Why blow up a moose when you can blow up 3 meese?

Did you know that if you were to walk up to a moose with a bass-drum, and inside the bass-drum were explosives, and you set the bass-drum beside the moose--and the explosives were not detonated--, the moose would not know there weren't detonated explosives in that drum?

[ Allow me to clarify what I mean by explosives since the Vice Presidential Candidate's name is included in this. I mean flowers. "Blow up" is a colloquial term we Alaskans use when talking about brain-washing a woman into falling in Love by using flowers, "attentive listening", and agreeing with everything they say. No matter what. Ever. ]

In that respect, can we really consider meese human beings? The more I've been hunting, gutting and stuffing them, the more these sun-flower picking, long-haired hippies keep talking to me about animal rights. Which I don't get.

Habeas Corpus said nothing about a duck's right to fair trial, therefore, how could I give the duck a fair trial, if the duck is not a human to be trialing but hunting from a half mile away.

As far as I'm concerned, if the animal is a quadruped, it was 2 rights: a front leg and a back leg. And both taste delicious.

So in that respect, seeing that these pot-smoking anti-Freedom Fighters called the Democrats and every one else that's on their side of the stick have been making some good arguments against the senseless killing of innocent animals ... I was telling Todd that we better wrestle as many bore as we can before they criminalize it like they criminalized marijuana in the 20's for being a "mexican drug".

End Women's Suffrage. Haven't they suffered enough?

Sarita has been asking me for less and less advice on my political stances lately, saying things like "You don't understand," or "You're crazy," or "It's sort of like being a community organizer, except with actual responsibility.

I understood though. What could a black negro born in South Central, Los Angeles and raised in South San Diego amidst a brief stint of inter-racial volatility at his high school know about anything that wasn't dunks, quality vodka, or non-sensical non-sense called intergalactic mathematics? What?

But you know, being one of the most known and respected political advisers our world has seen today, I had to say enough is enough. Sarah, you have to set your pride aside and listen to the things I'm saying. Of course I'm not your adviser, but, you know, I'm sort of a big deal and that's pretty much the gist of it.

Recently, I told Sarita that a great way to gain some space on the polls would be to start a campaign wanting to end women's suffrage, since they've already been through so much. But of course, as it is with women sometimes, she was set in her ways and being "right" about the meaning of "suffrage" when it's obviously taken from the English root word "suffer" which has come to connote "marriage" in some circles, actually denotes the feeling you feel when reading this.

In either case, I let it go, since even if I was right it would turn into an argument about "not understanding her," and being willing to "listen to her perspective," and the last thing I need is this Ice Queen to be brain-washed by the Liberal agenda.

I think it's about time we start taking care of our women.

Shooting wolves from helicopters is actually pretty sporty.

So I had no problem with calling Sarita out on her avian excursions, sitting in a helicopter with the rumble and tumble of the helicopters over head, piercing the flesh and hearts of unsuspecting snow lupus with rifles equipped with silver-bullets in case they were werewolves.

But Mrs. Palin brought up an important point. If I never tried it, how could I judge it.

I started thinking about other things I judged unfairly, like slavery and driving drunk. I take that back. Driving drunk IS crazy. But it feels so good to speed down the interstate 5, headed south-bound on my way out of the Liberal hub towards San Diego, watching happy cows eat grass and pollute our air with their ass ... not knowing in three weeks they might be my next burger.

So I decided to take Sarita up on the challenge.

"Fine," I didn't say, since this didn't happen. "Let's go. Give me a rifle and take me up there, lady. I want to get high."

And there we were, slicing through the air in this machine, throwing ice cubes at the sea-otters as they barked at us. And wow. I can't explain the feeling of shooting an animal from the air for the sake of the sport.

It's kind of like killing an animal to eat it, except way more Backwater.

Ice Skating Naked. Moonshine. And Alaskan Police Folk.

Dinner with the Palins this past week was a slight-jog down memory ski-slope with a rifle slung over my shoulder and Wasibilly moonshine in my flask.

Todd and I got to talking about the last time I had the home-made juice from a rotten orange. It feels good to sit around with old friends, and reminisce, you know? I couldn't stop laughing as he told the story of when I started figuring skating with nothing but a Gymnastics ribbon to cover my nipples to make sure male breasts weren't suddenly sexualized in Western Culture. But it was Summer.

And what I thought was ice was really just an elementary school playground, so when the cops tried to apprehend me, I hot-wired a Zamboni and drove across the Arctic circle for a good seven weeks before they finally caught up.

LOL. LMAO. ROFLMAO. ROFL. GAHAHAHAHA. HEHEHEHEHE. TEEHEHEHEHEEHEEHEHE. OHOHOHOHOHOHO. HO HO HO. Every other city we go.

I can't even control myself as I write this! What better way to communicate unrestricted laughter than to type out a string of acronyms and consonant-vowel combinations.

Polar bear problems? Sarita's the quicker fixer.

Now, you might think it was dumb of me to sit in baked honey mustard garlic marinade for six hours before attaching the meat and drumettes I marinaded with to hooks along my body before walking the out-doors with two open jars of honey and a freshly killed rabbit attached to a leash smearing blood along my path, but this isn't about you.

It's not about you imposing your beliefs on me, or passing judgment like some silk-robed scribe who wipes the outside of a chalice but leaves the inside full of dust and dirt. Out of my sight heathen! Let he who has never walked through bear-land with fresh-meat attached to his body cast the first javelin, otherwise ... silence yourself. This is America, we're about democracy, not your pseudo-fascism.

Needless to say, I'm not sure what happened because the next thing I knew I was waking up three months later with severe animal bites all across my sexy body, but thankfully the Palinites were trained in the ways of the Paladin, and I was able to share another beautiful day on this Earth. With a bear coat.

Thank you Sarita and Co.

Too much hot-stuff? Palin's got the remedy.

So Todd, Sarita, the kids and my Inuit cousins and I decided to head out and catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights.

Being a city kid myself, I had no idea what these Canadian-Accented White Americans were trying to drag me into--for a split second I thought it'd be like the LSD influenced conferences of The Burning Man Project, not to be confused with the man-eating ways of the Wickerman which, might I add, seems like what this country would come to if we let the Northern Californians have their way with our government.

'Cause it starts with the weed-clubs, and ends at radical feminism. What could possibly be the next sensical step? A bunch of radical feminists high off the ganja with the munchies, no more caribou to slap into other dimensions, and so they decide to trap men in log-pyramids and cook them alive. Sounds like a liberal conspiracy to me.

In either case, we slapped the huskies onto the sled and traveled Northerly until the sky started changing colors. I thought one of my cousins slipped the Amanita muscaria mushroom into my salted snow-cone.

What I thought to be a product of the collision of charged particles from Earth's magnetosphere, mostly electrons but also protons and heavier particles, colliding with the troposphere was just my mind hallucinating craziness. It was actually charged particles from the magnetosphere colliding with the ionosphere. Ooooooooh, I said aloud.

Not in understanding, but in pain, the hot sauce from the deep fried caribou was catching up, I could feel my intestines disintegrating, which meant my anus was soon to follow. Luckily, Palin and Co. had the perfect remedy: a tea of blackberry roots and the boiled inner-bark of dog wood.

Crazy Alaskans and their ancient wisdom.

You don't know meat 'till you've had Deep Fried Caribou.

Now, as much as I am for catching your own chicken and taking it by the head while you whip it around to break it's neck after having had your youngest child raise the chicken as a pet, not realizing that soon it'd be eaten, and thereby traumatizing the poor lad for the rest of his life.

There is nothing quite like having yourself some good old fashioned Caribou.

Sarita and the kids taught me an important lesson in it's preparation. While you could hop down from a silent helicopter in snow-flavored camouflage, the bullet from a rifle would contaminate the blood-stream and limit its tastiness.

So in the spirit of walking the walk instead of talking the biting, good-natured, humorous talk--

Line of the night between seconds :50-1:07.

--We slipped into our sheep skin ugg boots (because it was actually needed, family-value hating, liberal Southern California. They're made for cold, not for mini-skirts), trekked across the tundra with a knapsack full of hope, marched up to the first caribou we saw, and Miss Palin backhanded that thing into forever.

It arched across the sky for a good two miles before skidding to a stop. For a second the U.S. military thought it might be a missile shot from a certain little country in a certain little direction relative to Alaska. Thankfully it wasn't. It was just dinner and left-overs for the next 2 fiscal years.

Just when you thought it was safe.

The biggest difference between being here in Alaska and that other place I used to stay called civilization is that sometimes, in certain months, the sun comes crawling out of the horizon like some binge-drinking Sasquatch, and it stays in the sky and does not come down.

I do not understand this phenomenon. I was under the impression that the sun went up, then down, then up again every day ... which leads me to believe that maybe there's something fishy going on by way of magical seal spleens in this area.

A young man offered to trade me his car for fourteen mirrors, so I got him the mirrors and got in the car. Then I realized that the car I was climbing into was nothing but a reflection of a car off of the mirrors I just gave him!

He escaped with my mirrors and the cars. And I was very sad.

She is NOT like a pitbull with lip-stick. She's like a homosapien with feelings.

I don't want people getting the wrong impression of Sarah. When she brought up the difference between Hockey Moms and pitbulls being the fact that one wears lipstick, and the other poses for Vogue Magazine and has trouble not smiling--

A lot of people took the comparison as a sly way of saying "pregnant female dog," or, more commonly known as, in today's society, when describing a certain behavior, that sometimes is or is not a fair assessment, depending on its propensity to be the by-product of a double standard, where if a man were to act in the same way he would be considered assertive, while a woman with children, a full time job and the ability to make it to every one of her daughter's soccer games might receive a different noun with a different connotation simply because her chromosomes are XX as opposed to XY and are therefore considered less rational chromosomes, and therefore, are called certain word that some people might take offense to, while others might not, while others might only take offense to it when it's said in front of someone who would take offense to it on any given day.

But she wasn't. She was just appealing to our cultural stereo-type of pitbulls, which is they're aggressive and have strong necks because their owners make them walk around with tires around their heads.

Whatever she meant though, is not what I'm addressing. I just feel like this is a horrible analogy because the last time we were walking across a frozen lake with her daughters and husband, she paused, looked down at the 18 inch thick ice, stabbed her hand through it like her left arm suddenly became the spawn of Hulk, and she snatched a fresh-water trout out so fast, that the heat from the friction against the ice walls brought it out sizzling, cooked, and with a hint of lime.

Pitbulls don't have opposable thumbs. Clearly they couldn't pull a fish out with their bare-hands.

When we get a little husky.

As many of you who know me know, if I'm not out running Alaskan steppes with a pack of rabid arctic wolves, I'm jumping back and forth across the Iberian strait with Siberian Husky pups to give them a taste of Democracy our way, then jumping them back to Russia.

Sarita and I never really discussed our views on immigration and what not, but one thing she didn't approve of was me stealing the children of these ice dogs to bring them to America, then taking them back afterwards.

Above all else, she was scared about what it might do to the dog's psyche, since once they got here, they ate less, smoked more cigarettes, and became these radical individualists who were obviously unhappy in their selfishness, but thought people with real connections--and folks that measure themselves not by how much money they have but the relationships they build with the people around them--were unhappier, just better at hiding it.

We both agreed that this was no way to be raising the youth--with so much bitterness about your own failures you can't believe someone else being successful at it--so to keep me from tempting myself with more Canis familiarisal kidnapping, I called my cousins of the Indo-African populations along the Caribbean coast of Mexico, whose ancestors were of Japanese descent, living in Arizona and proud members of the Minute Men--NOT to be confused with the red-coat shooting, tea in Boston Harbor dumping, snuff sniffing Minute Men of the American Revolution, and had them help protect our North-Western border from these ice-water crossing, job-stealing canine.

Together again, Palin and me!

It's been a long time since me and Sarita have talked--she was upset that I got turned into a vampire for 30 days of night and viciously consumed her neighbor's dogs, beginning with their esophagus and ending in their colons.

But she gave me a call the other day after hearing I'd been hanging on the outskirts of Inuit circles, doing hallucinatory drugs and feeling like the back of my head was melting into the snow behind me.

The snow, consequently, became what I thought were falling stars. And let me be clear when I say that I know an Armageddon when I see one. A lady with a crown of stars stepping on the head of a serpent? The seven headed dragon trying to eat the little baby but can't so it decided to go for her other children instead?

I'm not stupid. Just drug addicted.

Either way, 13 tabs of acid and 76 peyote trips later--where the moon was my bed and the sun was my pillow, and starlight was nothing more than holes I poked into the canvas of the night with the pointed ends of pine-trees--Sarita called me and told me I need to get my act together before they deport my mommy.

And I don't want them to deport my mommy. She's a citizen.