Pee-Pees And Pork Rinds For My Pulitzer

August 14th, 2026

Once I knew this punk who like lots was not a good listener. He heard well enough, picking mouths to listen from is where he went bad. This in the pervert's prison is problematic when you're young with anything left to lose. RJ, a towering Jew at around 6'5 sported his Yarmulke proudly on the yard, rocked a sash-belt plus a Hebraic scroll plastered on his locker like some movie-poster. Not getting funds from outside I figured was likely shame not their lack with his being a sex offender. Some brokenhearted mother pumping him with enough guilt to fund St. Jude's without one unnecessary ad to ruin "Rick and Morty" each time for my moment of indulgence is the stereotype I picture. Too he was gay as a goose and picked by partners such as an awkward oversized broke nelly like him would likely be for sports-teams, not first I'll say sensitively. I identify with the sports part since flying spheres kick in some suppressed sissy wanting to clutch the dirt like its a SCUD missle. I overcompensate acting all hard-assed at work.

 His first man scarcely wins that adjective, a winner named Wayne. This two-trip perv loudmouth wasn't gay. He generously offered company to the shy lad, then everything RJ scored through his kitchen gig too. Doubled his caloric intake half-assing a relationship. It was typical to see the lonesome nebbish pacing the floor while Wayne with his irritating loud northern Ohio affect would be at his rack wolfing a bowl of heavily doctored mac 'n' cheese. Cooking with the 'couple' once the obnoxiousness of RJ's mate all but weighing to make sure he wasn't screwed a microliter by my food prep his involvement in was loud lame attempts at humor and my ear-buds failing to pipe him down.

RJ washed that man right outta his hair finally, urges from the wing heeded. Around that time, Big Baby and "Peanut Butter Trim" Baby J hit a bump when the latter hit the hole. We've got lotsa babies in prison. A, B, C, D, G, and J I've known personally along with Big and Ugly Baby aka Swamp Monster, both names flattering a bald unfortunate with a personality I said making up for a noggin shaped like a cashew. This til the piece stole a Harley Quinn book from me. Peanut Butter Trim refs Baby J's financial arrangements with many offenders of Dorm One Upper Left. Losing about 60 lbs with bright blue eyes, John let everybody know his willingness to give "cap", "toboggan", or what pleasant company calls head in exchange for jars of canteen peanut butter. Creamy or crunchy, he ain't a choosy mother. Getting with Big Baby and off the super-market he told me it was tough getting with BB, and he'd almost chose ME (not Jif). Letting him borrow some comics I realized was taken WAY beyond intent. I flashed on Frank from "Everybody Loves Raymond" asking showstopper Marie what contest in Hell he won when she called herself a trophy bride. Welcome to life with segregated sex criminals.

Big Baby had a bush of nappy dreads, was coal Black with the central face of an infant on a fat but muscular 5 '10 bod, talked like he was hoarding marbles in his mouth, and prone to "bloop". This meant "landmines, step cautiously" for inmates and guards alike leading to his brief Northpoint stay. Baby J was in the hole not two hours before I saw Big with RJ in tow. Staring nervously into space beside this volatile convict, I realized it looked like somebody'd swapped RJ into the spot the prior tenant occupied but forgot to yank his yarmulke. RJ and Baby J both were timbering crackers in glasses, so I imagined a confused Big sizing up who he believed to be his jailbird trim, "Bitch, wharrdjoo get 'dat HAT from?". After Peanut Butter (we dropped calling him Baby J altogether) came back and reclaimed sugar daddy Big Baby I told him this to a sourpuss shot back despite me cackling so hard I wasn't laughing out loud.

One feature of prison I am past over to the point I worry I'm going to be irresponsibly hateful due to a tiny yet irritating inconvenience extending my crap hotel stay is count time. Lining at the feet of our racks repetitiously to be checked off as inventory in a Human Warehouse we are, this is a ritual where all activity ofttimes gets brutally interrupted. Weekly I suppress the urge as a vet to indignantly say you see me, count me, and keep kicking undeterred. Inside a nanosecond my humility would be rebooted as you'd be decoding chicken-scratch from the Hole if I got writing/postage supplies much less material to the mailbox after acting the ass with the officers. We're renters, not buyers, and they own this dump I tell anybody wise enough to hear. Other prisons have a checks and balances platform healthy fear of the tenants provides with the powers-that-be. NPTC filled with sex cases, check-ins, x-ed out gangsters, and those trying to head home has no renters union. Anybody threatening to the status quo got a packing slip many moons ago.

Early on, a crazed lady guard (verified by my therapist who knew this heavyweight he called a "troubled young woman") hit me for sexual behavior and pursuit. Off to the Hole I headed and a week after came a puzzling investigation. Introducing myself to Sgt. Estes, assuring him I'm the gayest dude he now knew, and didn't become that to be popular in the pokey. This keen cop now caseworker 100% knew the genuine article unlike inmates who rarely discern shit from Shinola about sexual-ID shenanigans. Still I did Hole-time for "selfish love" because nobody in the uniform wanted to humiliate this chick. Still I gloated about winning and making Ms. Riddle look ridiculous. Wrong. Within a month, the yard was split and to GP I went without a sex case losing the family I'd carved.

Leaving kid bro Bargo behind blew. That was the confidante I slept beside, read and discussed comics with, watched every Marvel movie debut day, and was a rock my life missed before arrest even. My first week without him I cried more than a couple of occasions. He split in 2024, and two months later was dead probably from Fentanyl. Weird but I'm still void of any feelings. Dont know if that's my delayed reaction or years between with hits on me and such massacring my sentimentality.

Those hits resulted from revenge. Placed in Dorm 5 where I'm most comfy now, my first month a junkie fight broke over debts. Setting me up, cops shook me and my J-boy neighbor whose face reflected the beating he took down in-sync. To the office downstairs we went. From there those officers carried out their goal. One was a redheaded dick who reminded me of bully "Woim" from The Little Rascals linked to Riddle. Making me look like a rat when they snatched my side-bunky and a member of a Black gang to solitary accomplished. Guilty til proven innocent now. Five years having to prove I was no molester, now the other worst label one would wear got slapped on. All for living in cop-orbit. For the following four, I became the family dog. Butt-hole brats blaming anything broken on me until finally bright peeps got wise so now anybody who dares is known to be the real ratter. My rep is inscrutable, and it has been a labor of love becoming trusted, respected, and sought out by my community. Nobody can exist anywhere a decade without going native somehow. Only a jerk if you ask me.

Which circles us back to Wayne the pain, still buzzing in RJ's impressionable ear. One night during count the boy was asked to lose the yarmulke for this process where head-gear is verboden. Miffed, he told the guard it was religious paraphernalia and he should be allowed to wear it as such. Lending objectivity here, that cop weren't no dick. Approaching as a wage-slave tasked with a clipboard mission, he rationally restated his need to request its removal. Bitterly, RJ took his cap off. As count concluded, an onslaught of mouthy sex felons mobbed the man-child. Leading the pack was Wayne, spouting persecution and demanding RJ file a grievance.

Allow a sidebar: Wayne already had kissed and made up with me when we met after telling a posse I snitched about some business proven untrue instantly. Dressing the dipstick down in plain view, he realized I'm not that queer, apologized, and our relationship from then was my ass to his gross mustachioed lips. Wayne's grayish brown hair was worn in a comb-over, and glasses held weird Boston Terrier eyes too. Maybe Heebee RJ was punishing himself ritually.

Otherwise this ginormous Jew got full attention from Peanut Butter and his bunky especially, a morbidly obese former Chiropractor whose charges I never want discovered, I've landed on. This kindly goateed pink Jell-O mold let RJ watch his TV daily, fed him gobs of goodies (most non-kosher), and kept him all kinds of company. Another platonic playmate for this beanstalk boi labeled "Suckasaurus" as he'd keep Hoovering a hog until injuring the receiver rumor said.

Pulling our lost lamb of Abraham aside, I played devil's advocate with his religious freedom-fighting. Questioning if he really wanted to throw his heft on this sword, as I didn't know him to be that devout. Having no problems eating pee-pees and pork rinds he drew a thick line at cute hats. Carefully I explained the ripples of raging against the blue machine. Romantic, yep, but is this hill worth it? After all, he had that cushy Chiropractor spot with the snacks and such. For prison he lived large. Seeing sense seeping inside, his inner ear split with possible wisdom. This reinforced by Dr. Fatty and Peanut Butter now 50 pounds bigger putting away over a hundred jars by the spoonful in no time. His overnight escapades involved shocking mystery dates I'd learn. Beating the sun awake to exercise before the perverts to avoid inciting oldie masturbation (RIP Richard Simmons, and I apologize), sometimes I'd be the buzzer. This role can prove as pivotal as the pitcher or catcher, watching out for the fuzz. Once I did a walk of deep shame from a shower in undies and cuffs because my buzz-man craved pancakes for breakfast.

Wayne followed our sound advice with hysteria by going global. Pointing to Muslims, he cited how many (not DIRECTLY, mind you) sported kufis during count. Critical thinking from the Sociologist: followers of Allah comprise a healthy inmate percentage before and after lockdown. Jewish recruitment and arrest is nominal at best on the Kentucky Commonwealth level. Little precedent or comparison. Picking a squabble with the Muslims is a big mess, likely. One sex criminal mensch? Different smoke altogether. Still, this got RJ in Israeli Pride mode. Down to the Legal Library he and rabble-rousing Gentile Wayne marched despite the protests of myself and most levelheaded wing-mates. Level-cosmic describes the likelihood of this boomeranging everybody's asses.

Within a week RJ was all shook up from all the shakedowns. Frisked at the chow hall, tunnels, foyers, bed area and locker daily now. Wayne was agog at what horror the boy was experiencing without a trace of culpability or recognition this exact thing was predicted to the cuffs. One month in a DOC-wide policy got adopted with all standing counts doubling as wellness checks. Head-wear removed of ALL kinds for cranial inspections. They'd stuck it to the man and now the odds were even. Right?

RJ faced a parole board to a 2 year flop on an October morning. That night, at routine 6 PM count officers Franklin and Easter made a rare trek to Dorm 1. Easter passed the row summing the bodies with her buddy the multiple gauge-earred 40ish dad standing at the end. Easter was the bride of the other Ms. Easter. Together with a Lieutenant, they were making a tiny C.O. This made him who 800 or so convicts dreamt of being nightly. Franklin glared at RJ aggressively shouting "Eyes in your head, Buster! You don't stare like that at my female C.O.s" The lady cop reversed course and in the face of the young offender said "You don't EVER watch a female officer pass by!" leading weathered RJ to counter "I'm gay, and I don't think find you attractive. Said in fashion smugly his orientation ain't the issue, Easter threw "I forgot this is Dorm 1. I'm too old for you, I guess." Shade point and match to the PO-leece. Requesting his ID #, he countered requesting hers. Crying was my almost response now. Down was the only direction this could head. Inside 30 four uniforms were at his lockers tearing them apart. Down on the floor he went cuffed and kicking. Flailing he reared his head back catching a Gold Badge in the face shattering his nose. Maybe 3 more came and a wailing RJ was carried off his feet, unseen again. Heaven knows what he endured at SMU (Special Management Unit) here before shipment to Eddyville, KY's worst prison, particularly for sex criminals.

 Maybe 4 days passed before yelling into our wing came the SRT Team, a uniform riot squad. Jump onto the ground where we stood or be razed, sprayed, or carted away were the options. Standing outside the shower I went down on the skid-pad of sandpaper grit and tore the crap out of my forearm. Smashed backs together with the hugest guy, Isles, in our wing I watched the contents of all lockers emptied. Tornadic cleanup took hours. We lost tons of accumulated blind-eyed contraband, especially survivors like me. Luckily life's transitory pace I'm used to. After that day Wayne graduated to the Honor Dorm shortly. Despite his win, getting benefits we didn't like air-fryers not having to share air-breathing with the creep who chastised this outcome was worth it. That clown left Northpoint for a lengthy Fed stay if memory serves.

Saying I toldja so isn't fun when the one saying it gets hit by shrapnel. Poor RJ. Hopefully he's gone now to somewhere better. Bargo too. Maybe the next time I see my gone sibling will be when I feel something. Part of it I guess is in prison that void isn't ever empty. Multitudinous bros: comic readers, movie fans, drug issue sufferers, orphans, home chefs, and all those things stopping us from feeling our hearts breaking. They're always one to five beds down in our warehouse.