New York State prisons are really big on “rehabilitating” inmates. They follow a ridiculous, half-assed military model and, unsurprisingly, have very little success. Therefore, we suffer very early wakeups and are required to participate in at least two of the four programs offered throughout the day. My last prison had a lights-on policy (BIG BRIGHT BRAIN-BUZZING FLOURESCENT FLOOD LIGHTS) at 6 AM, followed by a “standing count” to make sure no one escaped or got eviscerated and flushed down the toilet during the night. From that point forward, Redneck COs scream at every opportunity they get in an effort to ruin our morning.
The part that swallows monster hog-loads is that those of us who don’t have a program at 8 AM would like to sleep in, but in a basketball court-size dorm filled with 60 men it is nearly impossible to block the noise out. I didn’t witness many fights while I was in jail, but quite a few of the ones I did see were thanks to an inconsiderate convict making an unnecessary ruckus while his neighbor gently slept. It was so bad, in fact, that one time I eased a bullet-shaped plastic container of earplugs into my ass during a visit from my father—one of my more worthwhile illegal endeavors. Pops was confused. I used to call myself “BoofMaster B” because of my remarkable butt-pocket stuffing skills. Goddamn, those earplugs saved my sanity.
I actually got hooked up with decent programs right from the jump. When I went to program committee I simply requested to work outdoors, because in my experience that managed to make time crawl quicker, and I ABSOLUTELY need some sun to maintain a semi-bonerable tan. Maybe it’s my fair skin or 15-year history of playing hockey year-round, but the 0 degree temperatures in the winter didn’t bother me too much. They put me on AM and PM garbage man duty, AKA “salvage laborer” duty. I didn’t expect to sit in prison for two years because of dirty urine, but that’s what happened and I hauled garbage for an hour or two a few days every week.
Lots of other guys went for their GEDs or vocational certificates in a useful trade like welding, masonry, custodial maintenance, or small engines, but since I had already acquired a four-year degree I was ineligible for vocational training, which was pretty shitty because now I have no real-life talent other than a bullshit history/English double-major that is 99 percent negated by the fact that I’m a two-time felon.
So after my hard-labor garbage collecting job that I did a few days a week (FOR 2 YEARS) I would often go to sleep for four or five hours—just for fun. Dreaming can be highly bonerable. We would get two two-hour recreation periods a day, and I tried extremely hard to make both of these, especially when the weather was nice. I would often go even when the weather was terrible, just because I needed to get out of that dorm—my 59 neighbors drove me crazy. Even if they were all perfect-tittied, well-oiled vagina-vacuum machines with sparkling personalities and voices sweeter than maple syrup, I’d still probably need to get away for a couple hours a day. Lots of these guys probably grew up in projects, trailer parks, or other locations where they didn’t get much privacy, but I’m a boy from the burbs—I need to chill solo and let the nuts hang.
The early evening hours were TV time. Our dorms were stocked with a sports TV and an entertainment TV, because otherwise the COs would have a riot on their hands (seriously, there were riots). I was a sports TV guy. I could veg out watching sports so easily on the inside. I gambled on golf, NASCAR, strongman comps, and all the real sports, too. It made time pass. Now that I’m out, however, I don’t give a shitfuckdick about sports. I just make internet porn and watch Chopped. THAT’S IT. But in prison, sports make me feel like I’m adept at something. Something like taking stamps off half-mongoloid inmates.
I can’t even speak on the entertainment TV. First off, it always smelled like what I imagine a goose’s anus would smell like in there. Confusing analogy, I know, but I’d bet money there is some cosmic correlation that creates this nose-debilitating funk. Furthermore, those animals were constantly fighting over what piece of shit show to watch. Usually they just want to watch whichever show has the hottest bitches, which is weird because they watch Basketball Wives and none of those ferret-faced hookers can get my girth poppin’. To each their own, I guess. It’s all reality TV and BET in there, and unfortunately those two are beginning to overlap more and more. Unbonerable.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that an average day in jail is mostly just boring. The best you can hope for is meeting a couple fellers who you genuinely get along with, but let me tell you, that’s not easy, especially when you’re somewhat of an outsider. The prison demographic is pretty monochromatically moronic, so you better learn how to amuse yourself. I took up cock puppetry, AKA Kegel exercises. I’m trying to get a special on OWN, but that uptight cunt Oprah is giving me the runaround. I can’t win.
Previously – The Perils of Piss Tests