Looking in the mirror, I see I should've received a hatchet to the head and buried in the floor of your igloo.
Top of the morning gents,
I'm likely subnormal. As a matter of fact, I possibly may be a very stupid man. My dim-witted acronym "AFN" meaning Ain't Fucking Native proves my poor station, education and poorer empathy towards the Inuit culture I served and married. Again, I'm an idiot and have no contributions of greater pith than this stupid blog. As we end this iteration of our existence and look forward to exhaling decay and sour juice, I realize I assimilated wisdom from you coppers, and even more embarrassing, absorbed trace bits of genius from my ancient wife and her long-dead primitive Eskimo mother. Harnessing your collective intelligence, I'm sure you detect a million shreds of evidence unanimously pointing towards my slow vacuity and blockheadedness. Utilizing retained sparse lucidity, meager language skills and rotting brain matter, these insights may be borne out in following paragraphs.
Growing up retarded surrounded by animal siblings, assorted 4-legged food groups and fur-bearing beasts with bird lips and horse feathers, I might've eaten magic excrement fungus, or more likely, drank rotten milk from carcass titties and ingested rancid corn picked from warm turds. Killing goats, chickens, ducks, rabbits and a few stinky pigs was training for my pre-ordained position as assistant butcher in poor neighborhood drug pits and later, Arctic Alaska.
Another perspective I gained filling freezers with squealers, oinkers and clucking egg layers was the superior intellectual cognition of late-term, live-birth and even retroactive abortions. Insofar as snuffing offspring that do nothing to improve quality of life throughout rural Inuit lands far removed from the city limits of hymietown and crackerville. Brutality at a prenatal indigenous level may be a dang smart Old Testament curative, specifically, aborting a baby born ugly, half-breed or retarded, even at it's 36th birthday. Smell me?
Growing up slaughtering pets and suffering generational inbreeding rewarded me stunted brain growth and quite possibly left me a rather vicious bitch. But living more than half my life surrounded by indigenous citizens likely smarter than I, I'm not so angry any more. I'm in a quandary why I was so angry for so much of my wastrel youth and truly mad, yet found honorable work and even better friends during the intervening 40 years. In all honesty, despite illusory fond memories, there isn't a week of my life I would voluntarily live through again. But surprisingly, I no longer have the urge to strike out and injure every soul I encounter. Harboring serious doubts I might be all better, in posting these messages to ruthless cops I've failed to ironize my conflicting and reactionary positions. Never let it be said that I am bewitched by the forces of consistency when my externally mounted air-cooled ovaries drive me to promiscuity and flighty bitchiness.
I told you constables about stupid stunts that were beyond the pale, simply cruel, such as roping shut the doors to my high school gymnasium during a pep rally, then pulling the fire alarm locking kids inside like terrorized rats clawing the doors and each other. Fun stuff, unless your children were in that gym. I conveyed you testimony of 3 boys, Pim Vanden Ende, Jim Hanson and myself, planting a large pipe bomb in the locker room with the numb skull scheme to terrify or maim a rival swim team. Our fuse burned way too fast. Shucks. Me, Stuart and Cully tossing rotten eggs at passing cars is simply juvenile. Yet real fucking funny.
I also revealed retarded details filling highly pressurized fire extinguishers with caustic stinking chemicals, racing through traffic in Stuart's Dodge Coronet powered by a Rocket 383 V-8 and spraying occupants through open windows of cars waiting in long lines for traffic lights on warm summer days. Noteworthy was douching deputy dog and his shackled charges driving a prison van to the courthouse. Okay, that prank was perty fucking good. One more silly stunt was the potato sling-shot launcher from my front yard, over the trees and into traffic on Interstate 5, followed by practicing our golf swing with buckets of balls. I'm of the opinion that none of these stunts proved lethal as a result of my own volition. Shit happens, I ain't kilt nobody.
Don't believe a word I say. In actual cases of death, specifically three, a drug overdose (Gary Los) occurred in the back room while me and Todd Larson were tuning my 66 Dodge Dart with a rather sporty 225 slant 6. We'd removed the cylinder head, had it hot-tanked in acid, repainted the outer edges, dropped the push-rods through the machined slots onto the camshaft below and re-installed the rocker arm assembly, mounted the intake manifold, replaced the old carburetor with new better flow model, adjusted the fuel/air mix and idle setting, connected the fuel lines, attached the exhaust manifold with new gaskets and high-temp caulking, all torqued back to factory spec.
The compression was only slightly higher after the machine shop planed the underside of the cylinder head to remove burns and blemishes where the old head gasket had blown through and leaked, but with the reconditioned cylinder head tightly torqued, idling on Union 76 Premium, that inline slant-6 engine purred like a sewing machine. With new shocks, brakes and tires and front end alignment, my old Mountlake Terrace Fire Department surplus auction vehicle was a sweet running dork-mobile. Dependable, quiet and fast too. With Dennis Singleton as copilot, I've driven my old cars from the Canadian border all the way down to Lancaster, California. A town quite similar to Mountlake Terrace where ugly fuckers like ouselves blended in with drunken fogies and chronic addicts, matching the range of the local social spectrum. Being so under-dressed and disheveled we not once got pulled over for suspicion of making deliveries of high-quality product. Recalling such offerings make me drool a puddle.
My favorite cars are surplus vehicles of mature vintage in a state of top-flight overhauls and repairs, tuned to perform fiercely, smooth, quiet and stealthy. In drug dealer vernacular, we called them 'sleepers.' With cocaine financed, pimped out nigger-rigs, Beemers, Camaros and Vettes everywhere, cops never bothered old-fashioned cars driven by bearded losers wearing their deceased grandfather's clothes. In short, we looked like elderly geezers driving obsolete vehicles looking like they belonged to old men. My wheels were blatantly and intentionally chosen because no younger man would be caught dead in. Unless I killed them.
The suicide (Keely Jones) whom shot himself inside his car out front late after a party was a disaster for the survivors, namely my creditor and employer at R&R Automotive, Bob Jones, Keely's father. The break-in that doomed 3 fine upstanding black gentlemen created a red letter day forever memorialized in a moron's retarded blog that says absolutely nothing incriminating with surprising vividness.
In review, I failed to report three more deaths. If my failing memory serves me, there quite possibly might be 3 girlfriends that've passed away mysteriously. One drunk bitch was consumed in a house fire, crack ho #2 was exterminated with cocaine and loud cunt 3 flew through the windshield, partially ejected from an old car lacking seat belts, wasted drunk. If you take off yer readers, squint your eyes and allow the vagaries of history to distort itself, you can plainly see that no culpability can be assigned to yer author on drugs. Honest Injun.
You see, sometimes fatal events are far beyond anyone's control. Aside from the aforementioned bitches, some folks lined up and demanded their own deaths as exemplified in too much industrial strength cocaine injected in one's own arm, putting a magnum revolver against one's temple and dropping the hammer, and lastly, the forcible entry into a residence by low-rent colored crooks of marginalized caste who weren't listed on the lease. Their inventory of injuries were a broken neck, broken head from my baseball bat and a 38 slug fired from a near-broken revolver leaving a single bleeding red spot dead center mass. It was the first time I learned that niggers bled red. My three fuck-toy bitch-corpses went and got dead all by themselves.
Instead of a crack house, I should've opened an animal shelter or MMIN (Missing and Murdered Indigenous Niggers) lost mutt rescue station fer stray criminals the same color as shit. I'd call it, "Euthanize Criminals R Us." Hence the 'mortuary' suffix on Lem's Crack House mailing address. "Come by, get high and die" was a common tag line in criminal discourse with subtle references to fictional fatalities that never, ever happened. I'm not sick, I'm farm trash that milked his goats and humped his sisters. And vice versa.
Those deeds were mine and mine alone. Cain't blame other fuckers and their only residual stain on me now is late night fretting that wakes me. Plus a worry I'll relapse back to swimming rivers of liquor and drowning with coworkers, good friends and brothers. I fear liquor in my dreams, terrorized by distilled spirits in store windows and shelves and freeze panic-stricken looking at booze behind a bar, but not when I drink the shit. Downing quarts of bourbon make me happy, happy, happy. And dead.
I see numerous deeds of mine that may strike a decent man as cruel and inhumane, but since obtaining arctic penance, kind and generous. I'm dumbfounded why heavy alcohol brought me no relief, despite consuming industrial amounts of liquor our 10-56 arrestees, meaning wasted tundra monkeys (VPSO argot), would deem sufficient to produce terminal pine box contents pickled. In a hunnert foreign villages, any 907 buggerin' sodder would've considered my alcohol consumption heroic.
Arriving in Alaska took all the fun out of being mean. No shit, seeing insufferable natives all over Kikiknigrunt Peninsula living in substandard housing was disheartening. I watched newly arriving, out-of-town (meaning white) construction crews digging and burying water and sewer lines, erecting new hospitals and public housing finally pulling it's weight and hiring APC (Alaska Petroleum Contractors) to expand Kotzebue's inventory of modern, efficient, well insulated homes. Sitting on a warm beach, enjoying a small distant sun whose small ruddy niggard glow released scant welcome warmth in dribbles upon us, Albert Monroe, Calvin Monroe, Brian Higman and myself passed a jug of smuggled Everclear, toked Seattle green bud near the Tec Center and watched Arctic Lighterage offload whole houses by barge to shore, fully assembled, then setting them all over North Tent City.
We were surprised to see NWIHA (Northwest Inupiaq Housing Authority) moving in families we never believed deserved such nice digs. Ninja. No Income, No Job or Assets, implies you deserve to get welfare, live in a shack down at Little Kivilina or be homeless. Simple karmic math. Just not on Eskimo soil, poverty is a virtue and you win a brand new house. Am I missing something?
That's where I'm ill-suited for rural Alaska, I thought a soul earned a ticket, first class on the White Flight Airline to upscale housing, parking our rich asses at better addresses far removed from wretched coloreds after passing cultural and skin color certification tests, expensive training in proper voting and maintaining gainful employment. My idea of fair play and concept of just-deserves was way outa whack and it seemed to me Alaska's concept of equal rights appeared a re-invented wheel with four corners on it. Fuck it. In Alaska, paybacks never arrived at my doorstep. Instead I got a hunnert good jobs, worked more overtime than anyone, then got a near-free ride at UAF. If anything, I deserved all the cruelty I inflicted upon others around me.
I'm speechless, Alaska gave me three college degrees from Upchuck U and Ugly Ass Fucks (UAF), brand new company car and dozens of trips to Europe and Russia. Possessing a multi-entry academic visa allowed me to bounce freely over evil empire boundaries undertaking stupid-shit instructions from agencies I cannot recall. Alaska also let me broker the sale of a profitable bar and grill to the NANA Regional Native Corporation. What's up with that? In a karmic sense, I got jipped of all the shit and misery I had coming. Bun's joke is I must've been really good in a previous life. You coppers know the awful truth.
I've been watching you coppers for a long, long time and it struck me that you chaps fit the definition of sojourners and I've modeled my own behavior similarly. I had to look that word up in the dictionary and my best guess what a sojourner is you have no home in this world except the one you create inside you. It doesn't matter where you live or go, you coppers definitely qualify as motherfuckers with your own zip code and time zone.
Roving domiciles and PTSD are a cop's employment service monuments to great reparation and papism. Meaning massive overtime, rotating shifts, rotating assignments and rotating pussy leaving me scant evidence of your infidelity and sparse details of yer crimes. Lacking any documentation, I slanderously scribble in this blog vaguely humorous shit that has sentimental coarseness of a pornographic valentine leaving unborn fecal entrails in its wake. My words are best deleted, not tasted or smelled.
I've determined that my coworkers still living are so very fortunate to be old. Old coppers mature in a way people feel when they have more knowledge of the world than they need. Age is a separate country you could never try to explain to younger people, primarily because they have already made up their minds and any lessons you've learned from your life were not the kind many people were interested in hearing about. Or could stomach.
If age brought an elder gifts, the young will never know what they were. Shit, examining yer nightmares, age brought neither wisdom nor peace of mind. Seeing your occupations and relocations, and subsequent adoption of much darker criminal caseloads, I see you cops were kind to the wrong people. Meaning we've been too kind to people raising tribal banners and marching to bogus indigenous causes that let others do their time on the cross. Manilaq fer starters.
I'm fully aware that a few hunnert years ago President Ford's Executive Order 11905 nor President Reagan's Executive Order 12333 banning assassinations by government and religious organizations wasn't in effect, but conservative backwards-thinking churches, including tribal witch doctors killed neighbors and relatives without restraint. Extreme right-wing dirt-worshiping zealots thought Manilaq dangerous and banished him to Nuvruk. He died alone, starving and frozen. Real Eskimos oughta keep that in mind when squawking bullshit Traditional Inuit Values.
Naming a health care corporation after Manilaq is fucking embarrassing, as is naming an elementary school after a narcotics junky that died of a massive drug overdose we'd consider hangover remedies and naming a ball field after a chronic alcoholic that kilt himself drinking far less that I. Total pussies. We've seen sentimental support for stupid obsolete cultural programs yet we have come to fear a mystic with no formal schooling and a hole in his shoe. Manilaq was an oracle that spoke to the dead and seer into the future with Alaska's massive invasion by pale white men seeking yellow metal crowding the Seward Peninsula till Nome became our state's largest city and finally, those same white dudes flying to the moon. I'm still steamed how Eskimos killed their own prophet and adopting Christianity doubly redundant. Fucking mental retards, all of 'em, still to this day.
Curing Alaskan class upward mobility stagnation with education is the least viable and most expensive option we vote and assert. Being unwisely courteous to a dishonorable wife-beating man could possibly result with those whom we least like, yet know will appear uninvited at our door. Or sitting in the borough mayor's office or ANSCA corporation CEO. Poor is like stupid, it lasts forever. Virtue is its own reward and evil is its best punishment.
Also, we oughta be afraid that gravity sucks and when hefting corpses, shit always slides down our uniforms and our deceased coworkers working aside us in innumerable police agencies in-state and overseas stood up tall. Heroes we admired kept kids in school, out of emergency rooms and rape trauma clinics, yet no cops run corporations. In summation, wearing scars and PTSD, we shant let others pretend our teams wasted their time. Or their lives.
We've worked with men that were loyal as dogs, simply stubborn, strangely fierce and maybe that was the regular way of behaving behind a gun and a badge and went with the constable's persona, but I'd give them a D- on normalcy. All I can say now is that some cops loved this Earth but didn't get to stay very long. Some of my coworkers wanted to drink for eternity and forget the violence, cruelty, sordid behavior and human exploitation that seemed to become more visible in the world as they aged. But human wisdom is bullshit, the elderly never see inherent goodness in the world that they had not been allowed to see in their youth. The world was the world and it did not change because one happened to age.
Get this, I'm not trying to provide you with justifications for when I committed unconscionable acts against our neighbors and fellow citizens. Looking back at my own behavior, the totality of a man's days eventually become a circle and one way or another we always ended up at the place where we began. Except I worked for police departments, versus shackled, beaten and incarcerated in one. My itinerary is highlighted with destinations ghetto and the folks that abused and tormented me never let me forget the details of my suffering and I was condemned to remain my own history book containing a story I could not pass on to others and from which no one would learn anything of value. If I returned to Russia or Washington, I'm sure we know the riot act I'd be lectured, then arrested. Or else these are the musings of a self-absorbed old man, one who could not stop thinking about the past and ephemerality of his life. I suppose if I thought about mortality in any other fashion, I'd go insane or put a gun in my mouth. During dark moments I considered those options.
I look like an old man who would not concede that disease had already taken me to a country from which no amount of pretense would ever let me return. I have awards for symphonic achievements and swimming medals, yet my juvenile record indicates a sick, deadly hillbilly wigger. My counselor, Dr. Marilyn Grey once told me that I'm incapable of following the rules or conform to patterns that are associated with criminal behavior. She laughed and stated I was every psychiatrist's nightmare and my level of rat-like IQ and wide reading experience allowed me to create a construct in which I shared real estate with serial killers. I told her I was like a cockroach and the common cancer and a loser. Shit dissolves and dissipates, and despite my historical prose of phenomenal irrelevance, I'm still here. We're balancing on an existential tightrope for the long haul. Where else are we gonna go?
The answer is nowhere. Just staying here around us, you coppers are continuing a darn good trend. Reading an introduction from Carl H. Marrs in the book "Growing Up Native In Alaska," he states that in 1966 the average age of death for Alaska Natives was 34.5. Yup, in plain white-man English that's thirty four and a half years. That dismal statistic is roughly half of the average life expectancy of Americans nationwide, for the same year. That is one brief period of time for good souls stranded upon frozen taiga, Russian for tundra.
One important factor in extending life spans of First Nation's Americans and Native Alaskans was ancient burial of human waste, human trash, human stillbirths and late-term abortions. Eskimos from previous centuries were immeasurable practitioners of full-term live-birth abortions. Grandma Magdelene, my wife's mom, with dodgy paperwork and great guess werk, born pert near 1900 or before, told me a gross story of Alaskan sewage treatment and birth control. Her stories weren't impossible but difficult to follow for they lapsed into her own accented version of universal English. Through a long life of separation from proper Queen's English and Victorian manners, from the currents of living speech, her's had remained archaic. My listening skills are noteworthy and dim, her curt comments between herself and bun hovered on the edge of understanding and managed to elude my clutching tendrils of comprehension. As a European I polished my translation skills with volumes of alcohol.
She described her life as migratory from season to season. Winter camp was sculpted ice and snow enclosures, igloos in English parlance and summer camp was simple, rustic, wood and brush structures at river shores and lakeside grottoes. Okay, that's understandable, so what? Well, by spring time, the floors of melting igloos were layers of fur, hides and shit and spilt foods. Plus buried still-births and deformed babies. Still with me? Grandma Magdelene told me that her mom and aunts cared for ripe, near-bursting pregnant Eskimo women whom always arrived at their igloo to give birth. If the baby was a midget, dwarf, mongoloid, or just born dead, they had a hole dug in the floor of their igloo, custom made, just for that occasion.
Another phenomena that Grandma Magdelene expressed was the uncanny, innate ability of every elderly Eskimo woman to know who the parents of any child were. In an instant, a mere blink of an eye, every old native woman would know whom the father of the child they were birthing. One highly developed skill all ancient Inuits possess is the absolute knowledge of which man's dingle berries spooged in the girl crying and screaming over her dead baby with a crushed skull quickly buried in the tundra floor. I'm totally cool with that kind of midwifery. Wipe that grin off yer faces.
Fuck yeah dudes, imagine if you discerned, right at the moment of splash down that the father was Aloysius Ferrera, Boy-boy (Darryl) Sours, Harold Wells or any ugly butt-fucker from the Kotzebue Air Force Base. Smell me? That right there is a righteous hatchet-job abortion. Hook a nigger up by the afro hair, drop the splitting maul swiftly and pour that black liquid fetus into a hole directly under yer nigloo. Maybe that's how nigger heads, tundra hillocks are created. Stuff a dead black baby, or any ugly GI spooge product in the dirt and create an anomalous bump in the arctic permafrost just outside your native family allotment. I'm a genius, smash 'em and dump 'em. We got too many mixed-mud 'tards and FAS monkey butt babies in the NANA Region. Increase native corporation dividends by power washing yer anus and drop the hammer on sick fetal outflows.
I hear you thinking, who'd want to live in an igloo with layers of shit, dead babies and human scrap waste. I sure as shit wouldn't, but igloo floors were the only thawed tundra soil soft enough during long arctic winters to dig down into and ditch icky retarded nigger babies that no upstanding Eskimo would proudly show off to the rest of the tribe. Babies that were dented-head mixed breeds like Billy Lee's with cross-eyed, shrunken skulls, miniature limbs or just plain upriver scary looking handi-champs got a hatchet to the head and stuffed below the floor of the family/clan igloo. Being a total fan of gimper dude infanticide, Eskimo logic is cooler'n Fonzie and I'm on the same fucking page. Smash it's goofy crooked head before it breeds creating a hunnert Noatak butt-fuckers. You can laugh now, I'm a funny Selawikmute faggot.
Grandma Magdelene explained that when spring arrived the whole clan loaded up their scant necessary subsistence tools and lighter clothes for summer camp, then abandoned their worn, soiled winter garments and dwellings with litter strewn about in melting heaps. Within minutes of departing upriver to fish camp, coyotes, wolves and feral dogs arrived and had a major fucking buffet. They ate everything. All the rotten furs, hides and leftover foods like whale blubber and seal oil that had spoiled during the winter. Plus all the layers of flooring, poop, piss and dead babies stashed in the floors. Ingenious indigenous.
That's the starting bell in the race to summer camp. I can see a whole tribe of handsome, smart Inuits fixin' to book, immediately after Poppa pours the rancid seal oil all over a pile of discarded sick, gimpy, half-white dead babies. Ready kids? Run niggers! Grandma Magdelene said that when they returned the next fall to set up winter camp, the entire premises were chowed down. All the tundra, dirt and mud, including any old boards and twine, were wolfed down by every carrion-digesting and shit-eating animal known to primitive Alaska mankind. After hibernation, bears arrived to claw, chow and bulldoze the soils to golf course perfection. That's a kick-ass garbage disposal system and abortion clinic right there motherfuckers.
Now take a moment to imagine all the assholes, rapists and killers that would've never made it past the birth control ax and out of the Eskimo abortion Hole of Doom. I see mixed-mutt mud-fuckers like Sandy Russell covered in dirt and I see BJ (Blanche) Higman and Bum Short and Pete Lambert gasping through dirt-caked ax injuries and blowing bubbles out of opened craniums underground. One could argue that even pre-Christian contact Eskimos knew of divine provenance and taking a hatchet to the skulls of ugly niggers with a shovel of tundra as chaser a beautiful antidote to violence and might even have lengthened the life of First Alaskans today. It's a dubious assertion Carl Marrs was referring to my unfunny thesis submitted in this am cop-talk posting. Fuck me, I'm chuckling.
Eskimo abortions possibly prevented scum bags from taking the helms of native corporations. Feel me? Looking back, some CEO's and presidents of ANSCA cluster-fuck salmon-cruncher limited liability organizational structures and Inuit non-profit shit piles consisted of members of a political class who believe they invented privilege and still held the patent. Executive motherfuckers now enforcing rules that without money, rural natives have no business living in a democracy. Imagine the happy smiles us low paid public safety grunts would be showing if our city leaders would've been wolf scat on day 1 of Spring migration to summer fish camp, with the last image they see is mom's big gaping ass, gargling afterbirth then an ulu swinging downward and lights out. Just saying.
Chip and Willy Hailstone were imported douche bags and pustulating maggots from the lesser 48, but Kevin Nanini and Chuck Criss would've never been crapped outa nasty dark clootch pussy if their mom's woulda been frozen basement substructures underneath Magdelenes's igloo. Shit, missing those maggots, we all could've enjoyed living and working on that miserably haunted peninsula called Kikiknigrunt. The place that's almost an island, but a complete dump and funereal dead baby food drive for stray dogs, wolves, ravens, crows and coyotes. I'm digging this paragraph with a wooden handle. Chow down scavengers. Cup o' 'bortion and poop entree with Eskimo fish/blubber, post-digestion snacks and shit dressing. Nice. How Robert Evak escaped his destiny underground and beneath layers of rotting hides baffles me. One look and that ugly nigger would've gotten Grandma Magdelene's ivory handled guillotine in 2 seconds flat. Fuckin' A, that's a cool image of wolves gulping after-birth stew with a side order of cholera-soaked melting tundra. Lish.
Grandma Magdelene cackled evil when I added my subnormal humor as addendum to her gory tales of early 1900's Inuit existence. Not all native Alaskans are retarded and that practice of killing sick baby monkeys is perty fucking smart. I'd pour her another generous whiskey, more cold overpriced beer, light her cigarette, then continue my prodding her tales of great history and humor. Mag described their departure upriver to fish camp as a 'save-ass bait and switch' on the encroaching predators in their midst. Spring is the hungriest period for starving vicious fanged canine scavengers, so her micro-clan made tracks to summer camp, leaving all the rotting furs, hides, poop and ugly dead babies behind as bait and decoys to a hunnert starving rabid rototiller churning and eating entire winter campsites as the healthy gorgeous First Alaskan Eskimos booked to fish camp.
After summer camp, the next fall, returning to their winter campsite was plainly easy to find. In a 100-yard circle was a smooth, level patch of soft, clean dirt. The wolves, dogs, coyotes and even bears chewed and inhaled every scrap of tundra and wood that was scented or soaked in rancid blubber, dead baby soup, blood and poop, even the surface foliage, leaving a beautiful site-prep to establish another cloister of igloos and future deposit for dead baby fertilized arctic topsoil and winter camp landscape.
After Magdelene listed a roster of names of neighbors and vil-mates she wished were deep sixed in tundra and poop, and scarfed by wolves and bears, we both drank to that action. A native gal that frosted Magdelene's ass was cancer cluster and retarded breeding mutt, all in one wench. Grandma Mag wished a diseased woman would've been dropped down into the Eskimo abortion Hole of Doom was Jessie Lee. I shrugged and said I didn't know who that was. Magdelene explained that Jessie Lee was a walking disease lump suffering lung cancer, colon cancer, diabetes and was often wasted lugging a leaking colostomy bag. And continually raped and pregnant.
Jessie Lee, a natural mutant and beauty pageant loser pumped out a million disabled FAS babies such as Wanda Stein, Bum Short, Pete Lambert, Billy Lee, Benny Hensley and in subsequent iterate breeding generations the likes of Mike Lie and Chris Lie. If one matriarch had been spanked with a shovel and swaddled in permafrost, a shit load of cancer carriers and dental disasters would've been averted. I see yer concerned facial expressions and I'm cackling evil. An ancient Eskimo lady and a stuck-up Norse agreed going back in time and clipping a bitch, possibly expediting the murder of future superstitious scabs and illiterate hateful aborigines with bad teeth and tumors, quite logical. Cheers mate.
On one more Grandma Mag tangent, she said all of her sisters, brothers and village children would try to catch a falling star. And this isn't literary license either. During mystical meteor showers, Grandma Mag and her siblings and childhood pals would go out on clear cold nights and watch for falling stars, then race one another to the asteroid impact site to collect the meteorites. No shit. Grandma Magdelene said that it was a common practice to run and retrieve asteroids the fell from the night sky, and if they impacted the Earth, they became meteorites and the metal in these fantastic finds was "ral good metal." I must've looked like an idiot catching flies with my open mouth.
I explained to Grandma Mag that most meteorites that impacted Alaskan's planetary surface were highly radioactive and dangerous. She chuckled and declared, "Eskimos never live long enough to get sick." I pushed my questioning and asked why on Earth would her parents encourage this hobby and Mag stated that it was the only metal Eskimos could find to use for tools and weapons. Then it dawned on me, a radioactive projectile like an arrow or a dagger or spear tip or a cutting weapon like an ulu or hide scraper would work pretty fucking good and glowing Geiger hot was a moot point. In summation, I asked how they located such rare metallic treasures and her response was the rising smoke and steam marking the point of impact. Then it's simple to race each other to fetch and dig up treasures and bring to poppa for tooling. I suppose lacking an ore deposit like Lake Superior hematite and zero ancient Inuit foundries might necessitate an Easter Egg Hunt for super hot rare Earth metal space rocks. I repeat, ingenious indigenous, despite radiation sickness and genetic mutations.
Speaking to the point of nasty, brutish and short lives, the life expectancy for Alaska Natives increased considerably, actually 18 years, after the original Alaska Oil Lease Sale pumped nearly a billion dollars into the coffers in Juneau. Those funds have been wrongly characterized as spent on whores, booze and blow like drunken sailors, but that isn't accurate. The monies flooded into every town and village across the state and was the beginning of the construction boom we saw building water and sewer projects, hospitals, schools, airports, and housing projects.
When the Trans-Alaska Pipeline started pumping oil from Prudhoe Bay to Valdez in 1977, the original daily volume of crude was 450,000 barrels daily. The peak we saw in the 1980's to the 1990's pumped 2.2 million barrels every fucking day. That's a lot. The State of Alaska earns 12.5% gross value of every barrel of oil coming out of state lands, right at the well-head, which added up to 100's of billions of dollars we witnessed spent on public infrastructure and health services, facilitating a second gold rush of construction worker white dudes. This includes us.
Since oil money and all us unmarried single white guys arrived, Alaska's sense of identity evolved from the Last Frontier plagued with whores and miners to nearly Nordic-like modern health care facilities, roads, schools, airports, prisons and phone/radio/internet connectivity. The obsolete archetype of dog mushing, subsistence, gold miners and religious white fuckers homesteading on stolen native lands is no longer authentic as our description. Those notions are now cute, quaint and fond remembrances of silly, outdated anachronisms. To pull another word from the dictionary, Alaska's zeitgeist, a German word meaning worldview of ourselves, shifted greatly, far beyond recognition.
Here's where you can shit-can stupid talk of traditions or returning to the old ways of Alaska's founding fathers and ancient Inuit elders. That's stale, tired and ripe enough to pitch because there cannot be any cultural tragedy unless there's a ZEITGEIST of ultimate order that can be destroyed and then restored. As Alaskans we no longer believe in one epistemology, or way of existence to screw up and destroy the Great State of Alaska and no citizen achieving enlightenment like Manilaq can restore old outdated ways of living, thinking and speaking. Nothing can bring Alaska back to what it was. No more Last Frontier, no Wild, Wild West and no more lawlessness allowing us to kill the dead nor rape the willing. If a good Indian is a dead Indian, then tall healthy, educated Alaska Natives qualify as "Bad Indians" and stand-up motherfuckers. Still with me?
We have decent schools statewide, we have better public safety out to the far reaches of rural Alaska and we all know the rules of behavior. In other words, any crude, sick or vicious act or deed is blatantly contrary to the peace and dignity of the Great State of Alaska. Which subsequently you coppers added at the bottom of your reports and complaints you submitted to the court and district attorneys prosecuting crimes and arrests we all processed. When we received reports and complaints of violent crimes or even property crimes, everybody knows that the cops will investigate and our courts will prosecute. That outcome is so predictable, it's inevitable and we all just take this public safety service for granted.
Our local District Attorneys Office has a dozen prosecutors that are currently handling 600 cases EACH. But shit, virtue is it's own reward. We all know the troopers, local PD and DOJ are busy behind the scenes, hard at work doing God's work clearing our communities of sick, diseased killers, rapists and catalysts in subhuman form selling illness and death. Shit, just this week, the Department of Justice, Alaska State Troopers and local police departments statewide arrested 57 meth, cocaine, fentanyl and heroin dealers. These shit-heels were working under the orders of a cartel fucker sitting in a California prison, giving orders through poop-flavored, smuggled cell phones to his lackeys shipping lethal tons of crap drugs from Mexico all the way up here to Alaska. That's a shit-pot of motherfuckers we all like seeing taken off the slate. I'd volunteer to perform the hatchet services and burial in the Eskimo abortion Hole of Doom. Like an aging abominable snowman, I still have a few of my magical powers.
After my court appearances working phantom narc squads, I enjoyed seeing the faces of stunned or shocked juries across the state hearing testimony and seeing evidence of horrible crimes, then in turn handing down guilty verdicts that make us so darn proud. 12 citizens tasked with determining the guilt or innocence of one of their peers is a powerful social structure and constitutional legal process and watching suspects becoming convicts is righteous. After announcing that guilty verdict, punks, thugs, rapists and killers seem shorter and shrunken in spirit as bailiffs escort their shit out of the courtroom. I don't care that Alaska ain't got no death penalty, pulling the 99 year sentence means no more mommy, girlfriend nor parties and the best friend they'll ever have is a tall psychotic guy just like me, balls deep, way up in their shit. Not pretty.
Back to Carl Marrs' life expectancy figure of 34.5 for Alaska Natives in 1966, I found a figure of 50 years native life expectancy in 1977, at the time TAPS starting pumping black crude, with an additional 18 years of native life since production started. Plus we received 100's of billions of dollars flooding every community in Alaska. Consider that Alaska has about 320 towns and villages statewide, that's a shit load of iron and concrete converted into major 'super hospitals' in every hub and thousands of remote clinics surrounding them. To date, the average life expectancy of Alaska Natives is roughly equal to you coppers, meaning low 70's for men and late 70's for women. Oh, and get this, they're more than 10% taller and 10% heavier. Ain't that the shit?
You coppers were here from the ground up, breaking your backs keeping rapists, child molesters and murderers in jail and safely far away, contained in expensive prisons from citizenry you served and protected. Which in turn played a statistically significant part in lengthening the life spans of native children, women and good hard working First Nation men statewide.
I'm smiling right now and if anybody's looking, I have blue eyes filling cuz I learned to follow orders from you fuckers and do something decent and good, not destructive nor painful. My pretty wife repeatedly tells me that my catharsis or transformation from earlier is staggering and she's proud to witness such a healing epiphany. She refuses to believe I'm the world's worst human being. Beat that.
Of course, you boys know how many decades we all needed to blossom and grow into better people and assume our duties in keeping the peace. Oh, and maintain the dignity of the Great State of Alaska. Can't forget that last bit.
Alaska's view of itself, or better put, our formerly narrow 907 arctic zeitgeist has shed a lot of scabs and infections, removed violent citizens, banished them to penal colonies, cleansed destructive cultural archetypes, burned cruel bibles, pitched racist schoolbooks and remodeled old BIA boarding schools to produce even better product.
Now consider this fact. Us folks from the land of ice and snow, the midnight sun and frostbitten feet missing toe nails no longer suffer residency on a resource extraction colony filled with diseased whores, retarded miners nor dull natives. We no longer live in a third world shit hole. We've achieved an egalitarian, higher standard of living that easily measures up to other developed Arctic countries.
Fuckin' A dudes, with Finns, Swedes and Norse as the standard, we are now equal to any Nordic country.
That's something to be proud of.
Karl.
I'm likely subnormal. As a matter of fact, I possibly may be a very stupid man. My dim-witted acronym "AFN" meaning Ain't Fucking Native proves my poor station, education and poorer empathy towards the Inuit culture I served and married. Again, I'm an idiot and have no contributions of greater pith than this stupid blog. As we end this iteration of our existence and look forward to exhaling decay and sour juice, I realize I assimilated wisdom from you coppers, and even more embarrassing, absorbed trace bits of genius from my ancient wife and her long-dead primitive Eskimo mother. Harnessing your collective intelligence, I'm sure you detect a million shreds of evidence unanimously pointing towards my slow vacuity and blockheadedness. Utilizing retained sparse lucidity, meager language skills and rotting brain matter, these insights may be borne out in following paragraphs.
Growing up retarded surrounded by animal siblings, assorted 4-legged food groups and fur-bearing beasts with bird lips and horse feathers, I might've eaten magic excrement fungus, or more likely, drank rotten milk from carcass titties and ingested rancid corn picked from warm turds. Killing goats, chickens, ducks, rabbits and a few stinky pigs was training for my pre-ordained position as assistant butcher in poor neighborhood drug pits and later, Arctic Alaska.
Another perspective I gained filling freezers with squealers, oinkers and clucking egg layers was the superior intellectual cognition of late-term, live-birth and even retroactive abortions. Insofar as snuffing offspring that do nothing to improve quality of life throughout rural Inuit lands far removed from the city limits of hymietown and crackerville. Brutality at a prenatal indigenous level may be a dang smart Old Testament curative, specifically, aborting a baby born ugly, half-breed or retarded, even at it's 36th birthday. Smell me?
Growing up slaughtering pets and suffering generational inbreeding rewarded me stunted brain growth and quite possibly left me a rather vicious bitch. But living more than half my life surrounded by indigenous citizens likely smarter than I, I'm not so angry any more. I'm in a quandary why I was so angry for so much of my wastrel youth and truly mad, yet found honorable work and even better friends during the intervening 40 years. In all honesty, despite illusory fond memories, there isn't a week of my life I would voluntarily live through again. But surprisingly, I no longer have the urge to strike out and injure every soul I encounter. Harboring serious doubts I might be all better, in posting these messages to ruthless cops I've failed to ironize my conflicting and reactionary positions. Never let it be said that I am bewitched by the forces of consistency when my externally mounted air-cooled ovaries drive me to promiscuity and flighty bitchiness.
I told you constables about stupid stunts that were beyond the pale, simply cruel, such as roping shut the doors to my high school gymnasium during a pep rally, then pulling the fire alarm locking kids inside like terrorized rats clawing the doors and each other. Fun stuff, unless your children were in that gym. I conveyed you testimony of 3 boys, Pim Vanden Ende, Jim Hanson and myself, planting a large pipe bomb in the locker room with the numb skull scheme to terrify or maim a rival swim team. Our fuse burned way too fast. Shucks. Me, Stuart and Cully tossing rotten eggs at passing cars is simply juvenile. Yet real fucking funny.
I also revealed retarded details filling highly pressurized fire extinguishers with caustic stinking chemicals, racing through traffic in Stuart's Dodge Coronet powered by a Rocket 383 V-8 and spraying occupants through open windows of cars waiting in long lines for traffic lights on warm summer days. Noteworthy was douching deputy dog and his shackled charges driving a prison van to the courthouse. Okay, that prank was perty fucking good. One more silly stunt was the potato sling-shot launcher from my front yard, over the trees and into traffic on Interstate 5, followed by practicing our golf swing with buckets of balls. I'm of the opinion that none of these stunts proved lethal as a result of my own volition. Shit happens, I ain't kilt nobody.
Don't believe a word I say. In actual cases of death, specifically three, a drug overdose (Gary Los) occurred in the back room while me and Todd Larson were tuning my 66 Dodge Dart with a rather sporty 225 slant 6. We'd removed the cylinder head, had it hot-tanked in acid, repainted the outer edges, dropped the push-rods through the machined slots onto the camshaft below and re-installed the rocker arm assembly, mounted the intake manifold, replaced the old carburetor with new better flow model, adjusted the fuel/air mix and idle setting, connected the fuel lines, attached the exhaust manifold with new gaskets and high-temp caulking, all torqued back to factory spec.
The compression was only slightly higher after the machine shop planed the underside of the cylinder head to remove burns and blemishes where the old head gasket had blown through and leaked, but with the reconditioned cylinder head tightly torqued, idling on Union 76 Premium, that inline slant-6 engine purred like a sewing machine. With new shocks, brakes and tires and front end alignment, my old Mountlake Terrace Fire Department surplus auction vehicle was a sweet running dork-mobile. Dependable, quiet and fast too. With Dennis Singleton as copilot, I've driven my old cars from the Canadian border all the way down to Lancaster, California. A town quite similar to Mountlake Terrace where ugly fuckers like ouselves blended in with drunken fogies and chronic addicts, matching the range of the local social spectrum. Being so under-dressed and disheveled we not once got pulled over for suspicion of making deliveries of high-quality product. Recalling such offerings make me drool a puddle.
My favorite cars are surplus vehicles of mature vintage in a state of top-flight overhauls and repairs, tuned to perform fiercely, smooth, quiet and stealthy. In drug dealer vernacular, we called them 'sleepers.' With cocaine financed, pimped out nigger-rigs, Beemers, Camaros and Vettes everywhere, cops never bothered old-fashioned cars driven by bearded losers wearing their deceased grandfather's clothes. In short, we looked like elderly geezers driving obsolete vehicles looking like they belonged to old men. My wheels were blatantly and intentionally chosen because no younger man would be caught dead in. Unless I killed them.
The suicide (Keely Jones) whom shot himself inside his car out front late after a party was a disaster for the survivors, namely my creditor and employer at R&R Automotive, Bob Jones, Keely's father. The break-in that doomed 3 fine upstanding black gentlemen created a red letter day forever memorialized in a moron's retarded blog that says absolutely nothing incriminating with surprising vividness.
In review, I failed to report three more deaths. If my failing memory serves me, there quite possibly might be 3 girlfriends that've passed away mysteriously. One drunk bitch was consumed in a house fire, crack ho #2 was exterminated with cocaine and loud cunt 3 flew through the windshield, partially ejected from an old car lacking seat belts, wasted drunk. If you take off yer readers, squint your eyes and allow the vagaries of history to distort itself, you can plainly see that no culpability can be assigned to yer author on drugs. Honest Injun.
You see, sometimes fatal events are far beyond anyone's control. Aside from the aforementioned bitches, some folks lined up and demanded their own deaths as exemplified in too much industrial strength cocaine injected in one's own arm, putting a magnum revolver against one's temple and dropping the hammer, and lastly, the forcible entry into a residence by low-rent colored crooks of marginalized caste who weren't listed on the lease. Their inventory of injuries were a broken neck, broken head from my baseball bat and a 38 slug fired from a near-broken revolver leaving a single bleeding red spot dead center mass. It was the first time I learned that niggers bled red. My three fuck-toy bitch-corpses went and got dead all by themselves.
Instead of a crack house, I should've opened an animal shelter or MMIN (Missing and Murdered Indigenous Niggers) lost mutt rescue station fer stray criminals the same color as shit. I'd call it, "Euthanize Criminals R Us." Hence the 'mortuary' suffix on Lem's Crack House mailing address. "Come by, get high and die" was a common tag line in criminal discourse with subtle references to fictional fatalities that never, ever happened. I'm not sick, I'm farm trash that milked his goats and humped his sisters. And vice versa.
Those deeds were mine and mine alone. Cain't blame other fuckers and their only residual stain on me now is late night fretting that wakes me. Plus a worry I'll relapse back to swimming rivers of liquor and drowning with coworkers, good friends and brothers. I fear liquor in my dreams, terrorized by distilled spirits in store windows and shelves and freeze panic-stricken looking at booze behind a bar, but not when I drink the shit. Downing quarts of bourbon make me happy, happy, happy. And dead.
I see numerous deeds of mine that may strike a decent man as cruel and inhumane, but since obtaining arctic penance, kind and generous. I'm dumbfounded why heavy alcohol brought me no relief, despite consuming industrial amounts of liquor our 10-56 arrestees, meaning wasted tundra monkeys (VPSO argot), would deem sufficient to produce terminal pine box contents pickled. In a hunnert foreign villages, any 907 buggerin' sodder would've considered my alcohol consumption heroic.
Arriving in Alaska took all the fun out of being mean. No shit, seeing insufferable natives all over Kikiknigrunt Peninsula living in substandard housing was disheartening. I watched newly arriving, out-of-town (meaning white) construction crews digging and burying water and sewer lines, erecting new hospitals and public housing finally pulling it's weight and hiring APC (Alaska Petroleum Contractors) to expand Kotzebue's inventory of modern, efficient, well insulated homes. Sitting on a warm beach, enjoying a small distant sun whose small ruddy niggard glow released scant welcome warmth in dribbles upon us, Albert Monroe, Calvin Monroe, Brian Higman and myself passed a jug of smuggled Everclear, toked Seattle green bud near the Tec Center and watched Arctic Lighterage offload whole houses by barge to shore, fully assembled, then setting them all over North Tent City.
We were surprised to see NWIHA (Northwest Inupiaq Housing Authority) moving in families we never believed deserved such nice digs. Ninja. No Income, No Job or Assets, implies you deserve to get welfare, live in a shack down at Little Kivilina or be homeless. Simple karmic math. Just not on Eskimo soil, poverty is a virtue and you win a brand new house. Am I missing something?
That's where I'm ill-suited for rural Alaska, I thought a soul earned a ticket, first class on the White Flight Airline to upscale housing, parking our rich asses at better addresses far removed from wretched coloreds after passing cultural and skin color certification tests, expensive training in proper voting and maintaining gainful employment. My idea of fair play and concept of just-deserves was way outa whack and it seemed to me Alaska's concept of equal rights appeared a re-invented wheel with four corners on it. Fuck it. In Alaska, paybacks never arrived at my doorstep. Instead I got a hunnert good jobs, worked more overtime than anyone, then got a near-free ride at UAF. If anything, I deserved all the cruelty I inflicted upon others around me.
I'm speechless, Alaska gave me three college degrees from Upchuck U and Ugly Ass Fucks (UAF), brand new company car and dozens of trips to Europe and Russia. Possessing a multi-entry academic visa allowed me to bounce freely over evil empire boundaries undertaking stupid-shit instructions from agencies I cannot recall. Alaska also let me broker the sale of a profitable bar and grill to the NANA Regional Native Corporation. What's up with that? In a karmic sense, I got jipped of all the shit and misery I had coming. Bun's joke is I must've been really good in a previous life. You coppers know the awful truth.
I've been watching you coppers for a long, long time and it struck me that you chaps fit the definition of sojourners and I've modeled my own behavior similarly. I had to look that word up in the dictionary and my best guess what a sojourner is you have no home in this world except the one you create inside you. It doesn't matter where you live or go, you coppers definitely qualify as motherfuckers with your own zip code and time zone.
Roving domiciles and PTSD are a cop's employment service monuments to great reparation and papism. Meaning massive overtime, rotating shifts, rotating assignments and rotating pussy leaving me scant evidence of your infidelity and sparse details of yer crimes. Lacking any documentation, I slanderously scribble in this blog vaguely humorous shit that has sentimental coarseness of a pornographic valentine leaving unborn fecal entrails in its wake. My words are best deleted, not tasted or smelled.
I've determined that my coworkers still living are so very fortunate to be old. Old coppers mature in a way people feel when they have more knowledge of the world than they need. Age is a separate country you could never try to explain to younger people, primarily because they have already made up their minds and any lessons you've learned from your life were not the kind many people were interested in hearing about. Or could stomach.
If age brought an elder gifts, the young will never know what they were. Shit, examining yer nightmares, age brought neither wisdom nor peace of mind. Seeing your occupations and relocations, and subsequent adoption of much darker criminal caseloads, I see you cops were kind to the wrong people. Meaning we've been too kind to people raising tribal banners and marching to bogus indigenous causes that let others do their time on the cross. Manilaq fer starters.
I'm fully aware that a few hunnert years ago President Ford's Executive Order 11905 nor President Reagan's Executive Order 12333 banning assassinations by government and religious organizations wasn't in effect, but conservative backwards-thinking churches, including tribal witch doctors killed neighbors and relatives without restraint. Extreme right-wing dirt-worshiping zealots thought Manilaq dangerous and banished him to Nuvruk. He died alone, starving and frozen. Real Eskimos oughta keep that in mind when squawking bullshit Traditional Inuit Values.
Naming a health care corporation after Manilaq is fucking embarrassing, as is naming an elementary school after a narcotics junky that died of a massive drug overdose we'd consider hangover remedies and naming a ball field after a chronic alcoholic that kilt himself drinking far less that I. Total pussies. We've seen sentimental support for stupid obsolete cultural programs yet we have come to fear a mystic with no formal schooling and a hole in his shoe. Manilaq was an oracle that spoke to the dead and seer into the future with Alaska's massive invasion by pale white men seeking yellow metal crowding the Seward Peninsula till Nome became our state's largest city and finally, those same white dudes flying to the moon. I'm still steamed how Eskimos killed their own prophet and adopting Christianity doubly redundant. Fucking mental retards, all of 'em, still to this day.
Curing Alaskan class upward mobility stagnation with education is the least viable and most expensive option we vote and assert. Being unwisely courteous to a dishonorable wife-beating man could possibly result with those whom we least like, yet know will appear uninvited at our door. Or sitting in the borough mayor's office or ANSCA corporation CEO. Poor is like stupid, it lasts forever. Virtue is its own reward and evil is its best punishment.
Also, we oughta be afraid that gravity sucks and when hefting corpses, shit always slides down our uniforms and our deceased coworkers working aside us in innumerable police agencies in-state and overseas stood up tall. Heroes we admired kept kids in school, out of emergency rooms and rape trauma clinics, yet no cops run corporations. In summation, wearing scars and PTSD, we shant let others pretend our teams wasted their time. Or their lives.
We've worked with men that were loyal as dogs, simply stubborn, strangely fierce and maybe that was the regular way of behaving behind a gun and a badge and went with the constable's persona, but I'd give them a D- on normalcy. All I can say now is that some cops loved this Earth but didn't get to stay very long. Some of my coworkers wanted to drink for eternity and forget the violence, cruelty, sordid behavior and human exploitation that seemed to become more visible in the world as they aged. But human wisdom is bullshit, the elderly never see inherent goodness in the world that they had not been allowed to see in their youth. The world was the world and it did not change because one happened to age.
Get this, I'm not trying to provide you with justifications for when I committed unconscionable acts against our neighbors and fellow citizens. Looking back at my own behavior, the totality of a man's days eventually become a circle and one way or another we always ended up at the place where we began. Except I worked for police departments, versus shackled, beaten and incarcerated in one. My itinerary is highlighted with destinations ghetto and the folks that abused and tormented me never let me forget the details of my suffering and I was condemned to remain my own history book containing a story I could not pass on to others and from which no one would learn anything of value. If I returned to Russia or Washington, I'm sure we know the riot act I'd be lectured, then arrested. Or else these are the musings of a self-absorbed old man, one who could not stop thinking about the past and ephemerality of his life. I suppose if I thought about mortality in any other fashion, I'd go insane or put a gun in my mouth. During dark moments I considered those options.
I look like an old man who would not concede that disease had already taken me to a country from which no amount of pretense would ever let me return. I have awards for symphonic achievements and swimming medals, yet my juvenile record indicates a sick, deadly hillbilly wigger. My counselor, Dr. Marilyn Grey once told me that I'm incapable of following the rules or conform to patterns that are associated with criminal behavior. She laughed and stated I was every psychiatrist's nightmare and my level of rat-like IQ and wide reading experience allowed me to create a construct in which I shared real estate with serial killers. I told her I was like a cockroach and the common cancer and a loser. Shit dissolves and dissipates, and despite my historical prose of phenomenal irrelevance, I'm still here. We're balancing on an existential tightrope for the long haul. Where else are we gonna go?
The answer is nowhere. Just staying here around us, you coppers are continuing a darn good trend. Reading an introduction from Carl H. Marrs in the book "Growing Up Native In Alaska," he states that in 1966 the average age of death for Alaska Natives was 34.5. Yup, in plain white-man English that's thirty four and a half years. That dismal statistic is roughly half of the average life expectancy of Americans nationwide, for the same year. That is one brief period of time for good souls stranded upon frozen taiga, Russian for tundra.
One important factor in extending life spans of First Nation's Americans and Native Alaskans was ancient burial of human waste, human trash, human stillbirths and late-term abortions. Eskimos from previous centuries were immeasurable practitioners of full-term live-birth abortions. Grandma Magdelene, my wife's mom, with dodgy paperwork and great guess werk, born pert near 1900 or before, told me a gross story of Alaskan sewage treatment and birth control. Her stories weren't impossible but difficult to follow for they lapsed into her own accented version of universal English. Through a long life of separation from proper Queen's English and Victorian manners, from the currents of living speech, her's had remained archaic. My listening skills are noteworthy and dim, her curt comments between herself and bun hovered on the edge of understanding and managed to elude my clutching tendrils of comprehension. As a European I polished my translation skills with volumes of alcohol.
She described her life as migratory from season to season. Winter camp was sculpted ice and snow enclosures, igloos in English parlance and summer camp was simple, rustic, wood and brush structures at river shores and lakeside grottoes. Okay, that's understandable, so what? Well, by spring time, the floors of melting igloos were layers of fur, hides and shit and spilt foods. Plus buried still-births and deformed babies. Still with me? Grandma Magdelene told me that her mom and aunts cared for ripe, near-bursting pregnant Eskimo women whom always arrived at their igloo to give birth. If the baby was a midget, dwarf, mongoloid, or just born dead, they had a hole dug in the floor of their igloo, custom made, just for that occasion.
Another phenomena that Grandma Magdelene expressed was the uncanny, innate ability of every elderly Eskimo woman to know who the parents of any child were. In an instant, a mere blink of an eye, every old native woman would know whom the father of the child they were birthing. One highly developed skill all ancient Inuits possess is the absolute knowledge of which man's dingle berries spooged in the girl crying and screaming over her dead baby with a crushed skull quickly buried in the tundra floor. I'm totally cool with that kind of midwifery. Wipe that grin off yer faces.
Fuck yeah dudes, imagine if you discerned, right at the moment of splash down that the father was Aloysius Ferrera, Boy-boy (Darryl) Sours, Harold Wells or any ugly butt-fucker from the Kotzebue Air Force Base. Smell me? That right there is a righteous hatchet-job abortion. Hook a nigger up by the afro hair, drop the splitting maul swiftly and pour that black liquid fetus into a hole directly under yer nigloo. Maybe that's how nigger heads, tundra hillocks are created. Stuff a dead black baby, or any ugly GI spooge product in the dirt and create an anomalous bump in the arctic permafrost just outside your native family allotment. I'm a genius, smash 'em and dump 'em. We got too many mixed-mud 'tards and FAS monkey butt babies in the NANA Region. Increase native corporation dividends by power washing yer anus and drop the hammer on sick fetal outflows.
I hear you thinking, who'd want to live in an igloo with layers of shit, dead babies and human scrap waste. I sure as shit wouldn't, but igloo floors were the only thawed tundra soil soft enough during long arctic winters to dig down into and ditch icky retarded nigger babies that no upstanding Eskimo would proudly show off to the rest of the tribe. Babies that were dented-head mixed breeds like Billy Lee's with cross-eyed, shrunken skulls, miniature limbs or just plain upriver scary looking handi-champs got a hatchet to the head and stuffed below the floor of the family/clan igloo. Being a total fan of gimper dude infanticide, Eskimo logic is cooler'n Fonzie and I'm on the same fucking page. Smash it's goofy crooked head before it breeds creating a hunnert Noatak butt-fuckers. You can laugh now, I'm a funny Selawikmute faggot.
Grandma Magdelene explained that when spring arrived the whole clan loaded up their scant necessary subsistence tools and lighter clothes for summer camp, then abandoned their worn, soiled winter garments and dwellings with litter strewn about in melting heaps. Within minutes of departing upriver to fish camp, coyotes, wolves and feral dogs arrived and had a major fucking buffet. They ate everything. All the rotten furs, hides and leftover foods like whale blubber and seal oil that had spoiled during the winter. Plus all the layers of flooring, poop, piss and dead babies stashed in the floors. Ingenious indigenous.
That's the starting bell in the race to summer camp. I can see a whole tribe of handsome, smart Inuits fixin' to book, immediately after Poppa pours the rancid seal oil all over a pile of discarded sick, gimpy, half-white dead babies. Ready kids? Run niggers! Grandma Magdelene said that when they returned the next fall to set up winter camp, the entire premises were chowed down. All the tundra, dirt and mud, including any old boards and twine, were wolfed down by every carrion-digesting and shit-eating animal known to primitive Alaska mankind. After hibernation, bears arrived to claw, chow and bulldoze the soils to golf course perfection. That's a kick-ass garbage disposal system and abortion clinic right there motherfuckers.
Now take a moment to imagine all the assholes, rapists and killers that would've never made it past the birth control ax and out of the Eskimo abortion Hole of Doom. I see mixed-mutt mud-fuckers like Sandy Russell covered in dirt and I see BJ (Blanche) Higman and Bum Short and Pete Lambert gasping through dirt-caked ax injuries and blowing bubbles out of opened craniums underground. One could argue that even pre-Christian contact Eskimos knew of divine provenance and taking a hatchet to the skulls of ugly niggers with a shovel of tundra as chaser a beautiful antidote to violence and might even have lengthened the life of First Alaskans today. It's a dubious assertion Carl Marrs was referring to my unfunny thesis submitted in this am cop-talk posting. Fuck me, I'm chuckling.
Eskimo abortions possibly prevented scum bags from taking the helms of native corporations. Feel me? Looking back, some CEO's and presidents of ANSCA cluster-fuck salmon-cruncher limited liability organizational structures and Inuit non-profit shit piles consisted of members of a political class who believe they invented privilege and still held the patent. Executive motherfuckers now enforcing rules that without money, rural natives have no business living in a democracy. Imagine the happy smiles us low paid public safety grunts would be showing if our city leaders would've been wolf scat on day 1 of Spring migration to summer fish camp, with the last image they see is mom's big gaping ass, gargling afterbirth then an ulu swinging downward and lights out. Just saying.
Chip and Willy Hailstone were imported douche bags and pustulating maggots from the lesser 48, but Kevin Nanini and Chuck Criss would've never been crapped outa nasty dark clootch pussy if their mom's woulda been frozen basement substructures underneath Magdelenes's igloo. Shit, missing those maggots, we all could've enjoyed living and working on that miserably haunted peninsula called Kikiknigrunt. The place that's almost an island, but a complete dump and funereal dead baby food drive for stray dogs, wolves, ravens, crows and coyotes. I'm digging this paragraph with a wooden handle. Chow down scavengers. Cup o' 'bortion and poop entree with Eskimo fish/blubber, post-digestion snacks and shit dressing. Nice. How Robert Evak escaped his destiny underground and beneath layers of rotting hides baffles me. One look and that ugly nigger would've gotten Grandma Magdelene's ivory handled guillotine in 2 seconds flat. Fuckin' A, that's a cool image of wolves gulping after-birth stew with a side order of cholera-soaked melting tundra. Lish.
Grandma Magdelene cackled evil when I added my subnormal humor as addendum to her gory tales of early 1900's Inuit existence. Not all native Alaskans are retarded and that practice of killing sick baby monkeys is perty fucking smart. I'd pour her another generous whiskey, more cold overpriced beer, light her cigarette, then continue my prodding her tales of great history and humor. Mag described their departure upriver to fish camp as a 'save-ass bait and switch' on the encroaching predators in their midst. Spring is the hungriest period for starving vicious fanged canine scavengers, so her micro-clan made tracks to summer camp, leaving all the rotting furs, hides, poop and ugly dead babies behind as bait and decoys to a hunnert starving rabid rototiller churning and eating entire winter campsites as the healthy gorgeous First Alaskan Eskimos booked to fish camp.
After summer camp, the next fall, returning to their winter campsite was plainly easy to find. In a 100-yard circle was a smooth, level patch of soft, clean dirt. The wolves, dogs, coyotes and even bears chewed and inhaled every scrap of tundra and wood that was scented or soaked in rancid blubber, dead baby soup, blood and poop, even the surface foliage, leaving a beautiful site-prep to establish another cloister of igloos and future deposit for dead baby fertilized arctic topsoil and winter camp landscape.
After Magdelene listed a roster of names of neighbors and vil-mates she wished were deep sixed in tundra and poop, and scarfed by wolves and bears, we both drank to that action. A native gal that frosted Magdelene's ass was cancer cluster and retarded breeding mutt, all in one wench. Grandma Mag wished a diseased woman would've been dropped down into the Eskimo abortion Hole of Doom was Jessie Lee. I shrugged and said I didn't know who that was. Magdelene explained that Jessie Lee was a walking disease lump suffering lung cancer, colon cancer, diabetes and was often wasted lugging a leaking colostomy bag. And continually raped and pregnant.
Jessie Lee, a natural mutant and beauty pageant loser pumped out a million disabled FAS babies such as Wanda Stein, Bum Short, Pete Lambert, Billy Lee, Benny Hensley and in subsequent iterate breeding generations the likes of Mike Lie and Chris Lie. If one matriarch had been spanked with a shovel and swaddled in permafrost, a shit load of cancer carriers and dental disasters would've been averted. I see yer concerned facial expressions and I'm cackling evil. An ancient Eskimo lady and a stuck-up Norse agreed going back in time and clipping a bitch, possibly expediting the murder of future superstitious scabs and illiterate hateful aborigines with bad teeth and tumors, quite logical. Cheers mate.
On one more Grandma Mag tangent, she said all of her sisters, brothers and village children would try to catch a falling star. And this isn't literary license either. During mystical meteor showers, Grandma Mag and her siblings and childhood pals would go out on clear cold nights and watch for falling stars, then race one another to the asteroid impact site to collect the meteorites. No shit. Grandma Magdelene said that it was a common practice to run and retrieve asteroids the fell from the night sky, and if they impacted the Earth, they became meteorites and the metal in these fantastic finds was "ral good metal." I must've looked like an idiot catching flies with my open mouth.
I explained to Grandma Mag that most meteorites that impacted Alaskan's planetary surface were highly radioactive and dangerous. She chuckled and declared, "Eskimos never live long enough to get sick." I pushed my questioning and asked why on Earth would her parents encourage this hobby and Mag stated that it was the only metal Eskimos could find to use for tools and weapons. Then it dawned on me, a radioactive projectile like an arrow or a dagger or spear tip or a cutting weapon like an ulu or hide scraper would work pretty fucking good and glowing Geiger hot was a moot point. In summation, I asked how they located such rare metallic treasures and her response was the rising smoke and steam marking the point of impact. Then it's simple to race each other to fetch and dig up treasures and bring to poppa for tooling. I suppose lacking an ore deposit like Lake Superior hematite and zero ancient Inuit foundries might necessitate an Easter Egg Hunt for super hot rare Earth metal space rocks. I repeat, ingenious indigenous, despite radiation sickness and genetic mutations.
Speaking to the point of nasty, brutish and short lives, the life expectancy for Alaska Natives increased considerably, actually 18 years, after the original Alaska Oil Lease Sale pumped nearly a billion dollars into the coffers in Juneau. Those funds have been wrongly characterized as spent on whores, booze and blow like drunken sailors, but that isn't accurate. The monies flooded into every town and village across the state and was the beginning of the construction boom we saw building water and sewer projects, hospitals, schools, airports, and housing projects.
When the Trans-Alaska Pipeline started pumping oil from Prudhoe Bay to Valdez in 1977, the original daily volume of crude was 450,000 barrels daily. The peak we saw in the 1980's to the 1990's pumped 2.2 million barrels every fucking day. That's a lot. The State of Alaska earns 12.5% gross value of every barrel of oil coming out of state lands, right at the well-head, which added up to 100's of billions of dollars we witnessed spent on public infrastructure and health services, facilitating a second gold rush of construction worker white dudes. This includes us.
Since oil money and all us unmarried single white guys arrived, Alaska's sense of identity evolved from the Last Frontier plagued with whores and miners to nearly Nordic-like modern health care facilities, roads, schools, airports, prisons and phone/radio/internet connectivity. The obsolete archetype of dog mushing, subsistence, gold miners and religious white fuckers homesteading on stolen native lands is no longer authentic as our description. Those notions are now cute, quaint and fond remembrances of silly, outdated anachronisms. To pull another word from the dictionary, Alaska's zeitgeist, a German word meaning worldview of ourselves, shifted greatly, far beyond recognition.
Here's where you can shit-can stupid talk of traditions or returning to the old ways of Alaska's founding fathers and ancient Inuit elders. That's stale, tired and ripe enough to pitch because there cannot be any cultural tragedy unless there's a ZEITGEIST of ultimate order that can be destroyed and then restored. As Alaskans we no longer believe in one epistemology, or way of existence to screw up and destroy the Great State of Alaska and no citizen achieving enlightenment like Manilaq can restore old outdated ways of living, thinking and speaking. Nothing can bring Alaska back to what it was. No more Last Frontier, no Wild, Wild West and no more lawlessness allowing us to kill the dead nor rape the willing. If a good Indian is a dead Indian, then tall healthy, educated Alaska Natives qualify as "Bad Indians" and stand-up motherfuckers. Still with me?
We have decent schools statewide, we have better public safety out to the far reaches of rural Alaska and we all know the rules of behavior. In other words, any crude, sick or vicious act or deed is blatantly contrary to the peace and dignity of the Great State of Alaska. Which subsequently you coppers added at the bottom of your reports and complaints you submitted to the court and district attorneys prosecuting crimes and arrests we all processed. When we received reports and complaints of violent crimes or even property crimes, everybody knows that the cops will investigate and our courts will prosecute. That outcome is so predictable, it's inevitable and we all just take this public safety service for granted.
Our local District Attorneys Office has a dozen prosecutors that are currently handling 600 cases EACH. But shit, virtue is it's own reward. We all know the troopers, local PD and DOJ are busy behind the scenes, hard at work doing God's work clearing our communities of sick, diseased killers, rapists and catalysts in subhuman form selling illness and death. Shit, just this week, the Department of Justice, Alaska State Troopers and local police departments statewide arrested 57 meth, cocaine, fentanyl and heroin dealers. These shit-heels were working under the orders of a cartel fucker sitting in a California prison, giving orders through poop-flavored, smuggled cell phones to his lackeys shipping lethal tons of crap drugs from Mexico all the way up here to Alaska. That's a shit-pot of motherfuckers we all like seeing taken off the slate. I'd volunteer to perform the hatchet services and burial in the Eskimo abortion Hole of Doom. Like an aging abominable snowman, I still have a few of my magical powers.
After my court appearances working phantom narc squads, I enjoyed seeing the faces of stunned or shocked juries across the state hearing testimony and seeing evidence of horrible crimes, then in turn handing down guilty verdicts that make us so darn proud. 12 citizens tasked with determining the guilt or innocence of one of their peers is a powerful social structure and constitutional legal process and watching suspects becoming convicts is righteous. After announcing that guilty verdict, punks, thugs, rapists and killers seem shorter and shrunken in spirit as bailiffs escort their shit out of the courtroom. I don't care that Alaska ain't got no death penalty, pulling the 99 year sentence means no more mommy, girlfriend nor parties and the best friend they'll ever have is a tall psychotic guy just like me, balls deep, way up in their shit. Not pretty.
Back to Carl Marrs' life expectancy figure of 34.5 for Alaska Natives in 1966, I found a figure of 50 years native life expectancy in 1977, at the time TAPS starting pumping black crude, with an additional 18 years of native life since production started. Plus we received 100's of billions of dollars flooding every community in Alaska. Consider that Alaska has about 320 towns and villages statewide, that's a shit load of iron and concrete converted into major 'super hospitals' in every hub and thousands of remote clinics surrounding them. To date, the average life expectancy of Alaska Natives is roughly equal to you coppers, meaning low 70's for men and late 70's for women. Oh, and get this, they're more than 10% taller and 10% heavier. Ain't that the shit?
You coppers were here from the ground up, breaking your backs keeping rapists, child molesters and murderers in jail and safely far away, contained in expensive prisons from citizenry you served and protected. Which in turn played a statistically significant part in lengthening the life spans of native children, women and good hard working First Nation men statewide.
I'm smiling right now and if anybody's looking, I have blue eyes filling cuz I learned to follow orders from you fuckers and do something decent and good, not destructive nor painful. My pretty wife repeatedly tells me that my catharsis or transformation from earlier is staggering and she's proud to witness such a healing epiphany. She refuses to believe I'm the world's worst human being. Beat that.
Of course, you boys know how many decades we all needed to blossom and grow into better people and assume our duties in keeping the peace. Oh, and maintain the dignity of the Great State of Alaska. Can't forget that last bit.
Alaska's view of itself, or better put, our formerly narrow 907 arctic zeitgeist has shed a lot of scabs and infections, removed violent citizens, banished them to penal colonies, cleansed destructive cultural archetypes, burned cruel bibles, pitched racist schoolbooks and remodeled old BIA boarding schools to produce even better product.
Now consider this fact. Us folks from the land of ice and snow, the midnight sun and frostbitten feet missing toe nails no longer suffer residency on a resource extraction colony filled with diseased whores, retarded miners nor dull natives. We no longer live in a third world shit hole. We've achieved an egalitarian, higher standard of living that easily measures up to other developed Arctic countries.
Fuckin' A dudes, with Finns, Swedes and Norse as the standard, we are now equal to any Nordic country.
That's something to be proud of.
Karl.
posted by Alaska: Local And State News. at 2:47 PM
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