Batmama's Northpoint Notes #19
May 19th, 2026
WhoCares? Whores Do.
Been some minutes since I reported on the homestead. That's what my salon is about - prison and its nut-bag contents. Guess I'll snap back to form on my Summer Break. The MAT (Medicine Assistance Treatment) Program flooded our yard with discount dope. Problematic on all levels that count because like I've parroted in plenty of posts, barter and economy are all. People who'v never known money can smuggle the daily dose back to hungry clients. Street-poor pokey-rich customers (the game of life's breezy sometimes when you subtract house payments, utilities, insurances, gas and other vehicle maintenance...), even when busted down to basic Top Ramen units. A line of O.J. (Suboxone) $40 before today's War On Drugs Implosion Discount fetches $10. The issue is mathematical, with nobody here acing the math
portion nobody beats for the GED the first five tries even with the hundred-clams plus pizza-party plan incentive that once would have gotten somebody a frustrated felon had beef with beaten until a ventilator and a preacher got brought in. That was before all the home-boys here went soft, spouting nonstop gangster rap, as I call 'em "bunny farts" off a kids' joke about what's invisible smelling like carrots.
$10 x 20 = 200.00, so that couple of extra "some'n cutes" somebody snorts outpaces our $125 canteen limit by a fair stretch. Like drag-legend Divine says in "Pink Flamingos" (look it up on IMDb - I 'axed' Mizz A. to look up cast members off "Supergirl" season 2 - obsessed with Miss Martian and Lena Luthor - found they charge for "Pro" now - I put an hex on their pets) when gift-wrapped dog-squeezin's arrive in the mail she sniffs into the air
saying with widened eyes "I smell deep dark trouble". Meanwhile, it's Scumbaggeddon as the majority burst forth liars, thieves, serial debtors, loan sharks, and whores. Kidding you not, a Wiccan dealer put an hex on a purchaser I know - hope he left dude's pets out of it. I thought abandoning prohibition eliminated problems but leave it to us spectacularly screwed sapiens to pork that to pixels.
Even Medical's done their bit with the lines rivaling soup and bread at the Soviet collapse (a trail of Jones-ing junkies in prison - picture the frivolity). The horrid bitch (showing politeness here) running the show on Saturday sat on her bloated caboose while what looked like a pre-Taylor Swift show crowd-scene in Khaki stretched around the building hours beyond the usual time. The " M-Z" window had nary a body in it. She refused to let the nurse there help expedite the situation. This, I'll insert, was finals weekend with all college attendees stuck for hours away from their work. People like her wrongly believe disrupting the entire compound is peachy. Inmates (and the common guards for that matter) don't have lives or shouldn't. Never mind the ones paying societal debts by rebuilding themselves, helping others do that, or guilty of minor crimes like having partners they out-aged when they passed 17. The attitude that some have in Corrections is not only unnecessary but unwanted
and unneeded. Counterproductive to the growth we're here to experience through rehabilitation, it hits the highest offices. Problem is, the objective for some is failure because recidivism keeps on the lights and bloats wallets. I'm a pragmatist here to say there's plenty of guaranteed vacationers-turned-lifers with more by the minute. Quit punishing us others unequivocally.
Before I've written this is no sex offender prison like (thankfully) bygone days. Governor Beshear himself ixnayed that plan. This is the House of Programs and Education. We have an upper-middle dog with that title and responsibility who I see analogous to Border Czar Kamala. The only communications I ever see from this lady are memos about visible personal effects in the wings, and quoting Dr. Seuss at graduations to fanfare. She's nice though. I hate nice.
Lately I've cemented the belief those who talk nice usually are monsters. I correspond with a recent partner of mine who I'm exhibiting more patience than the asshole deserves because he was usefully lovable once, now primarily needy and serving me balloon juice instead of the champagne we sipped walking hand-in-hand here. Keeps telling me "be NICE". Nice talk sells lemons by the millions to stranded motorists yearly. Nice talk stunts growth
when somebody needs adversity. One nickname I wear here is "The Landmine". I've made more than one grown convict cry. I can isolate a flaw and inflate it into a symphony of obscenities delivered in screams and bellows with verbal assaults throughout as shady jabs. My irritation can fly from 10 to 200 in a second, then I'm the meanest foulest person you've met. Known for being kind- and bighearted but DON'T piss me off and some days this bipolar criminal is inescapably so. Typically I'm direct but friendly and lightly comic. Niceties piss me off, as they rudely waste precious time. Always I have manners, though. I never push my problems into someone else's life, and I DO nice. I help people who can't or write, I keep medical items in my locker for emergencies, I'm generous to a fault, and I counsel inmates often about their goals while locked down.
Chapter One
I've barely encountered a new sexaholic criminal the year past, only folks from all over for court- and State-mandated classes or Substance Abuse Program (SAP), a 6-month session I've begged to enter a while now - a fair number of halfway house guys and "campers" - those halfway to the street who fed up and have to come back behind razor wire.
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Last week I was told I had to wait 60 days to reapply for SAP because of a write-up. Never mind the parade of blueberries - those fresh out of the hole in the designated colored uniform - passing during my rejection. Administrators make up/ adhere to rules as they please. Accountability is nonexistent, often doing pretend-work like when 8-year olds play "office". We spend numerable hours
daily in lockdown, unable to leave our wings, for instance. I was prejudiced out of SAP on a frustrating day wherein I consecutively hit 2 administrative spaces. Both had the seat-holder gabbing a substantial spell with a peer while a line waited. Not bothered with the demographic they're paid to service with tax money, no, they blew it yapping about non emergencies on the dime.
Frustrated people trying to learn about exit dates, classes, their accounts, etc. wind up shrugged off for something doable during at least two hours the population is behind locked gates. Often we return the following day with mounting frustrations and anxieties gaining another log on the fire. That's huge here - we're already in a powderkeg.
Comedy is many people here consider themselves "busy". I recall having three noisy machines pumping out books when they weren't jammed and needing me to find the shrapnel so the deadline was met, mounds of ancillary work - binding, stapling, collating, cutting, folding... requiring me too, customers at the counter (most uncannily dumb, rude, or frustratingly attractive during an inconvenient time/location) I had to help courteously and talk into spending more dough (checks in place to insure I did this crap, plus profit sharing meant my paycheck needed me to), at least two lines ringing on the phone, someone requiring I
ring up their orders as they told me what, at the worst time, was wrong about it, with an immediate need to stop the production and fix it. Meanwhile somebody'd bitch about the Mac Apple station not working. My untrained but wearing an apron stating "Hey - I know shit!" baldness would have to run 10k sq. ft. to pull that 100lb rabbit from my hat. All this simultaneous to a disabling nicotine fit. No decline moving from floor to office.
1) What you're calling work? Cute. 2) Eat my shorts, Dave Chappelle (look up "Popcopy" if the ref escapes you - hilarious yet unbalanced from the butt of that bit).
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Back to matters at hand. The write-up that banned me from Drug School was something else altogether. There's a company called iCare (icaregifts.com - I'm fond of double burger combos apropos of nothing) where folks at home can digitally order prepped munchies for inmates. At other places in the DOC the options are more bountiful, branching even to clothing. As were (not one bit) a Sex Offender facility (a rewards prison for good behavior really) we're denied all those (earned luxuries) extras.
Anyway, a large complaint about iCare is its inaccessibility. Only people with money over the fence can order the unbelievably spiffy-by-comparison vittles. Basically, better-than-McDonald's-fast food. Experience deprivation at this level and see if that ain't manna, Judgy Sue. You'd flay a bitch for an onion ring, don't disbelieve from your salt and pepper calamari wrap (fuck did I do that to myself for) but trust a food-junkie who knows and about cried once over TOAST, you'll sink, Honey.
This thing everyone should be able to do off their tablets with the crap pittance they earn from their State gig I'm capable of. I have a bank account and somebody who answers the phone to go online and order me a double burger with boneless wings weekly. I bear the burden of prison wealth. Not a stitch the actual variety, and some see the light. The
fact I have NO family and what I've got is ALL I get sinks in to a few. Those getting 20 here and there fathom I collected mine all at once. To the level of poverty I'm immersed in, I might as well be Oprah. The fact I can buy this food, a TV, my own books, and canteen attracts the WORST attention, and dualistically, awesome responsibility sometimes with a role in prisons ecosystem.
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I'm not gonna plop into that hole this minute, but I'll drop my IOU. Trust me, I have outstanding credit. To expedite, I bought a big order of iCare. REAL big, in fact. Various reasons for this, one being that lack of app I mentioned. The other, we have an archaic
​​​​​$125 commissary limit set maybe 7 price gouges ago, like when you were paying 2.50 for a dozen eggs. Apparently 6 months ago this was decided to change after years of begging. $200 was agreed. I've
told y'all barter and commerce drive a yard and its clustered economy. 125.00 screws it to smithereens. This causes people to turn to store-men where taxes and interest attach to purchases. It causes fights, extortion, and all the issues the powers that be claim opposition to. Still, it sits on a honey-do list that could solve myriad serious problems. I'm of the belief more and more a fear of success manages this zoo.
What usually happens did. Weeks of me doing this, even with Gold Badge Officer approval for the girth of my orders, it went to Hell spectacularly because somebody got jealous. A guy was there for each step in the execution of this pickup and distribution, though uninvited. His status such because I realized this person is a dung-digesting parasite who contributes nothing to common homeostasis but noise pollution and sociopathy. In his grasp a tray vanished then he sent an envoy to ask where HIS were. I sent word back he was S.O.L. as he contributed and offered nothing to deserve any. His rep reported the crap-muncher defended me from some dude who took issue over something, and I said "Tell him good lookin' out, that's what friends do. Don't bother again if it requires payment". The complainant flew down the stairs. Ten minutes later the laundryman came to tell me the cops found a debt sheet for my iCare and were reviewing cameras.
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A very muscled and pissed guard reluctantly came with bags to help me pack up my stuff. My coveted 10-man annex space I deserve as a Valedictorian student, worker, and somebody only wanting to write about 6 hours a day needs lost. Problem here? This place won't allow me this option for my rehabilitation I've busted my ass off for. Wait and see. I arrive along with 3 people in my sphere but curiously NOT the turd-taster who was with us the entirety of this scene. Also the described debt sheet I never saw didn't come from my mitts. I know what I had and did not. If there was one, it was crafted by somebody who ain't me. Somebody hungry for chicken wings says my experience.
After my opening weekend in the hole I met with Ms. E, a bastion of sanity in a nuthouse. She's Unit Administrator of the hole and should run the entire compound. Calm and impregnated with common sense and respectability, her flaw is an inability to fail up. When the standard types start in how "bitches shouldn't work in mens prisons they always pause to apply the adjunct I ain't talkin' 'bout Mizz E, now". Soliciting my truth I gave it. She talked to Internal Affairs, who asked if my iCare trades were for sexual favors. A bloated pause after the laughter she asked with and my furious mind spun backwards...
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End of Chapter One
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