"You can smirk, cause you ain't got it. Don't hate
yourself. I know you fi nd my virility repulsive, but
this animal magnetism is crazy. You can't resist. It's a
chromosomal thing. I must have an extra."
"I think you are giving me a taste of how women view
me when they have had enough of my bullshit. What a
revelation. Thank you."
The Prodigal Son Returns
I was sinfully vain as a young man. Fresh off the active
duty USMC, I once told a young lady, "You know, you are
very lucky. I'm normally very choosy when it comes to
who I date." My youthful vanity soon cost me that date,
and I am certain it was not the last. I should have learned
that feeling like you could lay any girl did not translate to
actually getting laid.
Madison was the single mother of one of my former
inmates. That son, and another were also two of my former
football players years ago when I was associated with a
YMCA football program. I ran into her at the local Wal-
Mart. She was always an impressive looking lady from the
neck down, but she had recently had some "above the neck"
work done. Do not misunderstand me here. Madison was
always entirely adequate (and then some) from the neck
up, but for some reason, she was not satisfi ed with her
appearance. Madison began talking to me about her son
and how he would soon be returning to my housing unit
at the state penitentiary because of his violation of parole,
and her attempt to adopt his child, which would be her fi rst
grandchild. Other folks were trying to adopt the child as
well, and they were undesirable in Madison's eyes.
"If you know anything that can help me, I'd be really
grateful." Her grin was not wicked, and I am not sure she
fully understood what I hoped she was implying. I had to
explore this a bit further.
"Well, I'm sure I can come up with some dirt. Perhaps
we can get together and discuss a deal of sorts."
"Yes, I really want that grandchild. I'd hate to
see somebody else get him." Still I could not read this
conversation. I decided to just drop the bomb and see what
happens. What did I have to lose?
"Madison, I have to be very blunt with you." I leaned
in so no other shoppers would listen in. "Are you any good
in bed?" She looked at me, sort of empty, like she did not
understand. I continued, "Are you a good fuck?"
"I.uh.I don't know."
"Look Madison, I need some pussy. I'll come by your
house, you'll sit on my face and suck my dick, then we'll
fuck like rabbits for an hour or until I get tired of it, and
then we'll discuss how you'll get custody of your grandson.
Fair enough?"
"When?"
"I'll stop by this evening after 8:00 p.m."
"Should I be wearing clothes?"
"Are you alright? I didn't see anything. I'll stop laughing
if you're hurt."
Trash Bombs
It has recently become somewhat of a competition,
seeing who can launch a bag of trash into the trash carts next
to the pop machines at the bottom of the external canteen
stairs. We have always sacked up the trash for which we are
responsible and taken it out with us, but it has never taken on
such an interesting role at the end of our shift as now. Close
to the end of the shift, probably within half an hour, we begin
to collect the trash which normally consists of three small
bags. A larger sack usually does the job. I personally like
to tie a neat handle at the top. It makes it easier to carry and
swing when trying to gain momentum for the throw.
On a Saturday in the middle of January, 2007, following
a particularly cold week, my co-worker Rob Uttecht and I
were on our way out the door. Today would be my turn
to drop the trash, and I intended to impress Rob with the
distance from which I could launch the projectile. My
intention was to attempt the launch from approximately 30
feet. Clearing the fence would be easy; it was only about
10 feet high. The enclosure was roughly eight by 10. It was
not quite as easy as throwing a golf ball in the ocean, but it
was close if the conditions were right. I have seen people
have their shot attempts get caught in the wind, and land
on the pop machines before, but few have ever missed so
bad that they could not be recovered. Distance is the real
challenge. The inmates were not completely unaware of our
little competition. In fact, they would frequently watch.
Today was an opportunity for many inmates to view our
game, since many of them were standing in the canteen line
on the stairs, adjacent to the pop machines. The pressure
was on, and I was about 35 feet from the cage which was
my target. I swung the bag around a few times. It would be
perfect. The size and weight were just right for travel. There
was no wind. When I tried to release the bag, it sort of got
hung up on my hand, and I could not release it at the proper
moment. A split second after I intended, the bag came away
from my hand. The missile's trajectory went almost straight
up into the air, and in less time than its release was delayed,
it became apparent what the new target would be.
Inmate Avery was wheelchair bound, and was part of
the audience that was getting the free entertainment. Avery
was alone, fi ve feet from the bottom of the stairs, while
some other inmate acquired his store goods. He tracked
the trash bag along with everybody else on the yard that
day, but realized quickly that he alone was now the landing
area. We all froze as if we were nailed to our spots, unable
to do anything as we watched the bag peak at about 40 feet
in altitude. Avery's hands began to refl exively come up in a
defensive position, hoping he could defl ect the bag. I stood
horrifi ed, super-glued to my spot on the sidewalk, knowing
it would mean my job when the offending bag hammered
down on top of Avery's head. Down came the load, like a
refuse missile, homing in on the poor unfortunate inmate
who would soon have a new lawsuit in which to pursue.
It seemed like minutes, though it only took seconds for
the bag to fall to the earth. Everybody in the canteen line
was watching. Every inmate on the yard had turned their
attention. I was the only one that breathed a sigh of relief
when the bag landed, inches from the left front wheel of
Avery's wheelchair. Uttecht almost peed his pants as I ran
and collected the bag and slam-dunked it into the trash-bin
area. We did not bother to stay and count the witnesses
that could have written kites to the safety and sanitation
specialist. We both made a beeline for the front door. It is
funny now, but at the time all I could think of was how in
the world I would explain this one to Exstrom.
Dream Journal
Staying in a dream can prove challenging at times. I
have found that spinning works well on most occasions.
Spinning requires an explanation: In your mind, your body
rotates on its axis, which would be from your head to your
asshole. You do not actually do fl ip-fl ops in bed. In your
mind, you rotate your body as if there is an iron rod running
through your body from the top of your head out through
your sphincter muscle. I typically turn counter-clockwise,
and I do not know why. Perhaps it has something to do with
the fact that I am left-handed. I am not sure what effect
spinning the other way would have. I guess I will have to
try it sometime.