igotthatwork
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Oct 29, 2007
- Messages
- 500
I'd like to tell everyone just what they've been missing.
This place sucks.
Upon arrival, you'll sit and wait, sign a shitload of papers, sit and wait, sign more papers, and finally receive your hip new wardrobe. But what the fuck is this?? Why is this old fat guy following me into a cell and telling me to strip??? After squatting, coughing, and having your rim examined for "foreign objects", you'll finally get to don your dapper new outfit. Betelgeuse himself couldn't pimp this mutha out any better.
Time to meet your new roommates now. I was lucky enough to be placed into the "medical" pod, for some strange reason. I use the term "medical" loosly here, as "crazy lunatic" pod better described my new living quarters. As I entered and heard the door clang behind, I noticed a row of double bunks on either wall. I was now faced with the important decision of which steel bunk to put my blue kindergarten mat on. Some guy named John told me his side was warmer, but the rent was high. Not sure what he meant by this, I eased to the other side and threw my mat on the last top "bed" available. To my immediate left was Stewart, who had refined talking to himself and giggling into a fine art. Beneath him was Frank, who I determined was either comatosed or dead. Beneath me was a little short guy named Tarvis. This man's intestinal tract was in critical condition, and foul odors drifted upward regularly. I now knew why this bunk had been empty.
Feeding time. A congo line raced to the pod door, and it opened and in came a cart with brown boxes on it. These boxes turned out to be our supper trays. Inside was some green matter, a "cooked" animal of some sort, and what resembled a brownie. My favorite. My more seasoned roommates told me they believed the main course to be fried emu, a dark brown and pinkish meaty delicacy. One man's trash is another's treasure, and I had quickly traded this vile brown "food" tray for two packs of oreos and some doritos. Fucking A. I've been here two whole hours and already stang the fuck out of some idiot. A little later, the door opened again, and peanut butter sandwiches and milk were distributed to certain people. Where the fuck is mine??? "These are for diabetics only." Time to sting the system now. I inform them of my non-existant borderline diabetes, take my shit and eat. I pulled this off for two whole days before some nurse wanted to see me. Fuck the nurse.
Now it was time to relax. Oh wait. Why was there no television on the television stand with a coaxial plug by it? Maybe a smoke will calm me down. "There's no smoking." Who do these goddamned Nazis think they are? This is both cruel and unusual. A jail or prison without TV or smoking? Unheard of, but I had found it. I was then informed that our only means of entertainment were a 1957 Russian science fiction book or the Bible. I picked up the sci-fi book, read half the first page, and the gravity of the situation had finally hit me. I rolled over and tried to sleep.
A night or two later, a guard entered with a pair of shears. This can't be good. After being told all males were required to have their hair cut for health reasons, I was given my choice of the "Murder 1" or the "8 Ball" cut. I chose the former, named I guess because the trimmer guard was on setting 1, and let Dwaylan, our roommate/barber, begin the scalping. Now I really looked the part.
A couple of days more, and you'll be feeling the part, too. Absolute isolation with certified madmen is quite a recipe for disaster. A deck of cards had been my best friend until Stewart swallowed the corners off of all the spades. This presented quite a problem when trying to play spades. So we decided to do the next best thing; we went Jihad. For everyone saying "What the fuck is Jihad??", I will clarify. It is the creedo and way of life that all muslim terrorists live by. And how was this acheived, you might ask? The jail faculty was kind enough to trust each inmate with two whole clean towels per week. Wrap one around your head, the other 'round your face and WaLa! Instant terrorist. We assumed that three or four of us pacing madly back and forth past the pod window and mean mugging the guards would produce a wonderful effect. No one seemed to notice. My God, how much lower could we get???
And just when all hope had failed, when all your meals had been traded for some unknown medication which you greedily consumed hoping for some random effect, when your last 1-ply square of this week's 1 roll regimen of toilet paper was gone, when you're thinking you'd sell your soul for three hits off a Tucson menthol light 100, the pod door slowly opens... "Number 412673, you made bail, get your shit and come on."
Yes Sir. Here I come.
(Believe it or not, this is a completely true story. No names were changed to protect the innocent because, fuck, we were all guilty. The only difference is it was in no way funny when it was happening. No events or "funnies" were added, the wording only makes it this way.)
This place sucks.
Upon arrival, you'll sit and wait, sign a shitload of papers, sit and wait, sign more papers, and finally receive your hip new wardrobe. But what the fuck is this?? Why is this old fat guy following me into a cell and telling me to strip??? After squatting, coughing, and having your rim examined for "foreign objects", you'll finally get to don your dapper new outfit. Betelgeuse himself couldn't pimp this mutha out any better.
Time to meet your new roommates now. I was lucky enough to be placed into the "medical" pod, for some strange reason. I use the term "medical" loosly here, as "crazy lunatic" pod better described my new living quarters. As I entered and heard the door clang behind, I noticed a row of double bunks on either wall. I was now faced with the important decision of which steel bunk to put my blue kindergarten mat on. Some guy named John told me his side was warmer, but the rent was high. Not sure what he meant by this, I eased to the other side and threw my mat on the last top "bed" available. To my immediate left was Stewart, who had refined talking to himself and giggling into a fine art. Beneath him was Frank, who I determined was either comatosed or dead. Beneath me was a little short guy named Tarvis. This man's intestinal tract was in critical condition, and foul odors drifted upward regularly. I now knew why this bunk had been empty.
Feeding time. A congo line raced to the pod door, and it opened and in came a cart with brown boxes on it. These boxes turned out to be our supper trays. Inside was some green matter, a "cooked" animal of some sort, and what resembled a brownie. My favorite. My more seasoned roommates told me they believed the main course to be fried emu, a dark brown and pinkish meaty delicacy. One man's trash is another's treasure, and I had quickly traded this vile brown "food" tray for two packs of oreos and some doritos. Fucking A. I've been here two whole hours and already stang the fuck out of some idiot. A little later, the door opened again, and peanut butter sandwiches and milk were distributed to certain people. Where the fuck is mine??? "These are for diabetics only." Time to sting the system now. I inform them of my non-existant borderline diabetes, take my shit and eat. I pulled this off for two whole days before some nurse wanted to see me. Fuck the nurse.
Now it was time to relax. Oh wait. Why was there no television on the television stand with a coaxial plug by it? Maybe a smoke will calm me down. "There's no smoking." Who do these goddamned Nazis think they are? This is both cruel and unusual. A jail or prison without TV or smoking? Unheard of, but I had found it. I was then informed that our only means of entertainment were a 1957 Russian science fiction book or the Bible. I picked up the sci-fi book, read half the first page, and the gravity of the situation had finally hit me. I rolled over and tried to sleep.
A night or two later, a guard entered with a pair of shears. This can't be good. After being told all males were required to have their hair cut for health reasons, I was given my choice of the "Murder 1" or the "8 Ball" cut. I chose the former, named I guess because the trimmer guard was on setting 1, and let Dwaylan, our roommate/barber, begin the scalping. Now I really looked the part.
A couple of days more, and you'll be feeling the part, too. Absolute isolation with certified madmen is quite a recipe for disaster. A deck of cards had been my best friend until Stewart swallowed the corners off of all the spades. This presented quite a problem when trying to play spades. So we decided to do the next best thing; we went Jihad. For everyone saying "What the fuck is Jihad??", I will clarify. It is the creedo and way of life that all muslim terrorists live by. And how was this acheived, you might ask? The jail faculty was kind enough to trust each inmate with two whole clean towels per week. Wrap one around your head, the other 'round your face and WaLa! Instant terrorist. We assumed that three or four of us pacing madly back and forth past the pod window and mean mugging the guards would produce a wonderful effect. No one seemed to notice. My God, how much lower could we get???
And just when all hope had failed, when all your meals had been traded for some unknown medication which you greedily consumed hoping for some random effect, when your last 1-ply square of this week's 1 roll regimen of toilet paper was gone, when you're thinking you'd sell your soul for three hits off a Tucson menthol light 100, the pod door slowly opens... "Number 412673, you made bail, get your shit and come on."
Yes Sir. Here I come.
(Believe it or not, this is a completely true story. No names were changed to protect the innocent because, fuck, we were all guilty. The only difference is it was in no way funny when it was happening. No events or "funnies" were added, the wording only makes it this way.)
