotgun blast fer brekky echoing all the way through the darkening night and right to my laptop. Despite vacant memories of your careers, don't forget to mind yer manners, serving the ladies muzzle blast medicines first and if you bid that little boy farewell between midnight and 2:00 am, I'll hear that gun shot here at my computing station. So will a whole lot of little boys around the world, but with moistened eyes, hopefully they'll understand.
Each morning, marching through another decade waking undead and rusty requires for more effort than hefting dead bodies heavier than our own weight or breathing with both lungs a hunnert lifetimes beyond our cell mates, team mates and spouses. I edited the end of our movies pleasantly catastrophic and lethal, not pussy G rated. Your closing credits were intended to come with a movie rating warning whining faggots of inappropriate gratuitous violent content and a product label stating, "This could get really loud." It seems I was wrong, my choice of words writing you old killers is loud.
Bathing in gasoline, old tires and propane canisters, eating a gun appetizer snack will save yer heirs the price of a funeral and an overpriced casket more expensive than a new car or a couple years at university. One stop shopping: suicide and cremation igniting a primer, 50 gallons of fuel and a hunnert pounder tank of propane. May your exit and coda be a shockwave seen and heard for miles around. Of course, I imagined you coppers triggering a nuclear suicide vest leveling entire black communities. Or Buckland. Seeing you boys taking out a hunnert ugly motherfuckers shitting and grinning toothy like happy niggers makes me cackle evil like a funny faggot.
Something's wrong with this picture. Fuck doctors. Since when did aging broken suicidal public safety grunts yield to sagely white-coat lectures and suspend yer duties filling jails and morgues with vermin? I scheduled your fall-time dusk appointments to be decorated with one last blood spatter analysis erupting from your five sensory organs serving double duty as magnum suppressors and kinetic shock absorption devices. Biting down on an extreme detonation, your respective cranial ports instantly become scatter-gun discharge exhaust vents. Retired public safety grunts' eyes, ears, noses and mouths sealed tightly around large caliber ballistic muzzle pressures should knock pictures off hospice care apartment walls, vaporize windows, drapes and the bathtub of gasoline we're soaking.
Fuck DNR's. It's better to kick loose the natural gas tubing behind yer oven, soak in a high-octane bubble bath, then repaint yer rest home apartment with your own rapidly accelerating burnt shit. Your personal signatory blast radius of smoking turds and hair should include half the old dust covered cars undriven in the back of your senior center parking lot. Don't let what happened to my grandpa happen to us. A slow death by Alzheimer's kills young boys in the same petty pace and our vanishing memories are the same painful story time storage banks in the minds and hearts of little boys that sure love the shit out of you.
As us graveyard shift-work grunts age and die I often ponder the inevitable next step in our existence. As I've described in previous postings I have dreams about you coppers and in these dreams, you fuckers are still alive. Just this evening I was drinking and smoking with Kim Nay, Ken Jewell, Ray Blanchard and Dean Westlake, then buying an extra large Maytag washing machine from John Mack at Sears with him laughing about my narc jobs gone sideways. Here's the shit: all of 'em are now worshiping dirt via various causes and I'm the last man standing. Shit, a few nights ago I partied with Patrick Octuck and Joe Murphy and in my dream I was well aware of my dozen years not drinking and smoking, but I enjoyed myself and got fucked up till sunrise. At this advanced stage of my crippling sobriety I'm way too fucking clear-headed to relapse into out-drinking younger turds in uniform. Even in my sleep.
When I was directed by the courts to attend counseling for a slew of assaults, underage alcohol and marijuana offenses, Dr. Marilyn Grey told me "things quite beyond comprehension happen to reason in our dreams. That's why I ask about them." Ain't she a persistent shit? So I told her that close friends that have died appear during the night and share in my worries and take great interest in everything my mind wrestles, despite the fact that throughout my dreams I'm fully aware they're already dead and buried. I doubt I'm alone. My pals, coworkers and brothers, already dead are worrying and busy by my side. Like Navajo code talk or Inupiaq gibberish, dreams are nonsense. Shit, I just saw John Erlich in dispatch drinking my overpriced coffee, enjoying my cigarettes, downing a packet of multivitamins and a handful of codeine Canadian 222 hangover meds. That's proof I'm drain-bramaged.
This nonsense parallels my wife asking hard questions from many years ago when I arrived in Kotz and my impressions of converting from devout criminality to working with you fuckers. Yup, conversations nonsensical to us logical fuckers are painfully complicated whilst yer author on drugs snoozes undead. My dreams usually consist of the books I just read or my issues of concern the preceding day. Issues like going to the dentist, chiropractor or taking the cars in for oil changes and repairs. The most memorable of my dreams are garbage piles of gory dumpage from crack house management, trash cans outside KPD spilling shit, vaginal drainage on my UAF dorm room pillows and rotten guts raining on my windshield working narc jobs for AST.
My nocturnal nightmares are also of fighting and dying and those are what wake me scared shitless. You see, I'm afraid of croaking before I complete nefarious schemes and chores I've assigned myself. I schedule gobs of obligations on my calendar and make-believe I'll live long enough to complete them. Fuck bucket lists. We can't choke and puke our butts empty if we have a fuck-load of stuff on our shit list incomplete. Feel me?
As you fuckers have realized, I use you rural coppers as my audience. My writings are aimed towards educated arctic public safety grunts. I type heaps of shit and misery, fun barf with a little stool chunks embedded within to gain traction in the wooden ears of goddamned cops. My attitudes towards death, illness and grave injuries are carved towards sharp points that illustrate the minds of graveyard shift assholes in uniform patrolling garbage dumps leaving dead dogs and brown people in their wake. Some we fucked. Some we're related to. Fetching strained greens and brown sewage I sift butt crumbs from my wasted years at university and cake them in your ears and email in-boxes. Here comes the hard part, so pay attention.
A good example of centuries-old intellectual high fiber fecal chew-toys are Greek philosophers who were powerful influences on modern thinking and moronic cop logic. Like recurring herpes Roman logic is persistently regurgitated throughout the writing and publishing of the Koran, Talmud, Upanishads and Tora. Oh, and the English Bible. What pisses me off is that this logical thinking is pert near ancient shit, meaning we ain't so smart and the best ideas were thought of long before Christ was a fucking corporal. Ancient Greeks lived thousands of years before us and these famous thinkers penetrate everything we read, write and speak. Unknowingly, Latin letters, Roman numerals and Arabic mathematics are anglicized stools of thought buried deep like microdot clandestine codes hidden in yer shit or secret braille instructions decoded as they're shoved up your ass.
The points I scribble are best phrased by smarter motherfuckers. Greek history has memorialized and chiseled quotes from a brainy asshole named Epicurus declaring, "There is no immortality and therefore death for us is not an evil, it simply does not concern us. While we exist, there is no death, and when it comes, we are gone." Except for your crying grandchildren and the funny fuckers still dreaming about working with you at the local PD. At this point in our lives and at the peak of our accumulated knowledge, some textbook shit finally makes sense. I told you I'm retarded.
Being a thieving asshole, I stole that quote and barfed it back at my philosophy professor and he recognized it, then scribbled the word, "Attribution!" Meaning I needed to give credit to the author I kyped and that I wasn't smart enough to think of it myself. Professor Benesch was right, I am a thief of great big ideas and he was being nice about telling me I was slower than an impaired gimp without a crutch and ought not steal from other people's bowls of gruel. You coppers know I'm guilty of coveting and plowing married neighbor pussy, but since that admonition, it's best I not nibble another man's gruel. In my logic, eating and boning borrowed married poon-bush lippy is okay, just not some other faggot's mushuk. I simply snacked the poor nigger's wife's oats and with an outstretched tongue, slobbered her ovarian nuts too.
So again quoting Epecurus, "Faith in immortality was born of the greed of unsatisfied people who make unwise use of the time that nature has allotted us. A wise man finds his life-span sufficient to complete the full circle of attainable pleasure and when death comes, he will leave the table of life satisfied, freeing a place for other guests. For the wise man, one human life is sufficient and a stupid man will not know what to do with eternity." He was referring to me, I'm a very stupid man. Eternity makes no sense to me and lacking an unlimited bag of expensive green bud, quite boring.
I'm not afraid of dying, it's the agony and pain that I witnessed as humans pass through that last stage pissing and shitting themselves. Sometimes on me. Not pretty. You coppers have scraped, scooped and bagged up bashed, battered, disfigured and shredded corpses that suffered unknowable misery as preamble to their deaths and you likely wince recalling the agony and horrors these victims endured. Well, here's comforting words again from that mouthy Greek goat fucker Epecurus, "One must not fear physical suffering. Whoever knows the limit of suffering is immune from fear. Protracted suffering never matters: the suffering which does matter is always brief." Meaning that last gasp, final contortion and writhing when we choke, puke and flat-line hurts momentarily, then we drift off in the embrace of sleep's cousin: death.
Hoisting, hefting and lugging innumerable injured and dying humans, cops are experts at death and suffering. As readers of these silly essays I've detailed numerous expiration's of pals due to drug overdoses, suicides and even unknown negroid assailants that got dead forcibly entering private mortuary property. I told you coppers about the 3 black dudes that thought robbing my crack house would be easier than taking candy from a white tar-baby, but only scored line drives upside the head with a baseball bat, a broken neck and a rusty revolver injury straight through the sternum leaving no exit wound and evidently, impossible to survive. To them Nigerian gangstas it was a suicide game that paid shit dividends.
I'm thinking them niggers were playing a game like Cowboys and Indians, but after we loaded their ghetto sled Buick Electra 225 trunk with flopping dead heavy black dudes, it's obvious they were playing "cowboys and niggers" and the cowboys won. In their reality they likely believed nobody would get dead and the lead jiggaboo robber would perform a ghetto jive pivot and deflect my baseball bat. Africoon #2 likely thought he'd pull some ancient nigger karate and writhe free of Big Dumb Dale's choke hold preventing a crushed larynx and broken neck. Lastly, instead of sucking a bullet from Dennis, the last of the Jimmy trio believed he'd simply swat that 38 caliber slug away like Superman. Stupid games win you stupid prizes. Niggers ain't no exception.
Fleeing north I thought I was escaping a culture of death and maiming. Fuck me in the goat ass, North Seattle and my poor, deformed high school classmates ain't got shit on the NANA Region. My poorly developed, illiterate business partners would've been right at home in the NWAB. What am I saying? Harley is still raising mixed mud minority chitlens and most of them even look like him. Recalling so many cops and drug buddies ghosted doesn't bother me though. If the information was available, we'd all be astounded to see how many classmates from high school have died, but who cares? You boys have been gone from your hometowns for so long I'd bet good money you've closed your eyes and ears to childhood ghosts. Looking back at you coppers I see a long migratory route to a place where our cop-talk emails exist, lacking pullouts and rest areas. Even today, as our ripe asses age, only far-distant hopes stir our hearts.
Regarding far-distant hopes, one thing you coppers can do is allow the innocent to live longer. Yup, that means caging rapists and killers. Which also describes some of our coworkers. You boys know a few killers and rapists in uniform and in another environment, we could've possibly been one or both. I'm being disingenuous, I was embraced and enveloped by 2 coworker's pretty wives and it was a wonderful experience-not rape. As stated in previous paragraphs, death implies we're no longer in everybody's fucking hair. We're also no longer paying the bills and standing watch over our stacks of insurance EOB's, pension checks and lastly, our domiciles. That means homes you chumps. Ben Franklin declared two outcomes inevitable in our short shitty lives: death and taxes. He must have forgotten Alzheimer's. In Alaska, oil and lead/zinc taxes might possibly be responsible for stalling early deaths for a million fucking first nation Alaska Natives.
Extending life for our dense kids and retarded inlaws means better water, better foods and most important, far better educations. Not that numb-nut indigenous bullshit. That's fer play time at the mongoloid daycare and subsistence blab is jerking off material. Just the smell of seal oil gives me strokable wood. Look at how puny our in-laws' parents and grandparents are and you need no further evidence of how crippling traditional foods and traditional living keeps tundra chimps stunted, comic midgets. The biggest impact in extending the lives of ice runts was developing Prudhoe Bay and the Red Dog Mine. Those two sources of cash-bucks paid for all the schools, massive meal programs plus water and sewer projects we see all over rural AK monkey-hood. The federal money was merely matching funds to these revenues and without the seed money Prudhoe and the Dog supplied, we'd be gaped, fucked and stuffed. Meaning no tard-babies and long-buried wiffs.
One statistic you'll choke on is an astounding number: 18. Yup, according to KNBA's Alaska News Nightly last week, the added number of years to natives living in Alaska since Prudhoe and Red Dog is 18 years. Parallel to this dozen and a half increase in lifespans we also have an increase in height and weight of more than 10%. This explosion in longer living and larger Inukuns occurred only after oil revenues flooded Alaska in 1977 and Red Dog's PILT (payment in lieu of taxes) rebuilt a shit load of junker school houses and afforded massive public health infrastructure.
If we had to pay property taxes to the Northwest Arctic Borough to cover the expense of the last 40 year's nut, we'd never buy the properties we raised dumber kids in. Just imagine if we'd not had any Red Dog, you coppers would have to pay property taxes like we do out here in the real world. The numerous properties (5) me and bun bought in the Mat-Su cost me between a grand and $3K every year. Do the math chumps, that's pert near a hunnert bucks a month minimum.
Here on the Kenai Pen we paid a slightly higher rate of taxation for our lakeside cabin and shop because we didn't live on the property. If your property is your sole abode, you get the first $50K estimated property value exempted on your hacienda taxes. The lakefront piece we bought with inheritance rubles and sheckles derived from slavery, laudanum importation and Alaska child trafficking was simply our weekend crash, smoke out pad and stone grotto. We'd moved from the Kenai River Inn we rented during winters to the Sterling Senior Center and with waiting lists exceeding 40 smelly pensioners quickly stacking up on our heels, we decided to hold tight to our apartment and stay at the frosty nigger dust farting rest home only visiting our lakefront treasure every other day. We performed clean-up, decoration work and then put it back on the market. We paid $75K all cash, then unloaded it for $90K: 12 grand down with $850 monthly payments for a 10-year term. The monthly dineros are pretty fucking sweet. Unloading the property tax bills are even sweeter. Now I'm a tax-freeloading bum like you NANA Regional fuckers.
The 18 years I'm referring to is from a presentation I listened to from Bob Harcharek's son, some mixed-mud know-it-all that was fighting to re-open ANWR for oil development. Bob Harcharek is a big noise in the NSB. He was the mayor of Barrow and sat on seats of the city council and borough assembly. His son is now a mover and shaker in the half-breed community and he recited the 18 year statistical increase in native longevity since the oil revenues from Prudhow Bay started flowing. The North Slope Borough is a firm believer in the prospects ANWR and the coastal 10-02 region offers and being all federal land, the North Slope Borough is a major partner in the rich stream of oil/gas and mineral royalties, with the federal guv the other partner. Oil discovered, drilled and pumped from state lands pays Juneau. Oil extracted from federal lands is split between the respective boroughs and Washington DC. Juneau don't get dick.
Now back to the 18 year increase in native longevity. A citizen benefit Alaskans enjoy is Medicaid, a state paid lavish medical insurance plan that's another expensive program offered alongside Public Assistance. It's free medical benefits provided to low-income Alaskans and on top of IHS native health care: a damn nice form of welfare. In the Northwest Arctic Borough and North Slope Borough we have much longer living natives and since Prudhoe and Red Dog we're seeing old age ailments that weren't known heretofore. You boys have buried parents suffering advanced heart disease, cancers and the biggy: Alzheimer's. Alzheimer's is the most common form of dementia and now has shown itself in disproportionate numbers amongst the longer living natives in Alaska. A full third of elder natives suffer from Alzheimer's. A disease that almost never affected citizen Inuits that previously died at much younger ages.
Early onset Alzheimer's disease is quite rare yet has taken out some famous figures that you all may know. Randy Travis died from it as did the actor who played Keith Partridge, the TV star's older sibling to Danny Bonaducci on the Partridge Family. Another victim of old-age Alzheimer's is Glenn Campbell the country singer. Alzheimer's tends to run in families and can be traced through DNA. In Alaska I'm a fan of expanding welfare programs like Medicaid to cover super expensive old age ailments such as dementia because the money never goes to the poor slobs, niggers, white trash and ice monkeys: it goes to a million health care workers, dentists, hygienists, pharmacists and every other employee working to keep hospitals, clinics and pharmacies built, heated, lighted and open for business. In Alaska Medicaid provides billions of dollars to our 907 health care infrastructure every year. In a backwards view, Medicaid subsidizes the health care us non-native well-to-do motherfuckers enjoy.
Here's a troubling statistic that has emerged from longer living natives in your own backyard. The Northwest Arctic Borough has the highest rates of Alzheimer's in Alaska. No known cause has been definitively ascertained but we should keep an eye on our spouses. Their behavior may be due to this most common form of dementia and the symptoms include confusion, frustration and isolation. I'm just grasping at straws, but bun's dad died at the age of 50 and so did her brother Bobby. Her dad was born in 1927, lived a damn hard and crippling subsistence life. His hands, arms and back were equally worn out as his wife Magdelene's. He died in 1977 and didn't get to enjoy the benefits of Prudhoe Bay or Red Dog Mine.
Her father's death is likely attributable to a brutal Eskimo life plagued with chronic tobacco and alcohol abuse and he expired on his 5th decade quite similar to Bobby. Robert Tikik didn't die from any symptoms related to Alzheimer's, he died of cancer that started in his stomach, spread to his lungs then basically turned his innards into a tough bundle of fibers and scars. Her other two brothers Bryant and Luke also died from non-infectious diseases. Luke died at 19 from acute alcohol and drug intoxication and her brother Bryant was killed at the age of 25 in Selawik. Bryant was fighting wasted drunk on home brew with Bobby and Bobby shoved a kitchen knife into Bryant. If you know Eskimo family lineages, you'll recognize that Bryant was the father of BJ TIkik who lived with his girlfriend in Wilbur Karmen's house. Well BJ died at a very young age of dementia that I believe arose from chronic partying on alcohol and chewing strips of Fentanyl patches. Aside from alcoholism, my in-laws will likely experience Alzheimer's cuz the plaque and bundles turn gray matter into loose stool and stinky leaking ear drippings.
Now, on a relevant side note. Bun's two other brothers, Billy and Charlie are showing signs of Alzheimer's disease. They survived hard lives of subsistence, alcoholism and a shitty zip code within Selawik. They're both a few years younger than bun and are pegging the 70 mark since their births. You boys may not know it, but they've been moved from Selawik to the assisted living section next door to the Manilaq Health Center. Both boys (old men now) were losing their places, neighbor's names and finding their ways back home to their own addresses. Their memories were vaporizing rapidly and the village clinic and VPSO's were concerned with their safety in such a kind, caring, wonderful village like Selawik. The VPSO in Selawik thought Charlie to be wasted drunk, but he tested a zero intoximeter score and the concerns grew steadily since. Kenny seems to be in decent shape and in possession of his wits so the jury is out whether he'll be joining his two brothers at the hospice care hotel. Living longer has it's price.
Now back to the North Slope. Adding up the property taxes on Prudhoe Bay, I was amazed at the billions of dollars (petroleum impact funds) paid to the North Slope Borough, Arctic Slope Native Association, Inupiaq Communities of the North and the Native Villages across the slope from NPRA (National Petroleum Reserve Alaska). It's allowed fantastic schools, infrastructure like water and sewer in all the villages and also pays for most of the expenses involved with heating and power. Full time permanent residents living in the villages of Atqusak, Wainwright, Pt. Hope, Pt.Lay, Unuktuvik Pass, Nuiqsuit, Kaktovik and Barrow pay zero property taxes and also receive nearly free yutes: utilities.
Oh, get this, all the teachers working in the North Slope Borough are provided free housing on top of their salaries. Imagine the improvement in the quality of teachers if the crotch (Krotchebue) had a fucking clue on that action. Ya just might retain the better teachers, instead of shit. With crap wages stuck paying stupid high rents to Kotzebue shit-ass slumlords and if I had a lower IQ and taught slow brown school children, I'd book to better paying boroughs. If Barrow runs out of money, the prevailing smell remaining would be derivative of Kotzebue. NANA means butt wipe (Ikrik smear) in Barrow-speak.
The petroleum impact funds are spent on other operations like the Native Villages of each respective community, plus ASNA and ICAS. ASNA stands for Arctic Slope Native Association and they're the owners of the hospital and all the village clinics plus purchasing hospital equipment, medical staff salaries and make medical flight arrangements to Barrow or Anchorage for everybody including bun. Now that we're slumming at the Denaina Vagina, we fly to ANMC for procedures not performed at our Kenai village clinic. ICAS stands for the Inupiaq Community of Arctic Slope and they expedite vocational training, relocation and job placement malarkey. If you NANA fuckers pull yer head out yer ass and pull some dollars out yer dirt, you could live better'n baked Indun turds and smell better'n fried loaves of dog doo. Take a hint: Ambler Metals.
Now that Prudhoe Bay is winding down and Red Dog is closing you fuckers will on the hook for replacing a shit pile of declining dollars. Plug yer noses and get ready to pay a property tax. It's gonna hurt worse than awaking to Percy Sheldon jacking a load in yer shredded rectum. Look at your checkbook and calculate another 2 AK dimes ($200) every month going to NWAB. That ain't shit, replacing both Prudhoe and Red Dog, think double that and yer ass will bleed like us real humans paying our own way in life. Not freeloading like shit-ass reds, blacks and browns.
I'm thinking that getting fucked by Tubby Goodwin is better than paying property taxes in the NWAB. His anal sex is watery box soup and Mike Tabor got such a tiny cookoo you'd never notice his worm spooging no-tail queer sperms up yer ass. Your mortgage payments will invisibly include new NWAB property taxes and home owners' insurance so the fucking might not feel much worse than micro-dick baby plugger wieners squirting molester DNA rich discharge that'll light up yer hemorrhoids like a torch. Nothing worse than Buckland foreplay or consummating a Noorvik marriage with yer own uncle. I'm feeling an urge to fart watery bubbles.
Gilbert Schaeffer wanted me to part my ass cheeks fer some warm dairy products, but he was stuck way up in Higman's locked up tight ass. I once itched my ass and found Lester Vestal standing behind me quivering like a spastic, shivering and squirting drops outa piece of spaghetti. I never knew he spooged my shit. I crap bigger'n most of them ass-bandit Eskimos so any Inu-style butt rape up my ass would be like tossing a hot dog down a hallway. Fuck dudes, after my high-fiber turds exit my ass, they leave a cavern a dozen micro-Eski-homos could camp in.
Okay, take a puke break. Just this last week we spent 5 days at the ANMC Hospital and visited with quite a few NANA cousins, sprinkled amongst some long lost Barrow kith and kin. It was good to see an older cab driver from Kotzebue and he cackled at our recollections of picking up my booze orders, yielding one or two bottles of better grade liquor to this same cab driver repaying past, present and future cab fares. We both chuckled covertly at his mention of my picking up dog kennels, stolen and hot firearms freight and numerous boxes containing compact disks of music unheard on KOTZ. His wife Jerry and bun glanced over at us, mid-convo so we shushed our stupid man talk about thousands of doses of LSD hidden within the aforementioned freight parcels and the canine mats inside freight carriers containing a pit bull and a doberman.
Funny how so many of our friends and neighbors remember my stunts. Stupid stunts indeed, unless you consider my cab driver's acid party he had with his wife. I'd given him a string of 10 perforated and saturated pieces of blotter paper that'd kill a small child. He and his wife played my mixed music space tapes repeatedly whilst tripping a thousand miles higher than God. His description was he and his wife were taken aback at how enjoyable a good LSD trip could be. All the while forgetting to light a single cigarette, a single doobie or bowl of weed, leaving the Jim Beam I'd repaid him still capped. Acid is funny in how it disrupts our nastier habits while time traveling. As we reminisced I reminded him about the startling Alzheimer's statistic cursing the NANA Region more than other native Alaskans and his retort was all the good LSD cured him and might possibly unlocked nightmares from his past.
We both channeled and time traveled a million years ago to a bar bearing zero resemblance to my grandpa's Genessee Bar and Wade complimented me on not causing any trouble while he worked as door man and bouncer. Wade mentioned my civil behavior whilst drinking in a bar packed full of wasted assholes. And I didn't lay a hand on a single soul there. He continued to tell me about a flood of acid retrieved memories from his troubled Blackfoot childhood yonder Montana 48. For years he'd blocked out or erased with alcohol a horrid fight resulting in a rather nasty insertion on a native boy's criminal record indicating a conviction for attempted homicide.
Since keeping his proverbial nose clean for the last 40 years and a much clearer recollection to testify contritely in court about the drunken fight Wade Laws had with his very best friend. His conviction for a nasty bit of violence 4 decades ago (when Wade was only 22), was expunged and he's been given a complete and unconditional pardon and commutation. Sort of like Carlos Salazar, a clean sheet and fresh start for work at KPD. In Mr. Wade Laws' case he received a wiped clean criminal background and was allowed to adopt a slew of his very own grand kids. Wade stated that on one of the acid trips he took, he finally retrieved all the facts surrounding the awful drunken fight that caused his best friend to die 3 times in the ER: as a result of the injuries Wade inflicted. I'm not sure I could bury and erase such a nightmare, but if that qualifies as instant karma or recycled blessings, he seems happy with his life as a grandparent and his survival to his recent 62nd birthday. Wade might be an old fucker, but he's our neighbor and the same age as us.
In closing, Wade asked me what I've been up to since completing phase one of house #369 that Harold Lambert put the finishing touches on, the Capone narc job and leaving Kotz in 1993 for an address near mile 71 on the Parks Highway in Willow. My response was, "not too much." He smiled and said, "That's what worries me Karl. Whenever you tell me 'not much' I start to worry when the nuclear bombs start falling and the search warrants get served. Kotzebue cringes at the thought of you coming back."
We chuckled for a few seconds. Then wiped the smiles off our faces when Jerry and Bun glanced in our direction again.
Man talk is unsuitable for women-folk. Especially grim talk of mortality, lost memories, LSD retrievals and forgiving ourselves. And forgiving our aging pals when they forget everything wonderful about working with us.
Discussing lost or buried memories and Alzheimer's may quite possibly be upsetting for cops. We all worry identical eventual outcomes to our extended lifespans. Namely losing our minds, our wives, ourselves and breaking the hearts of little boys that love us absolutely and truly adore us.
Being a grandpa is a big responsibility. Tend to it soon.
That's an order.
Karl.
About 50 years ago the phone rang and being psyched to talk on the telephone and practice my good manners I ran to answer it. I said hello and was astonished to recognize my grandfather's voice. He had a hard European accent with English being his third language and Estonian (Baltic German) and Russian his first and second. He greeted me with, "Hello Karl, what are you doing today." My response was that me and Cully were feeding the horses and playing cowboys and Indians. Grandpa laughed at my tale and advised I be careful standing on top of galloping horses and shooting my cap guns like trick riders on TV Westerns. Me and Cully had been hospitalized for injuries doing stupid shit just like that. Sometimes getting gored by goats' horns, kicked by horses or flipping our bicycles. You coppers see a reckless, suicidal pattern emerging don't you? As I compose this am cop-talk email, you'll likely see many more devastating life patterns emerge.
After our preliminary greetings my grandpa asked me if I could help him and I said I'd be happy to. Grandpa stated that he was at the intersection near the Genessee Bar and could I steer him towards our house. I smiled because that was the tavern he took me and Cully to sit at the bar and drink make-believe adult beverages and listen to the other old men's childhood tales of World War One with impossibly accented English. On numerous occasions the bar tender served us brandy or Guinness beers too. We were 10 feet tall and practicing for a life of alcoholism. Go figure.
I'd memorized the route from grandpa's house to the Genessee Bar and the roads he took to drop me and Cully off at home so I was the right guy at the right time for this duty. I was 10 years old and looking to prove I was worthy of my grandpa's request for directions. I explained in exquisite detail the direction and the roads he needed to drive to come and pick me and Cully up and go drinking like grown-up old European men. Which is what grandpa had originally planned before getting lost. My directions had to paint detailed vivid images and striking pictures to trigger impactful memories fading inside my grandpa's storybook and with a few flourishes from my paint brush on our shared visual white space canvas, gramps thanked me profusely and the old man was down the road.
As you coppers can decipher, it's the same method of communicating as I use scribbling these emails to a bunch of fucking public safety grunts. It ain't no secret that we're all losing a battle like my grandpa, so with the use of actual arctic Alaskan addresses, specific names, SR data points and criminal details, I can cause explosive retrievals memorable within myself and my readers. Someone's gotta look after you crippled killers. Looking back I assumed my gramps was a little tipsy and just needed 2 little boys as copilots and navigators. I was sadly very, very wrong.
Grandpa's phone calls to chat with me for directions became more frequent and more complicated. He'd phone from damn near the Canadian border and I'd instruct him to re-enter Interstate 5 and drive south 120 miles to come pick up me and Cully. I also advised him to drop by the Blaine Texaco station and top off his Volvo with Sky Chief 104 octane High-test Ethyl. He'd chuckle and state he'd be by in an hour to pick us up and go drinking with his pensioner pals at the Genessee Bar. Fucking A dudes, if you do the math, he'd have to drive at 120 miles per hour to come and pick us up, which to me and Cully was WAY cool. The federal speed limit was 70 mph, but he averaged 90-100 mph and arrived in slightly more than one hour. Regardless of his age and level of intoxication, we were totally psyched at that action.
Here's the honest truth. He wasn't drunk at all. He was slowly succumbing to Alzheimer's and I was too young to know what the fuck that meant. I was also complicit in keeping these secret chats from my parents how often grandpa phoned for directions. It was a little boy's secret and I even kept a folded map I kyped outa my dad's glove box so I could examine where he thought he was, then direct him towards his favorite grandsons: Team Volvo racing mates, pit crew and little drinking partners. Looking back, I wish he was simply intoxicated and not the other awful alternative. I never forgot how badly I felt hearing mere echoes of a once wonderful old man that adored his grandsons. Now it's our turn to be missed by darling little boys that tragically admire us.
As I entered my teen years I experienced a tearful transition in life. My map reading skills became obsolete and my duties were taken over by Seattle PD, County Sheriffs and Washington State Patrols. My grandpa was forgetting the phone number to connect with his lifeline and favorite grand kids: me and Cully. Shortly thereafter he lost his drivers license and my grandma assumed the driving duties. Besides improving regional highway safety, me and Cully never again got to go to the Genessee Bar and visit our crew of old men with harsh European accents. I also discovered that death slowly kills children while simultaneously killing their grandparents in evermore sorrowfully painful steps. They first forget their ways home, then your phone number, then your names. His absence was horrifying and these same heartbreaking realities you coppers all feel and suffer within your own families.
Fuck it. Even at the age of 10, some shit never works out the way we planned. You see, it wasn't supposed to be this way. I had everything schemed to the most minute detail. Like a proper schoolboy I put check marks on all my chores, then much later, our jobs laid off, resigned or terminated, most concluded with cases closed and body bags zipped. We weren't gonna see our shit get old and waste away like pulverized roadkill. We were gonna go out admired, honored, dodging bullets, cutting throats, breaking necks and batting softened heads clean off shoulders like Arnold Palmer or Lee Trevino's tee offs. In parallel centuries it's likely a little boy dearly admires us and will surely miss us when we no longer remember his name nor spend time chatting with him. It's also okay to weep and sob silently way down deep inside, we all were little boys a million years ago. Now we're the fading grandfathers. Getting killed in the line of duty is far better than Alzheimer's. I worry about you graying gunslingers.
In previous incarnations with you coppers as my coworkers, ain't nothing better'n combatants muted, faces blanked expressionless no longer breaking our ribs, crushing our windpipes leaving us whispering through wine-free grapes crushed. Your instructions were to keep shooting until every goddamned hostile tango was no longer a threat. Since eternity, us aging male humans prefer an honorable death going out in a blaze of glory 6-gunned to bits or obliterated by shotguns or machine gun fire and if that don't kill us, we'll be kicking and stomping our foes collapsed, dispatched lifeless. AIn't no time to slow down to catch your breath and wipe the guts off yer uniform, there's little children silently crying and praying you'll show up and rescue them from monsters they mistook for parents. Or a little boy awaiting his grandpa's visit with him. That grandpa being you coppers.
We prevailed in a shit load of mortal contests and guess what? The prize is senility, infirmity and indignity. 3 words I use when I'm writing in my original stoner convo, merging towards rude, punchy cop talk, then to my stilted, dated tone of early 19th century novel of manners. So what I mean by these 3 shit-ass symptoms of living too long is Alzheimer's, the most common form of dementia. Fuck that. On both sides of the law my cell mates and fellow soldiers are dust long forgotten and tonight's bleak nocturne is miraculously metronomed by my own fading heart beats. Our brains will harden and get lost, but the hearts of little boys never forget their aging heroes. Where did it all go so wrong? We weren't supposed to be here. I had dreams of shoveling piles of shiny white or yellow glass, rich green smoke bobbing in solvent dishes of ethanol preservatives. The ends our lives hurt so much we may need to relapse together at an old European man's bar drinking brandy and Guinness beer and smoking pleasant cigars. First round's on me.
Outdated uniforms are terrified of being cleaned, pressed and shelved for eternity or stored in a trunk in the basement collecting dust. I prefer mine torn, perforated, soaked in red shit, discarded in rubbish bins or blown to threadbare cloud-bits. Wheelchairs, medals and parades only serve to exacerbate desperate survivors' guilt. As we age, we'll be forced to eat evermore lonesome guilt served us in ever larger helpings. Bun commented that all the names in my phone book have lines drawn through them. lf you coppers look at your dust encrusted email address folder, you'll see that you don't have any friends, they're all dead. Seems to be a lot of that going around. Being alert and on duty, I was always ready to call in back-up while watching over you fuckers on active shooter gun calls. Sad to say, I figured you'd be first to go. Not last. I hope and pray you don't forget about the man in Dispatch worried sick about you.
Crippled ancient servicemen detest help of any kind and are painfully aware that the definition of sympathy is bookmarked in the dictionary right between shit and syphilis. May I call you coppers ancient servicemen? Okay, not ancient, but we sure as shit failed our own extinguishment and this mucous butt-seepage is long stale. What the fuck. Our bodies are still relatively vibrant and radiant, virile vigorous and potent, not sub-dirt with pals at ease, still on perimeter, patrolling boot hill. Double shifts lugging gurneys, loading meat wagons, cutting down hangers or holiday overtime hourly pay to most coppers is thought to be bone-grinding tough. Nup, clocking off shift for the last time and returning home to a patient little boy awaiting our visits and will surely miss us dearly after we no longer remember his name will prove most difficult. Take a moment to sit with him as soon as you get your emotions in check.
What's real fucking tough is counting pension checks, shrinking behind heaps of grand children's storybooks and their adventures and our spouse's death vigils in non-native clinics wiping wetted eyes. You see, this shit is infinitely harder than long hours working with me. Retirement and wasting away ain't the menu I ascribed in bad English. Since acquiring fluency in Inupiaq I discovered our marriage vows included a finely printed foreign language clause declaring, "I won't remember you." When your wives are on their last brain cell, feed 'em a gun. Their demise was intended to be a celebratory percussion cap eating a shotgun blast fer brekky echoing all the way through the darkening night and right to my laptop. Despite vacant memories of your careers, don't forget to mind yer manners, serving the ladies muzzle blast medicines first and if you bid that little boy farewell between midnight and 2:00 am, I'll hear that gun shot here at my computing station. So will a whole lot of little boys around the world, but with moistened eyes, hopefully they'll understand.
Each morning, marching through another decade waking undead and rusty requires for more effort than hefting dead bodies heavier than our own weight or breathing with both lungs a hunnert lifetimes beyond our cell mates, team mates and spouses. I edited the end of our movies pleasantly catastrophic and lethal, not pussy G rated. Your closing credits were intended to come with a movie rating warning whining faggots of inappropriate gratuitous violent content and a product label stating, "This could get really loud." It seems I was wrong, my choice of words writing you old killers is loud.
Bathing in gasoline, old tires and propane canisters, eating a gun appetizer snack will save yer heirs the price of a funeral and an overpriced casket more expensive than a new car or a couple years at university. One stop shopping: suicide and cremation igniting a primer, 50 gallons of fuel and a hunnert pounder tank of propane. May your exit and coda be a shockwave seen and heard for miles around. Of course, I imagined you coppers triggering a nuclear suicide vest leveling entire black communities. Or Buckland. Seeing you boys taking out a hunnert ugly motherfuckers shitting and grinning toothy like happy niggers makes me cackle evil like a funny faggot.
Something's wrong with this picture. Fuck doctors. Since when did aging broken suicidal public safety grunts yield to sagely white-coat lectures and suspend yer duties filling jails and morgues with vermin? I scheduled your fall-time dusk appointments to be decorated with one last blood spatter analysis erupting from your five sensory organs serving double duty as magnum suppressors and kinetic shock absorption devices. Biting down on an extreme detonation, your respective cranial ports instantly become scatter-gun discharge exhaust vents. Retired public safety grunts' eyes, ears, noses and mouths sealed tightly around large caliber ballistic muzzle pressures should knock pictures off hospice care apartment walls, vaporize windows, drapes and the bathtub of gasoline we're soaking.
Fuck DNR's. It's better to kick loose the natural gas tubing behind yer oven, soak in a high-octane bubble bath, then repaint yer rest home apartment with your own rapidly accelerating burnt shit. Your personal signatory blast radius of smoking turds and hair should include half the old dust covered cars undriven in the back of your senior center parking lot. Don't let what happened to my grandpa happen to us. A slow death by Alzheimer's kills young boys in the same petty pace and our vanishing memories are the same painful story time storage banks in the minds and hearts of little boys that sure love the shit out of you.
As us graveyard shift-work grunts age and die I often ponder the inevitable next step in our existence. As I've described in previous postings I have dreams about you coppers and in these dreams, you fuckers are still alive. Just this evening I was drinking and smoking with Kim Nay, Ken Jewell, Ray Blanchard and Dean Westlake, then buying an extra large Maytag washing machine from John Mack at Sears with him laughing about my narc jobs gone sideways. Here's the shit: all of 'em are now worshiping dirt via various causes and I'm the last man standing. Shit, a few nights ago I partied with Patrick Octuck and Joe Murphy and in my dream I was well aware of my dozen years not drinking and smoking, but I enjoyed myself and got fucked up till sunrise. At this advanced stage of my crippling sobriety I'm way too fucking clear-headed to relapse into out-drinking younger turds in uniform. Even in my sleep.
When I was directed by the courts to attend counseling for a slew of assaults, underage alcohol and marijuana offenses, Dr. Marilyn Grey told me "things quite beyond comprehension happen to reason in our dreams. That's why I ask about them." Ain't she a persistent shit? So I told her that close friends that have died appear during the night and share in my worries and take great interest in everything my mind wrestles, despite the fact that throughout my dreams I'm fully aware they're already dead and buried. I doubt I'm alone. My pals, coworkers and brothers, already dead are worrying and busy by my side. Like Navajo code talk or Inupiaq gibberish, dreams are nonsense. Shit, I just saw John Erlich in dispatch drinking my overpriced coffee, enjoying my cigarettes, downing a packet of multivitamins and a handful of codeine Canadian 222 hangover meds. That's proof I'm drain-bramaged.
This nonsense parallels my wife asking hard questions from many years ago when I arrived in Kotz and my impressions of converting from devout criminality to working with you fuckers. Yup, conversations nonsensical to us logical fuckers are painfully complicated whilst yer author on drugs snoozes undead. My dreams usually consist of the books I just read or my issues of concern the preceding day. Issues like going to the dentist, chiropractor or taking the cars in for oil changes and repairs. The most memorable of my dreams are garbage piles of gory dumpage from crack house management, trash cans outside KPD spilling shit, vaginal drainage on my UAF dorm room pillows and rotten guts raining on my windshield working narc jobs for AST.
My nocturnal nightmares are also of fighting and dying and those are what wake me scared shitless. You see, I'm afraid of croaking before I complete nefarious schemes and chores I've assigned myself. I schedule gobs of obligations on my calendar and make-believe I'll live long enough to complete them. Fuck bucket lists. We can't choke and puke our butts empty if we have a fuck-load of stuff on our shit list incomplete. Feel me?
As you fuckers have realized, I use you rural coppers as my audience. My writings are aimed towards educated arctic public safety grunts. I type heaps of shit and misery, fun barf with a little stool chunks embedded within to gain traction in the wooden ears of goddamned cops. My attitudes towards death, illness and grave injuries are carved towards sharp points that illustrate the minds of graveyard shift assholes in uniform patrolling garbage dumps leaving dead dogs and brown people in their wake. Some we fucked. Some we're related to. Fetching strained greens and brown sewage I sift butt crumbs from my wasted years at university and cake them in your ears and email in-boxes. Here comes the hard part, so pay attention.
A good example of centuries-old intellectual high fiber fecal chew-toys are Greek philosophers who were powerful influences on modern thinking and moronic cop logic. Like recurring herpes Roman logic is persistently regurgitated throughout the writing and publishing of the Koran, Talmud, Upanishads and Tora. Oh, and the English Bible. What pisses me off is that this logical thinking is pert near ancient shit, meaning we ain't so smart and the best ideas were thought of long before Christ was a fucking corporal. Ancient Greeks lived thousands of years before us and these famous thinkers penetrate everything we read, write and speak. Unknowingly, Latin letters, Roman numerals and Arabic mathematics are anglicized stools of thought buried deep like microdot clandestine codes hidden in yer shit or secret braille instructions decoded as they're shoved up your ass.
The points I scribble are best phrased by smarter motherfuckers. Greek history has memorialized and chiseled quotes from a brainy asshole named Epicurus declaring, "There is no immortality and therefore death for us is not an evil, it simply does not concern us. While we exist, there is no death, and when it comes, we are gone." Except for your crying grandchildren and the funny fuckers still dreaming about working with you at the local PD. At this point in our lives and at the peak of our accumulated knowledge, some textbook shit finally makes sense. I told you I'm retarded.
Being a thieving asshole, I stole that quote and barfed it back at my philosophy professor and he recognized it, then scribbled the word, "Attribution!" Meaning I needed to give credit to the author I kyped and that I wasn't smart enough to think of it myself. Professor Benesch was right, I am a thief of great big ideas and he was being nice about telling me I was slower than an impaired gimp without a crutch and ought not steal from other people's bowls of gruel. You coppers know I'm guilty of coveting and plowing married neighbor pussy, but since that admonition, it's best I not nibble another man's gruel. In my logic, eating and boning borrowed married poon-bush lippy is okay, just not some other faggot's mushuk. I simply snacked the poor nigger's wife's oats and with an outstretched tongue, slobbered her ovarian nuts too.
So again quoting Epecurus, "Faith in immortality was born of the greed of unsatisfied people who make unwise use of the time that nature has allotted us. A wise man finds his life-span sufficient to complete the full circle of attainable pleasure and when death comes, he will leave the table of life satisfied, freeing a place for other guests. For the wise man, one human life is sufficient and a stupid man will not know what to do with eternity." He was referring to me, I'm a very stupid man. Eternity makes no sense to me and lacking an unlimited bag of expensive green bud, quite boring.
I'm not afraid of dying, it's the agony and pain that I witnessed as humans pass through that last stage pissing and shitting themselves. Sometimes on me. Not pretty. You coppers have scraped, scooped and bagged up bashed, battered, disfigured and shredded corpses that suffered unknowable misery as preamble to their deaths and you likely wince recalling the agony and horrors these victims endured. Well, here's comforting words again from that mouthy Greek goat fucker Epecurus, "One must not fear physical suffering. Whoever knows the limit of suffering is immune from fear. Protracted suffering never matters: the suffering which does matter is always brief." Meaning that last gasp, final contortion and writhing when we choke, puke and flat-line hurts momentarily, then we drift off in the embrace of sleep's cousin: death.
Hoisting, hefting and lugging innumerable injured and dying humans, cops are experts at death and suffering. As readers of these silly essays I've detailed numerous expiration's of pals due to drug overdoses, suicides and even unknown negroid assailants that got dead forcibly entering private mortuary property. I told you coppers about the 3 black dudes that thought robbing my crack house would be easier than taking candy from a white tar-baby, but only scored line drives upside the head with a baseball bat, a broken neck and a rusty revolver injury straight through the sternum leaving no exit wound and evidently, impossible to survive. To them Nigerian gangstas it was a suicide game that paid shit dividends.
I'm thinking them niggers were playing a game like Cowboys and Indians, but after we loaded their ghetto sled Buick Electra 225 trunk with flopping dead heavy black dudes, it's obvious they were playing "cowboys and niggers" and the cowboys won. In their reality they likely believed nobody would get dead and the lead jiggaboo robber would perform a ghetto jive pivot and deflect my baseball bat. Africoon #2 likely thought he'd pull some ancient nigger karate and writhe free of Big Dumb Dale's choke hold preventing a crushed larynx and broken neck. Lastly, instead of sucking a bullet from Dennis, the last of the Jimmy trio believed he'd simply swat that 38 caliber slug away like Superman. Stupid games win you stupid prizes. Niggers ain't no exception.
Fleeing north I thought I was escaping a culture of death and maiming. Fuck me in the goat ass, North Seattle and my poor, deformed high school classmates ain't got shit on the NANA Region. My poorly developed, illiterate business partners would've been right at home in the NWAB. What am I saying? Harley is still raising mixed mud minority chitlens and most of them even look like him. Recalling so many cops and drug buddies ghosted doesn't bother me though. If the information was available, we'd all be astounded to see how many classmates from high school have died, but who cares? You boys have been gone from your hometowns for so long I'd bet good money you've closed your eyes and ears to childhood ghosts. Looking back at you coppers I see a long migratory route to a place where our cop-talk emails exist, lacking pullouts and rest areas. Even today, as our ripe asses age, only far-distant hopes stir our hearts.
Regarding far-distant hopes, one thing you coppers can do is allow the innocent to live longer. Yup, that means caging rapists and killers. Which also describes some of our coworkers. You boys know a few killers and rapists in uniform and in another environment, we could've possibly been one or both. I'm being disingenuous, I was embraced and enveloped by 2 coworker's pretty wives and it was a wonderful experience-not rape. As stated in previous paragraphs, death implies we're no longer in everybody's fucking hair. We're also no longer paying the bills and standing watch over our stacks of insurance EOB's, pension checks and lastly, our domiciles. That means homes you chumps. Ben Franklin declared two outcomes inevitable in our short shitty lives: death and taxes. He must have forgotten Alzheimer's. In Alaska, oil and lead/zinc taxes might possibly be responsible for stalling early deaths for a million fucking first nation Alaska Natives.
Extending life for our dense kids and retarded inlaws means better water, better foods and most important, far better educations. Not that numb-nut indigenous bullshit. That's fer play time at the mongoloid daycare and subsistence blab is jerking off material. Just the smell of seal oil gives me strokable wood. Look at how puny our in-laws' parents and grandparents are and you need no further evidence of how crippling traditional foods and traditional living keeps tundra chimps stunted, comic midgets. The biggest impact in extending the lives of ice runts was developing Prudhoe Bay and the Red Dog Mine. Those two sources of cash-bucks paid for all the schools, massive meal programs plus water and sewer projects we see all over rural AK monkey-hood. The federal money was merely matching funds to these revenues and without the seed money Prudhoe and the Dog supplied, we'd be gaped, fucked and stuffed. Meaning no tard-babies and long-buried wiffs.
One statistic you'll choke on is an astounding number: 18. Yup, according to KNBA's Alaska News Nightly last week, the added number of years to natives living in Alaska since Prudhoe and Red Dog is 18 years. Parallel to this dozen and a half increase in lifespans we also have an increase in height and weight of more than 10%. This explosion in longer living and larger Inukuns occurred only after oil revenues flooded Alaska in 1977 and Red Dog's PILT (payment in lieu of taxes) rebuilt a shit load of junker school houses and afforded massive public health infrastructure.
If we had to pay property taxes to the Northwest Arctic Borough to cover the expense of the last 40 year's nut, we'd never buy the properties we raised dumber kids in. Just imagine if we'd not had any Red Dog, you coppers would have to pay property taxes like we do out here in the real world. The numerous properties (5) me and bun bought in the Mat-Su cost me between a grand and $3K every year. Do the math chumps, that's pert near a hunnert bucks a month minimum.
Here on the Kenai Pen we paid a slightly higher rate of taxation for our lakeside cabin and shop because we didn't live on the property. If your property is your sole abode, you get the first $50K estimated property value exempted on your hacienda taxes. The lakefront piece we bought with inheritance rubles and sheckles derived from slavery, laudanum importation and Alaska child trafficking was simply our weekend crash, smoke out pad and stone grotto. We'd moved from the Kenai River Inn we rented during winters to the Sterling Senior Center and with waiting lists exceeding 40 smelly pensioners quickly stacking up on our heels, we decided to hold tight to our apartment and stay at the frosty nigger dust farting rest home only visiting our lakefront treasure every other day. We performed clean-up, decoration work and then put it back on the market. We paid $75K all cash, then unloaded it for $90K: 12 grand down with $850 monthly payments for a 10-year term. The monthly dineros are pretty fucking sweet. Unloading the property tax bills are even sweeter. Now I'm a tax-freeloading bum like you NANA Regional fuckers.
The 18 years I'm referring to is from a presentation I listened to from Bob Harcharek's son, some mixed-mud know-it-all that was fighting to re-open ANWR for oil development. Bob Harcharek is a big noise in the NSB. He was the mayor of Barrow and sat on seats of the city council and borough assembly. His son is now a mover and shaker in the half-breed community and he recited the 18 year statistical increase in native longevity since the oil revenues from Prudhow Bay started flowing. The North Slope Borough is a firm believer in the prospects ANWR and the coastal 10-02 region offers and being all federal land, the North Slope Borough is a major partner in the rich stream of oil/gas and mineral royalties, with the federal guv the other partner. Oil discovered, drilled and pumped from state lands pays Juneau. Oil extracted from federal lands is split between the respective boroughs and Washington DC. Juneau don't get dick.
Now back to the 18 year increase in native longevity. A citizen benefit Alaskans enjoy is Medicaid, a state paid lavish medical insurance plan that's another expensive program offered alongside Public Assistance. It's free medical benefits provided to low-income Alaskans and on top of IHS native health care: a damn nice form of welfare. In the Northwest Arctic Borough and North Slope Borough we have much longer living natives and since Prudhoe and Red Dog we're seeing old age ailments that weren't known heretofore. You boys have buried parents suffering advanced heart disease, cancers and the biggy: Alzheimer's. Alzheimer's is the most common form of dementia and now has shown itself in disproportionate numbers amongst the longer living natives in Alaska. A full third of elder natives suffer from Alzheimer's. A disease that almost never affected citizen Inuits that previously died at much younger ages.
Early onset Alzheimer's disease is quite rare yet has taken out some famous figures that you all may know. Randy Travis died from it as did the actor who played Keith Partridge, the TV star's older sibling to Danny Bonaducci on the Partridge Family. Another victim of old-age Alzheimer's is Glenn Campbell the country singer. Alzheimer's tends to run in families and can be traced through DNA. In Alaska I'm a fan of expanding welfare programs like Medicaid to cover super expensive old age ailments such as dementia because the money never goes to the poor slobs, niggers, white trash and ice monkeys: it goes to a million health care workers, dentists, hygienists, pharmacists and every other employee working to keep hospitals, clinics and pharmacies built, heated, lighted and open for business. In Alaska Medicaid provides billions of dollars to our 907 health care infrastructure every year. In a backwards view, Medicaid subsidizes the health care us non-native well-to-do motherfuckers enjoy.
Here's a troubling statistic that has emerged from longer living natives in your own backyard. The Northwest Arctic Borough has the highest rates of Alzheimer's in Alaska. No known cause has been definitively ascertained but we should keep an eye on our spouses. Their behavior may be due to this most common form of dementia and the symptoms include confusion, frustration and isolation. I'm just grasping at straws, but bun's dad died at the age of 50 and so did her brother Bobby. Her dad was born in 1927, lived a damn hard and crippling subsistence life. His hands, arms and back were equally worn out as his wife Magdelene's. He died in 1977 and didn't get to enjoy the benefits of Prudhoe Bay or Red Dog Mine.
Her father's death is likely attributable to a brutal Eskimo life plagued with chronic tobacco and alcohol abuse and he expired on his 5th decade quite similar to Bobby. Robert Tikik didn't die from any symptoms related to Alzheimer's, he died of cancer that started in his stomach, spread to his lungs then basically turned his innards into a tough bundle of fibers and scars. Her other two brothers Bryant and Luke also died from non-infectious diseases. Luke died at 19 from acute alcohol and drug intoxication and her brother Bryant was killed at the age of 25 in Selawik. Bryant was fighting wasted drunk on home brew with Bobby and Bobby shoved a kitchen knife into Bryant. If you know Eskimo family lineages, you'll recognize that Bryant was the father of BJ TIkik who lived with his girlfriend in Wilbur Karmen's house. Well BJ died at a very young age of dementia that I believe arose from chronic partying on alcohol and chewing strips of Fentanyl patches. Aside from alcoholism, my in-laws will likely experience Alzheimer's cuz the plaque and bundles turn gray matter into loose stool and stinky leaking ear drippings.
Now, on a relevant side note. Bun's two other brothers, Billy and Charlie are showing signs of Alzheimer's disease. They survived hard lives of subsistence, alcoholism and a shitty zip code within Selawik. They're both a few years younger than bun and are pegging the 70 mark since their births. You boys may not know it, but they've been moved from Selawik to the assisted living section next door to the Manilaq Health Center. Both boys (old men now) were losing their places, neighbor's names and finding their ways back home to their own addresses. Their memories were vaporizing rapidly and the village clinic and VPSO's were concerned with their safety in such a kind, caring, wonderful village like Selawik. The VPSO in Selawik thought Charlie to be wasted drunk, but he tested a zero intoximeter score and the concerns grew steadily since. Kenny seems to be in decent shape and in possession of his wits so the jury is out whether he'll be joining his two brothers at the hospice care hotel. Living longer has it's price.
Now back to the North Slope. Adding up the property taxes on Prudhoe Bay, I was amazed at the billions of dollars (petroleum impact funds) paid to the North Slope Borough, Arctic Slope Native Association, Inupiaq Communities of the North and the Native Villages across the slope from NPRA (National Petroleum Reserve Alaska). It's allowed fantastic schools, infrastructure like water and sewer in all the villages and also pays for most of the expenses involved with heating and power. Full time permanent residents living in the villages of Atqusak, Wainwright, Pt. Hope, Pt.Lay, Unuktuvik Pass, Nuiqsuit, Kaktovik and Barrow pay zero property taxes and also receive nearly free yutes: utilities.
Oh, get this, all the teachers working in the North Slope Borough are provided free housing on top of their salaries. Imagine the improvement in the quality of teachers if the crotch (Krotchebue) had a fucking clue on that action. Ya just might retain the better teachers, instead of shit. With crap wages stuck paying stupid high rents to Kotzebue shit-ass slumlords and if I had a lower IQ and taught slow brown school children, I'd book to better paying boroughs. If Barrow runs out of money, the prevailing smell remaining would be derivative of Kotzebue. NANA means butt wipe (Ikrik smear) in Barrow-speak.
The petroleum impact funds are spent on other operations like the Native Villages of each respective community, plus ASNA and ICAS. ASNA stands for Arctic Slope Native Association and they're the owners of the hospital and all the village clinics plus purchasing hospital equipment, medical staff salaries and make medical flight arrangements to Barrow or Anchorage for everybody including bun. Now that we're slumming at the Denaina Vagina, we fly to ANMC for procedures not performed at our Kenai village clinic. ICAS stands for the Inupiaq Community of Arctic Slope and they expedite vocational training, relocation and job placement malarkey. If you NANA fuckers pull yer head out yer ass and pull some dollars out yer dirt, you could live better'n baked Indun turds and smell better'n fried loaves of dog doo. Take a hint: Ambler Metals.
Now that Prudhoe Bay is winding down and Red Dog is closing you fuckers will on the hook for replacing a shit pile of declining dollars. Plug yer noses and get ready to pay a property tax. It's gonna hurt worse than awaking to Percy Sheldon jacking a load in yer shredded rectum. Look at your checkbook and calculate another 2 AK dimes ($200) every month going to NWAB. That ain't shit, replacing both Prudhoe and Red Dog, think double that and yer ass will bleed like us real humans paying our own way in life. Not freeloading like shit-ass reds, blacks and browns.
I'm thinking that getting fucked by Tubby Goodwin is better than paying property taxes in the NWAB. His anal sex is watery box soup and Mike Tabor got such a tiny cookoo you'd never notice his worm spooging no-tail queer sperms up yer ass. Your mortgage payments will invisibly include new NWAB property taxes and home owners' insurance so the fucking might not feel much worse than micro-dick baby plugger wieners squirting molester DNA rich discharge that'll light up yer hemorrhoids like a torch. Nothing worse than Buckland foreplay or consummating a Noorvik marriage with yer own uncle. I'm feeling an urge to fart watery bubbles.
Gilbert Schaeffer wanted me to part my ass cheeks fer some warm dairy products, but he was stuck way up in Higman's locked up tight ass. I once itched my ass and found Lester Vestal standing behind me quivering like a spastic, shivering and squirting drops outa piece of spaghetti. I never knew he spooged my shit. I crap bigger'n most of them ass-bandit Eskimos so any Inu-style butt rape up my ass would be like tossing a hot dog down a hallway. Fuck dudes, after my high-fiber turds exit my ass, they leave a cavern a dozen micro-Eski-homos could camp in.
Okay, take a puke break. Just this last week we spent 5 days at the ANMC Hospital and visited with quite a few NANA cousins, sprinkled amongst some long lost Barrow kith and kin. It was good to see an older cab driver from Kotzebue and he cackled at our recollections of picking up my booze orders, yielding one or two bottles of better grade liquor to this same cab driver repaying past, present and future cab fares. We both chuckled covertly at his mention of my picking up dog kennels, stolen and hot firearms freight and numerous boxes containing compact disks of music unheard on KOTZ. His wife Jerry and bun glanced over at us, mid-convo so we shushed our stupid man talk about thousands of doses of LSD hidden within the aforementioned freight parcels and the canine mats inside freight carriers containing a pit bull and a doberman.
Funny how so many of our friends and neighbors remember my stunts. Stupid stunts indeed, unless you consider my cab driver's acid party he had with his wife. I'd given him a string of 10 perforated and saturated pieces of blotter paper that'd kill a small child. He and his wife played my mixed music space tapes repeatedly whilst tripping a thousand miles higher than God. His description was he and his wife were taken aback at how enjoyable a good LSD trip could be. All the while forgetting to light a single cigarette, a single doobie or bowl of weed, leaving the Jim Beam I'd repaid him still capped. Acid is funny in how it disrupts our nastier habits while time traveling. As we reminisced I reminded him about the startling Alzheimer's statistic cursing the NANA Region more than other native Alaskans and his retort was all the good LSD cured him and might possibly unlocked nightmares from his past.
We both channeled and time traveled a million years ago to a bar bearing zero resemblance to my grandpa's Genessee Bar and Wade complimented me on not causing any trouble while he worked as door man and bouncer. Wade mentioned my civil behavior whilst drinking in a bar packed full of wasted assholes. And I didn't lay a hand on a single soul there. He continued to tell me about a flood of acid retrieved memories from his troubled Blackfoot childhood yonder Montana 48. For years he'd blocked out or erased with alcohol a horrid fight resulting in a rather nasty insertion on a native boy's criminal record indicating a conviction for attempted homicide.
Since keeping his proverbial nose clean for the last 40 years and a much clearer recollection to testify contritely in court about the drunken fight Wade Laws had with his very best friend. His conviction for a nasty bit of violence 4 decades ago (when Wade was only 22), was expunged and he's been given a complete and unconditional pardon and commutation. Sort of like Carlos Salazar, a clean sheet and fresh start for work at KPD. In Mr. Wade Laws' case he received a wiped clean criminal background and was allowed to adopt a slew of his very own grand kids. Wade stated that on one of the acid trips he took, he finally retrieved all the facts surrounding the awful drunken fight that caused his best friend to die 3 times in the ER: as a result of the injuries Wade inflicted. I'm not sure I could bury and erase such a nightmare, but if that qualifies as instant karma or recycled blessings, he seems happy with his life as a grandparent and his survival to his recent 62nd birthday. Wade might be an old fucker, but he's our neighbor and the same age as us.
In closing, Wade asked me what I've been up to since completing phase one of house #369 that Harold Lambert put the finishing touches on, the Capone narc job and leaving Kotz in 1993 for an address near mile 71 on the Parks Highway in Willow. My response was, "not too much." He smiled and said, "That's what worries me Karl. Whenever you tell me 'not much' I start to worry when the nuclear bombs start falling and the search warrants get served. Kotzebue cringes at the thought of you coming back."
We chuckled for a few seconds. Then wiped the smiles off our faces when Jerry and Bun glanced in our direction again.
Man talk is unsuitable for women-folk. Especially grim talk of mortality, lost memories, LSD retrievals and forgiving ourselves. And forgiving our aging pals when they forget everything wonderful about working with us.
Discussing lost or buried memories and Alzheimer's may quite possibly be upsetting for cops. We all worry identical eventual outcomes to our extended lifespans. Namely losing our minds, our wives, ourselves and breaking the hearts of little boys that love us absolutely and truly adore us.
Being a grandpa is a big responsibility. Tend to it soon.
That's an order.
Karl.
posted by Alaska: Local And State News. at 2:13 PM
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