white rez

They got these white rezes all the heck over the Deep South of the Yukon here.

Lord knows how many white rezes there are in the DeepSOY but f’sure there’s more of em here in the southlands below the Arctic circle than there are of the other kind although they’re smaller. Each’v’em’s got more rules than the other kind of rez so it feels tighter inside em, specially if yer tall and used to bein off leash and standin with yer back straight so the wee folk can see your nose hairs and say there goeth a man.

Beats me how it all works but I know the rangers got guns and are quicker on the draw than a caricaturist at a farmer’s market so you better know how to high-speed waddle your headcarry on outta there. They can follow you off-rez, too, if they think you’ve got the ick in your headcarry, and if you keep waddlin they’re gonna William Tell your headcarry with a standard issue so be advised and know yer lack of rights. I ain’t white, I just look that way, specially at forty yards and specially with a pit bull livin his beast life and draggin his rope through the devils club, which f’sure ain’t no Epstein square dance even if it’s got a lot of pricks.

One man’s ick is another man’s gander, so study the regs. The rezes are rife with regs and rules, a royal roil of em, a regular rash of em from here to Vancouver twenty hours to the south. The true south strong and free!

You go into the rez with anything approximating a rod then brother you’d best have a doctorate in the ick. The ick is a religion and it’s got itself scriptures nine yards long they call “theology.” Jesus. Psalmin’ is pronounced like it looks and it’s all about singing the songs of the river. Amen.

Ick means fish, I hope. In case it doesn’t, just play along, like how when you see two periods at the end of a sentence you pretend it wasn’t written by a boomer.

It’s a wild world here on the frontier. I saw an eagle chasing a seagull yesterday just for the rhyme scheme.

Race doesn’t exist, but that doesn’t stop people from tryin. If you wanna catch all the races of ick you best buy up the bottom end of the river and all its politicians and have a bottom trawler so big it can catch all the races by accident so catchin all the races ain’t yer fault. Buy the bottom of the river and all its icks and pricks is the takeaway. After separating the icks from the pricks boil the ick in little plastic bags stuck to the inside of cans for half an hour till it’s dead and full of microplastics and send the body to the folks on the other ocean. That’s how the big guys do it. But if yer a little white man browned up in tan camo by sunbask, well, you were little when you came onrez and yer littler still when you point yer rod at the river like yer some iconic zionic Moses partin the red sea of blood. Not to mention that yer pit bull’s off standin in the river helpin the other ickmen land their icks. And ickladies, too, sorry…not tryin to be sexist (it comes naturally).

Not kiddin, it’s called ick theology and you’d best be a doctor of ick if you go in there, though twenty years on the riverbank might do in a pinch for doin an i.d. on the races of ick. You’re on your own out there—there’s no team in ick.

All the races of ick look the same to me. Here in montrecoastal B.C. (the place, the time) race is called “status” in an attempt to prove that you can’t make this shit up even if you can. I ain’t blamin the status first-nations here. They’re just out to catch fish. Just livin their normal lives off rez. See above about bottom tramplers, sorry, trawlers, to remember who I’m blamin. Whom, sorry. Didn’t mean to be mean.

Races is just a made-up idea from the handlers, truth be, and the whole point of races is to maim and injure jus like it is with the two-legged icks. And like dating apps and nose rings the ick is all catch and release till yer just in pain. The religion of ick is sadism and if you fall for it then it’s masterchism or masterjism but I don’t judge. When in Rome.

Well maybe I do judge a little cuz I ain’t gonna torture no icks by chuckin em back. You think mouth-rippin’s a sport, you dick, that’s because you never played shuffleboard (called “curling” in Canada) and you for sure never played XCUT (cross-country urban tennis). Sport my ass. Save the lipyankin for yankees, you perv. You think that tickles? You ever got yer nose ring stuck in Granny’s old-fashioned meat grinder tryin to sniff if that’s chicken livers then you’ll know what I mean. Granny’s like what did I tell you about nose rings? Plus a little blood freshens up the liverwurst.

I ain’t gonna waste time race-judgin the icks while they suffercate. I’m gonna go rambo firstblood if I ever catch an ick. Put that poor feller outta his miz. That steelhead better have a big helmet if he wants to avoid my rambo. Get the miz out’s my plan, then git goin on the waddle. You wanna know what’s in my headcarry eight feet up like a brown or nine like a black or ten like grizzly you’re gonna have to William Tell cuz I ain’t.

—D.T. in B.C. (the man, the time)

Not boasting but picture topside is my landscape artist doing a bit of landscaping (adding beauty to the topography). In answer to your query, yes, she’s as hot as she looks. Her son is first-nations (not illustrated). Picture bottomside is me not wearing underwear (the underwear drop is the only reliable way to determine race so you’ll never see me wearing that stuff). Ignorance of the ick is something something so no yer rites. I didn’t have a bathrobe so I couldn’t do my Moses impression. There’s only one Tartarian bridge in town and it’s the third one lurking behind that second one and doing an excellent job of not fooling me. Broken castle stones in foreground.