"Put on all of your state issue for this pass."
"Where am I going?"
"They want to test the chair, and they need a dummyload!"
Passes
Advice to new hires: Do not ever give inmates blank
passes, no matter how tired you are of writing them. A blank
pass in the hands of an inmate can be horribly devastating,
causing problems beyond your wildest dreams. On one
occasion an inmate got hold of a blank pass and thought it
would be cool to write a pass to visiting for an inmate who
had no family close to the facility. In fact, his family is from
California. The inmate receiving the pass did not think for
a minute that it could be a hoax, and did not check with
staff. He simply accepted the pass from the other inmate,
and prepared to go on his visit, getting all spruced up in the
shower, and putting on his best khaki uniform. Of course,
his family was not there, but to make things worse, the
inmate got locked up for a possible escape attempt.
"Tell me about this massaging thing."
"Well, people come to my house, take off their clothes,
and I rub oil all over them. Thank you God."
No More Part-Time Jobs
A new department policy came out stating that correctional
employees could not work part-time as bouncers, strippers,
or bar-tenders. The actual piece of paper probably did not
state it in quite that way, but our supervision interpreted it to
us in that fashion. Management's reasoning was that those
professions put us in situations that were not conducive to
looking professional in our primary employment. All that
meant was that the title of our additional work had to be
changed. I can think of nobody who actually reported to
their other employers that they had to quit because of the
policy. If somebody took a survey regarding what parttime
work was performed by departmental employees, they
would fi nd that a large percentage of us worked in those
previously mentioned fi elds. Much in the same way that
corrections attracted prior service military members, bar
scenes attracted correctional employees.
My part-time job at a Bingo Parlor really had no title. I
did everything including, but not limited to; running the cash
register, pulling the balls and calling the numbers, hawking
the extra games, selling the pickle cards, and working the
concession stand. I loved the job because of the great tips
and the free booze. In fact, I loved it so much I went to
work after out-patient surgery with a catheter strapped to
my leg. I used a Captain Morgan-like pose to drain the
bladder strapped above the inside of my right ankle into the
urinal. Once, it sloshed loud enough to attract the attention
of the closest blue-hair, so I showed it to her. She slipped
me her phone number hoping I would show her something
else later. As fortune would have it, she won a few hundred
dollars before the night was over. After we cleaned things
up, I rang her phone.
"Hey, this is Charlie, from Bingo."
"Hi, are you going to stop by?"
"I can't take out my catheter."
"Oh, we'll work around that. Just get those cute little
buns over here."
She managed to give me an erection, which was not
easy with a catheter. The oozing of the internal wound sort
of super-glued itself to the head of my dick. It might have
turned my dick inside out, had she not been ready with
the triple-antibiotic ointment. She gave a great assholemassage.
I wound up licking on her, and she wound up
licking on me. She tasted a little like menopause, but she
was talented enough that I promised to fi nish the job, once
the catheter was removed.
Dream Journal
I don't know why, but this very real dream began
in the control unit at NSP. A very old caseworker, Ron
Oestermeier, was found dead. I don't know how he died,
and it did not come out in the dream. I speculated that he
either died of a heart attack, or some inmate murdered him.
When the State Patrol arrived, they did not want the entire
body. They intended to send portions of it to a lab for some
form of autopsy. For some reason, they only wanted his
head, penis, and one of his feet.
Damnedest thing.