Mormon Logic

I do not understand the Mormon religion, I just don't get it. They are a curious people for sure, when talking to a Mormon I feel the vague notion that I am actually talking to a really nice robot thats plotting to kill me. St. George, Utah is smack dab in the middle of Mormondom, when walking down Main Street,(there really is a Main St. here and it actually is the "main street" in St. Bored) you feel as though you could be attacked at any moment by the children of the corn. Everyone is way too nice, you feel as though they're trying to trick you. When saying hello to a typical Mormon be sure not to look them in the eye, because they are trying to hypnotize you. For the 4th of July I went camping with some family in Beaver, Utah, and I must admit it was a nice area, beautiful scenery, deer prancing around in the fields, it was the day before the 4th, and most little towns go absolutely ape shit over Independence Day, every redneck in the country is trying to prove what a big patriot he is, parades, speeches are made while everyone pretends like they really give a fuck,...But not Beaver and for that matter Utah as a whole. This was surprising to me, I had noticed the profound love of Fox News that these people possessed, they probably would have voted in George Bush for a 3rd term if they had had the chance, they think that Barack Obama is really Darth Vader, and rightly so despise "french" fries. I would have thought these people would be in full "Colonial Mode" wearing tights, and powdered wigs, and cursin' those British jerks with the goofy accents that tried to tax the goddamn tea an' all. The 4th arrived and it could have been any other ordinary weekend, this was so odd that I asked my Dad what the hell was going on, he told me that the Mormon's don't really celebrate the 4th of July because the 24th of July is "Pioneer Day"....."Pioneer Day? What the fuck is Pioneer Day?" Seriously, you hear no fucking fireworks or anything because they save them for Pioneer Day, basically what this day celebrates is the first Mormon pioneers who settled here. That is the politically correct explanation, I will give you the real explanation: Pioneer Day means, "Everybody fucking hates us and our ancestors got kicked out of every other place that we tried to settle at gunpoint because we try to convince the people around us to believe the same crazy shit that we do, so that's why we live out in the middle of fucking nowhere." Only the Mormons could come up with a celebration glorifying being shot at, and having all their land confiscated from them. Following this logic, the U.S should have a "We lost Vietnam Day" celebration, people should be out on the street shooting bottle rockets at each other in celebration of losing their homes to an Airport through imminent domain, "Yay! we're fucking homeless fuck yeah!" Look Mormons, you're only supposed to have a celebration and parades when something "good" happens, having your messiah Joseph Smith shot dead and being thrown off your land is whats known as "bad" this is why Jews don't celebrate the "holocaust" why the Armenians don't have a "Genocide day" If you want to have a big celebration, you have to wait until something "good" happens, and I don't see that happening cuz you guys fucking suck

My New Religion

Although the most acute judges of the witches and even the witches themselves, were convinced of the guilt of witchery, the guilt nevertheless was non-existent. It is thus with all guilt.... Nietzsche

To me religion is basically a massive competition to see who can convince themselves of the most unlikely, stupid ideas possible. Honestly, I truly believe I could start a religion worshiping bat shit, "Yes my students, I will now teach you the sacred wisdom of bat shit" hand out some flyer's, and make a website and I'd have a 1000 retards at my door giving me all their money and begging me to teach them all about bat shit. I would profess myself as the "Bat Shit Overlord," sent by the "Bat Shit god" to preach to humankind and spread the gospel of bat shit. "Oh bat shit overlord, why do we suffer?" they would ask, and I would reply "You suffer because you do not pray hard enough to the bat shit." You see the trick is even if you're praying to something as seemingly absurd as bat shit eventually something good will happen according to the law of averages, so, being the bat shit overlord I would say "Ha! you see, something good happened to you, PRAISE BAT SHIT HALLELUJAH!" Do you not see the genius in this! If bad stuff happens its because you didn't follow the doctrine of bat shit, or it means that the Bat Shit God is testing your faith and took a big bat shit on you. If something good happens, that means that the Bat Shit god is rewarding your gullible stupid ass. Then I'd throw them a curve ball....I'd tell my flock about...Spanky..... the Bat Shit Devil, "Yes, my pupils, you must beware of the evil Bat Shit Devil....Spanky" my flock of retards would shriek in horror at first, then they would come to the realization that it's not their fault that they're a bunch of worthless fucks, because....its......its Spanky's fault, Spanky the Bat Shit Devil made me do it! And actually this notion would give them a sense of self worth, because they'd reason " Wow, I'm so fucking important, that the Bat Shit God and the Bat Shit Devil, take time out of running the Cosmos and keeping the planets in orbit to make sure that I score a touchdown, or get tricked into killing my whole family," and the whole time I'd be trying not to laugh at these deluded, arrogant saps. Before long "Bat Shit miracles" would happen! Reporters from Fox News would be converging on the site of a man with a potato chip containing the image of a piece of bat shit on it, People would flock to Jamaica to bathe in pools of holy bat shit water to cure their cancer. Eventually different peoples would fight bat shit jihads over trivial disagreements about bat shit dogma. Then to complete my ruse, yup you guessed it, I would write the "Bat Shit Bible" "Thank you Bat Shit Overlord!" they would exclaim, "Now we don't have to think anymore, thank you Bat Shit God!" By definition this "Bat Shit bible" wouldn't need to make any sense, nor would you want it to, because this way when anybody starts questioning it you just say "It doesn't make any sense to you because you are a mere mortal, only a child of the all knowing Bat Shit God, it's beyond your understanding and purposely makes absolutely no sense, while contradicting itself every other paragraph because the Bat Shit God wants to see whether or not you have the stupidity....er... I mean faith to believe such nonsense.

How Porn Hurt Me

For a 20 year old sailor in the U.S Navy there are only 3 really, really important things, Beer, Cigarettes, and Porn. The earth shattering events that I am about to relate all occurred around the year 2000. The technology of the day didn't allow you to watch porn movies on the Internet, all they had back then were pictures that took half an hour to load. DVD had arrived but it was still expensive, 99% of all movies watched were still on a device known as a "VCR," honestly I've never understood what was so great about DVDs they get scratched and skip, they don't wanna play for some reason, the list goes on and on. VCR tapes on the other hand could be set on fire, shot with a pistol, soaked in acid, or hit with a Patriot missile, and they would work just fine. I was stationed at Point Mugu Naval Air station at the time, I was living in the barracks serving as resident drunkard/obnoxious jerk and filling this position to the best of my abilities. Recently I had been moved to a different room and while I was moving in to my new living quarters, Jackpot! Whoever had just moved out of that room had forgotten his stash of Porno tapes on a shelf in the closet. "Finally, things are starting to go my way," I whispered to myself as I brushed a lone tear from my cheek...finally. So, now that I had free porn I was obligated to buy a VCR so I had a buddy of mine give me a ride to Walmart, careful not to mention my secret treasure because then word would get out and I'd have 50 perverts like me at my door everyday begging to borrow the flicks and I was determined not to let that happen, if they wanted my porn tapes they could pry them from my cold, dead hands. I bought the cheapest VCR I could find, I was giddy with joy as we walked through the parking lot toward my buddy's car, and.... Voila! We got back to base...mission accomplished..fuck yeah. I could hardly contain my excitement as we pulled up to the barracks.. and then my friend had to open his big fucking mouth, "Hey, uh, what movie you gonna watch, can I watch it with you?" FUCK, I thought to my self, I gotta get rid of him, so I had to think fast and come up with the shittiest movie I could think of.....Um, I'm gonna watch, uh, uh....Battlestar Galctica, you know uh, the one with John Travolta?" My adversary looked back at me with tortured eyes, no words were needed.......... there was no way he was gonna watch fucking Battlestar Galactica........YESSSSS! My bluff had paid off, perhaps my mom was right, maybe I am a genius.....just maybe. But why lie about my intentions you might ask? Well for all you ladies out there it is an unwritten rule among guys that you never admit to watching porn or masturbating because you have to put up the facade that you have such an innate sexual prowess and that you get so much pussy that you don't need porn, it's all lies but that's just how it is. So I get up to my room and lock the door, draw the shades, turn off the lights and hook up the VCR, it's go time baby. The thing about porn is that you can't just jerk off to the first scene, or usually for that matter the first tape, you have to concentrate real hard and find that special midget, in that special scene before you can handle business. As I'm carefully analyzing every scene, and fast forwarding through all the fore play, (because I'm a dude and I don't understand it) I hear a knock at my door, FUCK! Of course it's my stupid friend Travis,( I swear to god if I had had a pistol I would have shot him through the door) so I ignore him and hope he goes away but he keeps knocking....FUCK! I get up seriously pissed off to see what the hell this drunk bastard wants....and Bang, I accidentally knock the fucking VCR off the top of my T.V and it crashes to the ground....FUCK! I open the door and tell idiot boy whatever he wants to hear to make him go away, this accomplished, I pick up the stupid VCR and put it back on top of the stupid T.V and hit play.....and nothing, I try to hit eject and ......nothing...FUCK, I couldn't understand why god had taken such a shit on me, it just wasn't fair. But if I couldn't watch porn I decided to do the next best thing....I got hammered, plus I obviously had a good plan, you jerks. Beer for me is like spinach to Popeye, it makes me smarter, funnier, way better at pool, and hopefully, taking apart VCR's. I found a screwdriver that I had accidentally stolen from work and with great skill and dexterity I got the outer shell off and could see my beloved tape encased in metal deep inside the beast, I started drunkenly taking out every screw in sight trying to release the tape from it's tomb but to no avail. I tried prying the metal loose with the screwdriver but it wouldn't budge, apparently, in the twilight of VCR production, Magnavox started building their devices with carbon fiber, and titanium composites.....clever indeed. In frustration I grabbed the metal bars with one hand and the porn in the other and tried to wrench my tape from this evil contraption, but it was useless I sat back in my chair in dejection, and in my exhaustion I felt water running, where was it coming from? Had I spilled my beer? The only illumination in the room up to this point had been the static from my TV, so I turned on the light and looked at my hands and they are drenched in blood...what the hell? I looked around the room and there was blood everywhere, it turns out my hands had been gashed by the metal bars inside the VCR, I screamed in rage, and sexual frustration. I got to the bathroom and ran the faucet over my bleeding hand and saw the damage, basically it looked like I had repeatedly given Freddy Kruger a high five, I didn't have any band-aids because I despise foresight and I like to assume nothing bad will ever happen, so I had to make bandages out of scotch tape and toilet paper......but the worst part of it all was that....that...it was my...right hand...I'm not kidding people, later on this would also prove painful. I went back into the room and surveyed the damage, basically it looked like a Nazi death camp, with a dead little cyborg covered in blood on the floor, to this day I hope nobody gets killed or raped in there because that room is a giant Jamie DNA repository, if you were to turn on a black light inside it would probably look like a Jackson Pollack painting, anyways I just thought everyone needed to hear this

The Curious Case of Manuel Donato

Okay, okay now I have officially heard it all, I will never read another work of fiction in my life because the average shit that goes down everyday is so absurd that making stuff up is pointless and superfluous. There has been another development in the absolute stupidity of Manuel, before I go into this let me give you some background info, My mom met this guy at an A.A meeting in Mesquite, Nevada, little did she know that Manuel is the poster boy for why you never marry someone you met through A.A. Everyone has been trying to figure out why she married this man ever since, so one day I decided to ask her about the whole thing, "where was he living when you met him?" "uh, well, uh he was living in Mesquite," I sensed the evasiveness in this response so I decided to keep the pressure on, "whom was he living with at the time?" "umm, well he was living with his mom." I replied "so the fact that you met an unemployed 45 year old man living with his elderly mother at an A.A meeting didn't raise any red flags?" "Well, um he was working in Texas, Oklahoma, Nebraska, California, and Oregon." "So basically you're defending him with the argument that before he moved in with his mom he had steady work as a drifter?" " Yeah." I could tell from her demeanor that I had proved my point, so I wasn't going to turn the screws anymore because it's my mom for chrissakes people. Over the next couple of weekends we had been going to Las Vegas to help my youngest sister renovate her townhouse (which is a story in itself) so I wasn't seeing alot of Manuel because he refused to come help (he always complains about how everyone despises him down there) which was fine with me but I think all the solitude was exacerbating his oddness because when I got home from my sisters' house he would have some new idea that he would be obsessing over and would follow me around our house telling me about it. Don't ask me to have a totally rational explanation for this but....he became completely fascinated by...Powerade...what the fuck? One day i'm sitting on the couch watching T.V minding my own goddamn business and here comes Manuel, everytime I see him it makes me feel frusterated, just the way he walks around on his tippy toes pisses me off. So he walks into the kitchen and he's messing around with the sink and I can tell he wants me to notice him or something so just when i'm about to get up and run away he pulls this bottle of Powerade out of nowhere and says " hey jamie have you ever tried this stuff?" I can see right away that it is Powerade because he's holding the bottle with the label prominently displayed like he's shooting a soft drink commercial or something. I can feel my blood pressure going up as he proceeds to sing its praises, then he starts to read the nutrition label on back, the scariest thing about all this is that this man truly believes that I actually give a fuck about how much Potassium is in Powerade, I don't want to be rude to the man because we live together and so I just sit there and take it. Finally his phone rings and I make a break for it and think the worst has passed. One day later i'm sitting out on the porch smoking a cigarette and I swear to god here comes Manuel out of nowhere.....with a bottle of Powerade. It's like one of those old war movies where the GI's are standing around bullshiting and all the sudden they start getting hit by mortar fire and they start taking cover wherever they can, thats how I felt, except I was getting hit by Manuel fire. As I'm sitting there listening to this ape-man try to spread the gospel of Powerade it all starts to make sense. I remembered him telling me when he flunked out of Airborne school that they made everyone drink lots of potassium and electrolytes that came in these little packets that they mixed with water. So since the Army sung the praises of potassium then thats all there was to it "I Manuel, do solemly swear to drink the shit out of potassium in the form of Powerade."

Letter to Saint James

This is a letter to my friend Saint James who is an inmate at California Men's Colony in San Luis Obispo (picture Lemony Snickets after 30 years of heroin abuse)

My Dearest Saint James

First of all I would like to thank you for all the time and effort you took out of your busy schedule to write not a letter, but a critique of an old letter that I had sent to you. That was quite a project but somehow you managed to pull it off and I am humbled and immensely impressed. Thank you also for sending me your poetry that I know you treasure deeply and for remembering how much I adore poetry in general and yours in particular. I am presently enjoying summer in the desert, mornings in blazing heat, afternoons spent suffocating, and nights praying for a nice cool prison cell. Next month I finally start school I’m looking forward to it because it will give me something constructive to do, Dixie State College is known as the Mormon Harvard, they have a fishing class that I might take. My mom is getting a divorce from her husband you would find the details of this fucking fiasco hilarious. My mom was totally on the rebound after divorcing my dad after 25 years and married this curious fellow named Manuel that she met at an AA meeting. First of all he looks like a Mexican Gomer Pyle the giant adams apple and all. He hasn’t had a real job in the 4 years that they’ve been married except for being in the National Guard which he believes is quite an accomplishment since they let him play soldier for 2 days a month. He has a giant American flag pinned to the wall in the garage which he probably pledges allegiance to every morning, he also is painfully addicted to Alcoholics Anonymous, he believes that it has turned him into a wise and spiritual person and to prove this he listens to Native American flute music every morning on his cassette tape player. Being the great American patriot that he is he decided to take the Utah Correctional Officer Exam to keep us all safe…..but alas he failed it which I didn’t know was possible. But did Manuel give up? No, he decided to take the Highway Patrol Test, unfortunately he couldn’t recite the alphabet backwards and was promptly told to leave. His next venture was to be hired on as an automatic garage door opener installer but was fired a week later when they realized that he didn’t quite know how one actually goes about installing a garage door opener. Being the resilient and delusional ne’er do well that he is he refused to admit his stupidity and came up with his most audacious scheme yet…he went to his National Guard command and requested to go to………AIRBORNE SCHOOL! For obvious reasons the US Armed Forces were in desperate need of 48 year old out of shape National Guardsmen to become Paratroopers and kill freedom haters. It is a 3 week course and one of the most difficult and grueling that the Army has to offer, but our brave hero never flinched…he prepared. He stayed up into the wee hours watching the Military channel and old war movies, he ran a mile every other morning his face always showing that steely eyed determined look of his, he went to 3 AA meetings and worked a step a day for 2 whole weeks until finally the day arrived when the US would pay thousands of dollars to turn a skinny 48 year old baby boomer into fucking Rambo. He made sure to give my mother the play by play of his entire journey the first day was the Physical Readiness Test this test being so torturous and brutal it would make a Spartan puke but through sheer determination Manuel was able to do the required 45 pushups and 50 sit-ups, he made it to day 2 and then 3 and then 4.….. but then disaster struck, the bane of every soldier from the Roman Legions to the Doughboys in World War 1 and into the present day brought our valiant Manuel to his knees so excruciating was the pain he immediately checked himself into the Emergency Room where the doctors ruefully verified that…..that….yes he had blisters on his feet. No warrior has ever been able to handle a really bad blister especially when the skin comes off and it stings when you touch it. And if this wasn’t tragic enough his hemorrhoids were acting up as well (this really was his excuse, you can't make this shit up), this panoply of malicious maladies was too much to overcome even for a professed Communist fighter like El Manuel. And so he returned home once again as a failure, most men would have built a shack in the woods by a pond and shunned society as a recluse in disgrace, but Manuel would have none of it, if the US didn’t need him to jump out of planes and kill Bin Laden he would do the next best thing…he would obsess over Computer Viruses and the Car Battery in my mom’s Jeep. He spent his days replacing the electrodes on the Jeep battery checking and rechecking the connections my mother came to terms about being late to work everyday because there were jumper cables attached to everything under the hood, Manuel took no chances that the Jeep would ever get kind of low on juice and we love him for it. Everything seemed to be going smoothly and life was getting back to normal Manuels’ blisters had healed and his hemorrhoids had scabbed over I thought the worst had passed but I was wrong….terribly wrong. My father had picked me up and we were on our way to his house for a summer barbecue when my phone rang. At once I recognized Manuels’ panicked voice he was mumbling and stammering uncontrollably I knew straight away that something terrible had happened, he calmed down enough to give me the news that our computer had a ……..VIRUS! My first reaction was to do the honorable thing and kill myself but I didn’t have a gun because i'm on parole, so I made myself to stop shaking and try to regain some semblance of composure and asked him the details of our computer virus. The truth turned out to be worse than my imagination could have ever conjured, so sinister and devoid of human compassion and dignity that only the cruelest evil scientist could have come up with it. Please Saint James sit down before you read this I know that your getting on in years but you must know the truth……the virus…..well…. IT TURNS THE SCREENSAVER …………

S I D E W A Y S!!!!! So I quickly hung up the phone because in all honesty I really didn’t fucking care, (why can’t someone come up with a “good” computer virus that lets you get free porn or prints out $20 bills?) So what did Manuel do? He went absolutely ape shit like the true National Guard logistical Sergeant weekend warrior Mexican patriot that he is, he pinned me down about it, “what websites do you go to?” “Maybe it was Youtube?” “Have you been running the Antivirus?” “Do you think the virus is an alcoholic?” he took the whole computer to Best Buy, the terminal, the monitor, and just in case it too had become infected, our valiant mouse. And what did those cynical bastards at Best Buy do?? They told him all they could do was sell him another computer… what a shitty world we live in. And to top it off there never was a virus a program had gotten erased and it fucked with the screen saver for some reason. What a life huh? I went to the Esquire website and your all over there I was amused to see that I was mentioned in one of the letters but I think that I would rather write poetry than play scrabble. Anyhow, I must be really bored because this is the longest letter that I’ve ever written. Write me a real letter next time lazy ass.

Anti-Douchebag Legislation

The last thing that i'm going to do is join the long line of nitwits involved in glamorizing prison, prison life, prison rape (well sort of I am) and all other of the bogus stereotypes portrayed in popular culture, because the reality behind it is so much more fascinating and far less trite for sure. But what I want to express, or address rather, are things that society on the outside could learn from the goings on, on the inside. The ideas that I am about to impart were not born in prison, but in the free world opposite the razor wire but unfortunately have been swept aside and long forgotten. I refer to this most important theory as the "Fear of an ass whooping." It is so elegant in it's simplicity and potential to shut some pricks mouth. If you ask the random person off of the street about what his preconceived notions about prisoners in state penitentiary's are, most likely he will reply about what savages they must be, a bunch of primitive, troglodytic ( is this a word?) part-time homosexual jerks. Let me tell you, this person would be mostly wrong indeed. In fact if an ordinary person were able to go undercover onto the average prison yard and observe the behavior displayed by every convict he would be absolutely shocked to say the least because everybody is so goddamn polite and respectful in prison, you could literally leave your cell door wide open and put all your shit on the doorstep and go to work and....... nobody would have dared to touch it! But how can this be you might ask? Has everyone been mislead about Compton, have the Nazi Low Riders been perfidiously libeled all these years? How is it that if one inmate even comes close to getting in another inmates way they will both race to say "excuse me" first, shouldn't they be raping, robbing, and pillaging each other? The answer is no and i'll tell you why. THEY ARE SCARED OF GETTING THEIR ASS WHOOPED. If by chance you were to observe an inmate walking around with two black eyes you would be noticing an intricate prison hieroglyph, I will translate it for you: it means "I decided to run my big fucking mouth and this is my reward." And it gets better! Hypothetically speaking, let's say some convict had lost his mind and chose to steal an item from a fellow prisoner and had the misfortue of getting caught. First, the inmate who had the object stolen from him would calmly imbed a couple of razors into a toothbrush (this is known as a "Tomahawk") and then perfunctorily rake the device repeatedly across said inmates face until correctional officers beat him off with billy clubs. So, what would giant razor scars across an inmates face imply? Once again I shall translate, it means: "I am a fucking thief or that I like to molest children." At first all this might seem barbaric but in reality it is proactive, it is game theory at it's finest. Let me put it this way: Prisoner A is broke, prisoner A needs a soap dish, prisoner A sees a soap dish in the shower that someone has mistakenly forgotten. Prisoner A has two choices, he can either steal the soap dish or he can leave it alone. 99% of the time prisoner A's thought process will go something like this: "A soap dish is good but not getting killed over a soap dish is even better." So where am I going with all this? The problem with society is that nobody is scared of getting their ass whooped and this is why everyone acts like an asshole. Obviously nobody is going to condone one person stabbing the other, but a good ass whooping is known to be highly, highly therapeutic as has been well documented in the various medical fields as a potential cure for strains of "self-entitled prickitus." I want to start a grassroots petition to send to the U.S congress telling them to quit obsessing about some obscure ruling Sotomayor handed down in 1987 and pass a bill legalizing ass whoopings. Watch the wave of attitude adjustments that would sweep the country, "Uh, you mean the police won't save me anymore if I decide to run my fucking mouth?" Nope, you are now suject to getting knocked the fuck out. What a utopia we could create my friends! Here's another hypothetical situation to further my argument: You're standing in a long line at Walmart waiting your turn patiently when along comes someone whom I'll refer to as "Asshole A." Asshole A is immensely impressed with himself, he graduated from San Diego State, drives a Sebring convertable, he has three children named after days of the week, and types of fruit and has a Blutooth attached to both ears because he wants everyone to know how goddamn important he is. He get's it into his head that he shouldn't have to wait in line like everyone else so he just cuts right in front of you. You laugh to yourself knowingly and cold cock his punk ass in the back of his head, he falls to the ground in a heap at which point you get him in the "full mount position" and proceed to pound his cock-holster with your elbow until he stops squirming and then you calmly drag this piece of shit to the back of the line and move on with your day. This concept as I alluded to earlier is nothing new, back in the wild west if you wanted to pop off at the mouth someone would put a revolver bullet in it, Aaron Burr got tired of Alexander Hamiltons' mouth so he challenged him to a duel and popped a cap in his ass legally. Nowadays as an American you're not allowed to beat or shoot someone unless they live in the Middle East let's get rid of our assholes first and then we can work on assholes in Iraq........

My most memorable day in Wasco State Prison

It was the middle of another stiffling summer at Wasco State Prison in California and considering the circumstances I was in an outstanding fucking mood, today was the day that I had been anticipating all week, today something different was going to happen! I was at the time working in the dining hall in the mornings which definately has it's perks, you get all the food you want and plus it pays 15 cents an hour! But the greatest perk of all is that all the ingredients for Pruno are there for the taking....... FUCK YEAH. For all of you who are unaware what Pruno is, it's homemade wine and it is quite the delicacy it's like blowfish in Japan or something. The main problem with pruno is that the cops are always on the lookout for it and it's hard to hide because it stinks. Basically all you need is some type of fruit and some type of sugar combine the two in a trash bag, wait a few days and you'll be out on the yard pickin' fights in no time! The main advantage that inmates have over the staff is that they have to feed us because it says so in the constitution and on top of that it has to have a certain amount of nutrition and calories which on some levels sucks because they give you an apple at every goddamn meal but on the other hand 40 of them equals a couple gallons of wine. I'd been working in the kitchen for some time now we'd cook off a batch of wine every few days but eventually the bastard cops would find it, they were on to us. It takes alot of effort to make the stuff it's like a scavenger hunt, stealing a bunch of juice stealing a bunch of syrup, swiping apples and then on top of that you have to hide all the stuff and wait for a chance to mix it all up and get it to a hiding spot, its exhausting and then to have it taken away by some sadistic staff member acting like he just found Bin Laden and showing his buddies made me want to go to Medical and request a rape kit. All of us in the kitchen were ready to give up we hadn't put another batch together for a few weeks and the sobriety had weakend our souls. So one day after we had served breakfast and cleaned up I decided to go lay on one of the tables out in the dining room and try to nod off, I was on my back with my eyes closed and I opened them and stared at the ceiling.....and there it was. High up on the ceiling were heating ducts and....there was enough of a gap between the duct and the ceiling...to..to....stuff the wine, it was the only time I ever cried during my incarceration, I know how Abraham must have felt when god spoke to him in the desert. Like a maniac I ran to tell the guys my discovery, some of them were skeptical at first but when I reminded them that many theoretical physicists were wary of Einsteins' Theory of Relativity in 1905 they realized the stupidity of their doubts and we got down to business. I had it all figured out, we had tall carts that were used for transporting food around the facility all we had to do was lift one of the carts onto the table and then someone would have to climb up it while two other guys held it firm because it's on wheels then a third guy would hand the box of wine up to the guy on the cart who would stuff it into the gap so that it could ferment for a week. The next day we put "Operation Clever Hiding Spot" into action we hustled up all the orange juice, apples, and syrup (since it was pancake day) we could get our hands on, then we took turns keeping point while a couple of guys grated down the apples with an empty tuna can poked full of holes. All my life i've had people tell me how they wish they were as tall as me (i'm 6'3) "ooh you're lucky to be so tall" well let me tell you it isn't always that great because since I was the tallest I was the one who had to climb up on this rickety old cart because no one else could reach the vent. Also as a side note if you ever go to prison don't tell people that you know how to spell because word will spread like wildfire and you'll get asked a hundred times a day how to spell shit. So the plan goes off without a hitch we put two seperate batches up so now we can get drunk Saturday and then yup you guessed it Sunday too.....badass!! I'll have you know waiting for wine to "cook" sucks because inevitably every one starts to get wishful thinking "hey we should just drink it now" or "i'll bet it's already done we should just drink it now" but you have to just steel yourself and stay the course Rome wasn't built in a day after all plus if you drink it before it's done you'll just be sitting there sober with a bad case of blue balls. Finally the day had arrived, we were all at work licking our chops i'm sure the Correctional Officer on duty that day was trying to figure out why we were being so helpful and efficient as we served breakfast that morning. After our jobs were done we had to stay in kitchen and dining hall area until they cleared count around 11:00, as soon as the Officer went back into the office we struck out with the precision of a Green Beret A team, we got the cart up onto to table I climbed up with great speed and agility, I deftly grabbed one of the boxes handed it down to one of the homeboys, who promptly scurried into the Scullery with our miracle juice where another couple of guys were waiting prepared to strain the pruno. You can't just drink the wine straight you have to get a pillow case or in a pinch some hair nets to strain the stuff because it has chunks of apple in it and it'll make you sick if you swallow it. Finally...Finally the time had come everyone stood around the empty peanut butter bucket that we had strained the wine into with their cups out, like a bunch of goddamn jackals waiting for their ration, unless your in your cell and can risk taking your time you don't want to take any chances so you just pound the wine as fast as you can plus this tactic will help you get more drunk or as they say in the joint "Mo drunker." The main advantage about drinking in prison is that your not drinking everyday so you have absolutely no tolerance for alcohol so it doesn't take much to get good and hammered, and man after about 20 minutes we were not fit to drive at all. So of course the plan was to wait until the next day to drink the other batch but as you might guess since we're all in prison none of us are real good with "plans" or "common sense" so eveyone is campaigning to get the other box down and i'm the only one tall enough to get it so they start trying to convince me and i'm drunk as hell and really don't want to but I don't want all the other criminals makin' fun of me so I get my peer pressured ass up the cart and i'm reaching for the damn box on my tippy toes and i'm just barely pulling it off the vent and here comes one of the Lunch Lady hags walking through the door into the dining room and then she sees whats going on and starts yelling for the Officer sleeping in the office, in all the comotion the jackasses holding the cart back away in panic and the cart starts to roll off table i'm wasted and trying to balance while holding a giant box of alcohol, one wheel goes off the table, and I fall of the cart about 8 ft flat onto my back and I look up and a red wine geyser is coming at me in slow motion.... and boom it absolutely fucking hits me like a fire hydrant and splashes everywhere. Everyone is stunned and doesn't know what the hell to do....except for an 18 year old skinhead who was supposed to be holding the cart, he notices that there's still wine in the bottom of the bag and so he grabs it and runs into the scullery I follow close behind and we lap up as much wine as we can because the Officer in charge already hit the alarm so time is our enemy, the cops rush into the scullery and put us prone on our stomachs and they're handcuffing us and all, by now every cop in the prison is hearing the news over the radio, so theres like 50 cops standing around ground zero pointing up at the ceiling I think they were actually pretty impressed, I was in prison for 4 more years after that and was transfered to various other institutions and I would hear guys telling stories about the legendary Wasco pruno fiasco of 03'..... what a life.

Weekend in Las Vegas / A letter to my arrogant sister

You really need to come out to Las Vegas because we need way more help, honestly Courtney and I are the only ones who can stick to one thing and accomplish it Mom comes in a close third. The first day i'm busting my ass i mean cleaning like an absolute maniac, i have never seen such gigantic piles of clothes and random filth. Look i'm well aware that i tend to exaggerate on occasion but this dude Shane literally had over 70 pairs of of socks, Mom is absolutely freaking out "Shane you have to throw these socks away, Shane you have too many socks, Shane the socks, throw em away Shane" Then when that fails she starts with the bribes, "Shane if you throw the socks away i'll buy you new socks" I have to give Shane credit he is a shrewd negotiator, he concedes to throwing out only his "long" socks and i swear this is true.....when mom left the room i caught him stashing long socks...sad. The kid literally spent more time digging through trash bags trying to recover shit that we threw away than cleaning his shit hole house. Shane loves to disappear, he thinks he is clever, he thinks no one notices him slithering out of the garage every so often, it all starts to make sense to me, he is like Superman and Clark Kent in reverse, every time he comes out of his garage he becomes less "Super" what is it about that garage that would make Shane more stupid and lazy every time he leaves it? Nicole, Shane is a pothead. Remember that "this is your brain, this is your brain on drugs" commercial with the egg frying and all, they should do one called "This is Shane, this is Shane trying to paint cabinets on drugs" There would be Shane standing in front of cabinet doors with a spray gun and a thousand yard stare and he would look at the camera and say any questions? When i was in high school that would be all it would have taken to flush my sack down the toilet for sure. For four days all he had to do was paint some fucking cabinet doors, and all he did was tinker with the nozzle and ask us what kind of donuts he should get for everyone. The funniest thing that totally epitomized that whole trip happened on the last day Mom and I are sitting on the patio and Mom is talking about how she can't take living in filth anymore and ranting about everything, so she grabs a trash bag and starts throwing away various junk laying around out there, she points behind me at a frying pan thats sitting on the torn and tattered weight bench that Shane got for free but never used, and tells me to throw it away. So i pick it up and am about to toss it and she tells me to take the lid off of it to see whats inside so i try to pull it off but its glued on there by something so i jerk harder and the lid comes flying off and this black rancid sludge goes flying everywhere i caught one whiff of it and ran inside to Courtneys' bathroom and went into convulsions whatever that shit was had been sitting in the desert sun for a long time because there were cobwebs on it. So Mom just throws it in the bag and hoses off the concrete and we all get back to painting. So i get my roller and i'm finishing up the stairway walls and i just happen to look out on the patio and lo and behold there's good ol' Shane and he's dug the rusted old rancid fucking frying pan out of the goddamn trash and he's rinsing it out with the hose. I couldn't believe it i was absolutely outraged i thought to myself what a piece of shit this dude is then he stands up and looks at me like a puppy dog that just shit on the carpet, i look at his shirt its white and in big red letters it says REDNECKS ARE PEOPLE TOO, and i thought to myself you know, that shirt is right rednecks are people too and thats the moral of the story not everyone cares about cleanliness and every item having it's place what right have i to judge, i'm on parole nigga and thats why my punctuation is so bad