The fact that I was getting locked up didn't really sink in until they put me on the prisoner transport. I was shackled to 8 other men, some who had the look about them that this was just routine. There were a few 'fresh fish' like myself. We kept looking to each other for some sort of consolation. None was to be found. We didn't know what was to happen next, but we were sure it was going to be bad.

Upone reaching our new 'home', things took a turn for the worse. All the 'fish' were sequestered into a little hovel while the 'vets' were processed first. Since they already had prison numbers and established bedding, they were easier to intake.

Fear and false bravado wouldn't allow us to talk to each other. When there was talk, it was about where you were from and who you should clique with. From seemingly nowhere, the guy next to me got jumped by two others. I guess he was talking shit about what he was going to do to someone that was already inside. He didn't know that two of the people with us just happend to be blood related to that person. This was my first sign that information can be power.

The iron bars holding me in with these strangers was popped open. It was odd to see the door open by itself. I'm sure it happens everyday in countless stores I've been in, but this was different. Almost alien. Even more alien was hearing my last name being called. Everything about this next sequence of events led me to believe one thing and one thing only. In here, you ain't shit. The quicker you learn that, the better your transition would be. I decided to learn quick.

The first thing they do is take all of your personal effects. The only thing I left with that I came in with was my sneakers. I was only allowed to keep those because they were on sale. If your sneakers were 'appraised' over a certain dollar amount they were taken from you. This is for your protection. Lives have been lost over a lot less than your Jordans.

Now that I'm naked, holding my uniform and a towel, I was given my next set of instructions. "Put your things down. Bend over. Spread your cheeks. Lift up your sack. Show me the bottoms of your feet. Open your mouth. Pick up your things."

I was then given a 6 digit number that I was to commit to memory. I don't see how I couldn't remember it. It was on everything I would wear or identify as mine for the next 3 years. After waiting for the other guys go through the same humiliation I just went through, I was led to my cell.

6 feet wide by 8 feet deep. I was told that I had the top bunk by the person who was already inhabiting the cell. Before he would allow me to climb up to my bunk he told me to take off my sneakers. He explained that this was our 'house' and I was to treat it as such. This would be the first of many things he told me. There were 3 hours until 'chow'. I needed a nap. My 'celly' told me he would wake me when it was time. Sleep came fast. Good thing. I would need my rest for what was to follow...

Years ago, when my brother and I were made of better material than we're composed of now, we invented a game. It was a sick, twisted game. Now that I think of it, as men, we should be killed for inventing such a game.

The rules are simple. When one of us wasn't paying attention, the other would try and hit him in the junk. For those of you that don't know, your junk is equivalent to your: balls, sack, ball-bag, scrote... you get the idea.

This game never ended, and was best played in the most inappropriate of places. One could fully expect to get tagged during someone's funeral, wedding, baptismal, date, whatever. And the 'tags' were never gentle. It wasn't meant to just get your attention. It was meant to drop you to your knees. Puking, crying, wallowing on the floor, or shitting yourself was just extra fun.

In our defense, we were about 20something when we started this. Old enough to know better, but young enough not to care. Now that we're 30something, the game still goes on, but it's gained a few more players. I being a bit more sound in the mental department, have opted out. My brother on the other hand, well let's just say I got the brains...

Somehow our local hangout got wind of the game. And for whatever reason the tags have gotten brutal. Out of hand even. Before I quit, I distinctly remember dropping a friend of mine with a 40lb sledgehammer. I thought it was funny as hell. He's still a bit bitter over it and has sworn to get me back sometime before he dies. Another famous tag I'll take credit for is when I tagged someone with 6 cell Maglite! He couldn't breathe for several seconds and turned more colors than there are in the average Crayola box.

Like I said, I opted out. Karma has a way of getting back to you. I still dread walking into the shop sometimes... Especially since this crazy sawed-off bastard named Mark has joined the ranks. He does not give up. Subtlety plays a big part in the game. He has not an ounce of it. Most people try and hide the fact that they're about to get you. Not Mark. He just goes for it. If he misses, he just keeps trying. And trying, and trying. Eventually he gets you and he feels better about life. But until he does, don't sleep!

Uhlike Mark, who prefers the direct approach, there have been some notable tags. A friend of mine who goes by the name of Ebola, has been the victim of several notable hits. My brother (big suprise) was handing him a paintball gun (so Ebola thought), before he could get his arm fully extended, the gun was dropped in his lap. It might not sound too bad, but it was funny as hell to witness. I guess there's something funny about watching guys turn colors and crying like women (or worse). Hetzie says bitches, but she's never been hit in the nads really hard.

Ebola is a favorite taget. How can you not tag someone who's zapped himself with a 50,000 volt tazer? Ohh the things we do when we're bored. I've got a few more instances, but Hetzie's being a prick and wants to leave, so I've got to up the computer. Maybe there will be a part two to this. Maybe. I've got to get clearance to name names. Holla back!

I stay out of the chattoom on Saturdays. I'm afraid one of Lucy's spies will see me. The crap that comes out of my mouth (fingers?) is way too easy to pick on. So I leave you with Sexy Cow.

Want Milk anyone?

That last post was horrible. I know. I apologize. This one may be even worse. It's one of those things I should have gotten out of my system last year, but it managed to ooze into 2007. This is the last one.



That might not be funny to you, but that shit is hilarious to me! I wonder if she had to take her teeth out to do that? Okay, that was a little nasty. Funny as hell, but nasty! Once again, that's the last one.