Pen Pals

(Don’t) Let Them Eat Cake

By Bert Burykill

The people in charge of prisons are a real pain in the dickhole. Firstly because they run prisons, which is already a job for oppressive, stinky turds, but also ‘cause they have bright ideas like banning junk food in New York City jails. I’m kind of a health nut and don’t like fat people or smokers, so I shouldn’t be too pissed when the government bans trans fat or taxes smokers into poverty, right? Wrong. I pity the fool who messes with MY people. Now the powers-that-be are going after an inmate’s right to eat shitty food. First off, who gives a hump about a low-life inmate’s health? I thought society wanted us to die, which is why we get sardine-can packed into disease-infested criminal cesspools in the first place.

They’re acting like banning candy bars and Honey Buns is going to cause a drastic reduction in inmates’ medication costs, which must really be the culprit for New York’s budgetary woes. Cracker, please… You wanna save money? Stop lockin’ everyone up and stop hiring sub-human sadistic cops responsible for countless civil suits resulting in millions of dollars being paid out to innocent victims every year. Your stop and frisk policy leads to unnecessary violence. Tax payers dole out $180 million a fuckin’ year ‘cause of these stinkin’ porkchops getting slaphappy beating the elderly, tasing kids, raping women and men… Jesus Christ, and they’re worried about how a Top Ramen habit has Rikers inmate Guillermo Morales from Bushwick takin’ too much Harzticorex for his borderline high blood pressure. Clearly, city inmates eating junk food and taking meds ‘cause they’re fat is why the average New York City taxpayer is taking a beating in the buttpocket.

I’ve yet to describe going to the store in prison, but it’s actually an extremely important event. Once every two weeks I was like a little goddamn kid when I got my commissary order form, which is a list for all the food, cosmetics, and other supplies they sell. We check off what we want and go pick it up the next day, ecstatic that we’re going shopping like we’re in the real world. Easy as squeeze-cheese.

Some jails have extensive lists, and others are more bare-bones. Regardless, the store food is a blowjob from an angel compared to the fecal dog chow served at the mess hall. They get fed better at Guantanamo (for real, they’re still serving). The shit in the state pen is all quick-chilled frozen shit chock full of preservatives stored in big ol’ plastic garbage bags and then tossed in kettles or steamers and slopped on dirty ass brown plastic trays. Whenever I get tempted to play with drugs again, it’s really effective to remember standing in the mess hall line, dressed in greens, lookin’ like a doofus, reluctantly kickin’ the silly hobo [jail-talk for shooting the shit –Ed.] with Hardbody from Hempstead, waiting to eat the unfortunate imitation curdled nipple spittle that New York calls food. (OK, I’ll admit I’m being a bit of a snob. It’s probably the same shit poor kids in public schools eat and better than much of what the military gets stuck with.) The mess hall food at Riker’s really licks hairy twat—probably the worst that’ll be found in the whole state. The word on the street is that dummies get in fights on baked chicken day battlin’ for that dirty bird. It used to be fried chicken, but they got health-conscious and said, “No fried foods!”

To make things worse, there’s this weasel-dicked porkchop in Rikers who sells candy bars on the low for a dollar. He smuggles that shit in—it is a VERY illegal operation. He works in reception, which means he’s around the inmates just before they have to forfeit their wallets after shopping, so people don’t hesitate to unload a little extra cash for some candy. Sittin’ in a bullpen across from his desk for five hours, I observed him pocket close to 200 bucks in candy-money as inmates walked past him—he’s making $1,000 in cash every week off the books. Now that’s pimpin’. The cop himself, however, is a coward. I once watched him jump an ostensibly ill-in-the-head, 130-pound dude. Unprovoked, he choke-slammed the guy, then strutted off like he was bad. Moments before, some other punk porkchop cop had started the mob mentality by nearly dislocating another light-in-the-ass kid’s arm, so the atmosphere was shitty down there. It made me sick to my stomach. I still bought five bucks of candy off savvy mega-coward #1 though.

Normally, I don’t eat junk food at all in prison. I adopt a loose form of asceticism when I’m locked up in which I half-ass torture myself through an unbonerable diet and rigorous physical training as my personal punishment for being a fuckin’ douchebag and getting caught. Plus, when you’re locked up you’ve got nothing better to do than discipline yourself. I was lucky enough to get packages from the outside filled with healthy stuff like pounds of mixed nuts, Ezekiel bread, and fresh produce. Those are my treats, but some guys on Rikers don’t get packages and they just want a fuckin’ Snickers or a dang-blasted bag of Bravos. It’s not like these guys are all heartless murder-rapers. Why would you deprive them of a snack? They already lost their freedom to walk the streets. Please, do not take away their right to eat comfort food.

If you take sweets from prisoners and their overseers, isn’t the next step to take it away from everyone? It’s a slippery slope. The Man thinks he can pick on prisoners and punk the defenseless guy while he’s down, but that’s some real bitch shit. Unfortunately, there are not many advocacy groups fighting for inmates’ rights, and the only serious resistance will come from the staff who doesn’t want their vending machine rights revoked.

If taxpayers are really worried about obesity and out of control medical expenses on Rikers, how about building some decent gyms, or an outdoor rec area similar to the yards they have upstate? There are at least 12,000 inmates on The Rock—far more than any upstate facility—so it seems wise to hook Rikers up so it doesn’t continue its reputation as one of the sleaziest jails in the world. Big baby Jesus knows there’s enough space on the island to give the poor souls something productive to do rather than steal one of the only luxuries they have. I just called a 50-cent Honey Bun a luxury, and that’s the sad truth, Ruth. It’s so dismal on the island guys are already paying a couple bucks to smoke a shitty cigarette out of someone’s buttpocket. Heyzeus Crista, let ‘em eat a donut for the love of GOD! Diabetes be damned!

@burykill

Previously - Makin’ Friends in Prison

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