AK-pocalypse

Dear pussy bedwetters,

Times are tough in Alaska. Global warming is over. The next Ice Age is on the horizon. The oil rush is history. You’re not going to get rich quick like you thought you would.

You’re probably only going to freeze to death in the dark. So here’s some advice: Leave.

The Alaska Highway runs south as well as north. The airlines will be as happy to fly you out as they were to fly you in.  You and those jets engines can whine all the way to wherever it is you prefer to live.

No one will hold your leaving against you. To live in Alaska, you have to be tough. We understand. It can crush the weak and dishearten the strong.

Now, I know you might have taken offense as being called a pussy bedwetter. It’s not the nicest of terms, but if the shoe fits….

And the phrase does have an interesting history. Alaska hardman Roman Dial muttered it to a bunch of hard people years ago in the Alaska Mountain Wilderness Classic because they didn’t want to leave the shelter of a remote Wrangell Mountain cabin to risk life and limb on the trail in a summer blizzard.

Let that sink in: A summer blizzard.

Yes, a friggin’ summer blizzard.

Alaska is a hard land for hard people.

You are not one of those people, and you never will be.

You will not do the Classic – an event that makes the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race look like a ride to Nome in a heated dog sled. You don’t have what it takes. It’s OK. None of us are perfect.

There’s a nice, civilized niche for you somewhere, and mobility is one of the great things about 21st Century America. If you don’t like it here, it’s easy to pack up and move. We understand if you’ve decided Alaska was a bad choice.

It is sort of hell disguised as Disneyland. It looks picture perfect until you move in.

My Hillside neighborhood is textbook. The views of the Turnagain Arm, Cook Inlet and the Aleutian and Alaska range mountains beyond are to die for. People drive up here. They see a house for sale. They fall in love. They buy.

And then they find out they’ve  entered the real-estate equivalent of marrying Nick from the Netherworld or Helen from Hades. First the hungry grizzly bear jumps the dog and eats it in the yard, and then the black bears show up to try to break into the house.

About the time that ends, the moose get cranky. The falls winds start blowing 100 mph. The roads turn into luge runs. And they discover most of their neighbors can’t drive in winter.

So they either leave,  or they pay for a Trumpesqe, electrified wall topped with razor-wire around the property to keep out the bears, a bunker to live in when the winds start to howl, and a Humvee in which to make the commute to town.

Or at least that used to be how it worked.

Now it would seem a few simply proceed to engage in nonsensical whining, as in Alaska “you gave criminals more rights than me. I’m a little surprised that you did not try harder to protect the jobs of those who pay for your streets and those who protect your streets. I’m a little surprised by how little you value your police officers, paramedics, teachers, oil workers and fishermen.”

What the hell does any of that even mean? Is the nanny state now supposed to protect even the jobs of oil workers and fishermen in an economic recession? Does any sane person really believe criminals have “more” rights than the rest of us?

Maybe “as many.” Maybe in trying to protect the rights of the accused, we’re treading too lightly. Maybe we should become more of a police state. Maybe we could hire an army of Robocops to drive up and gun down the bad guys any time they appear.

But more rights? If you think that’s the case, go stick up the nearest bank or credit union, wait for the cops to get there, and see what happens. It’s possible they could handcuff you and drag you off to a dirty jail cell, but hey, more rights….

One can only guess they’ll take you to Girdwood for dinner high above the clouds at the Seven Glaciers Restaurant before renting you a room at The Alyeska Hotel where you can spend your days watching free movies on the telly and living high on room service while you await trial.

And if convicted of bank robbery, you know, it’s off to the swank Beverly Hills Hotel back in California (home for a lot of you) to serve out your term in five-star comfort.

Doesn’t that sound so much better than the hell you’re living in now Mrs./Mr./Ms. Alaska Wannabe:

“…Drive-by shootings in the better parts of town. Not to mention your bitter attitude between Halloween and Mother’s Day, the extra money I pay for skin lotion during those months, tanning, happy lights, two sets of tires every year, airline tickets.”

Yes, and it’s all true. I read it on the internet. Terrifying.

To paraphrase Bill Murray, “Salmon sacrifices! Moose and bears living together! Mass hysteria!”

“Internet,” you say; “Fake news!”

No, no, no.

It might have been fake news on Fakeback. But the Anchorage Daily News yanked the story out of Fakebook and vetted it. The biggest newspaper in the state put its imprimatur on this tale.

If the newspaper owned by the pioneering Binkley family that traces its roots back to the Klondike Gold Rush thinks it this bad in Alaska now, it’s bad. Bad, bad, bad!

This is the AK-pocalypse.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Get out. Flee. Run for America.

And don’t let the door hit you in the ass.