Inmates Love Lawsuits
Some big, non-gay-related news came outta the Supreme Court the other day: a prisoner in a federal clink-clink in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, won a case after acting as his own attorney and filling out his own paperwork by hand. His name is Kim Millbrook, and he claims he was forced to give head to a CO while a couple of other guards watched. The reason this thing went to the country’s top court is that Millbrook’s lawsuit got thrown out on the grounds that you can’t sue the US for anything that guards in federal prisons do, even if the guards are doing something really heinous. So the Supreme Court decided that Millbrook can sue the federal government. I doubt he will win, though. As NPR put it:
“Even if Millbrook wins the right to sue, though, there is serious doubt as to whether he will ultimately win his case. He is what is known in the trade as a ‘frequent filer’—he files lots of cases against the prisons where he has been forced to reside. And he has not yet won a single one of them.”
While it is impressive that this dude with ridiculous handwriting won in the Supreme Court, and inmates should for sure have the right to sue scumbag pork chops, the truth is that an assload of taxpayer money gets wasted on inmates’ frivolous lawsuits. For the most part, from what I’ve seen, the great majority of lawsuits filed in prison are complete bullshit perpetrated by con men and lazy scumbags—basically the same brand of leeches that look for a slippery spot in a Walmart and take a dive, hoping to score some quick cash and an Oxy script.
Even though prison guards were working with impunity in the fed lockups, they sure as puppyshit have been getting sued in other prisons for quite some time. The government tried to cut back on the b.s. in 1996, but from what I can tell, the lawsuits are still kickin’ heavy. Just look at what’s happening on Rikers Island, where dudes are filing all sorts of crap and getting paid off by the government, since it’d be more expensive to fight them all in court. I guess that situation’s no surprise, considering New York City is world famous for its greedy scumbag lawyers. The inmates just want a piece of the pie, too. We want to ball. A $2,000 settlement will last an inmate a year in prison.
I’ve met more than a few scammin-ass fake-fucko lawyer dummies in jail who buy a typewriter and try to act smart. They sit around extorting desperate fools and typing up lawsuits in exchange for some commissary credits. I’ve seen some abhorrent drivel written by these semiretarded turds, and I don’t recall ever seeing one of them win. You think a con-man convict named Pops or Beloved is going to get you results on an appeal that they charge you a $40 pair of Reeboks for?
I ended up enlisting one of these jailbird “lawyers” myself though, back in ‘07, when I ran into a situation that I really needed to deal with. The deal was that I’d developed an achy testicle in ‘06, and after a year of nonstop pain, I was bugging. I thought it was probably a hernia, which is no big deal to a bozo like me, but I was terrified that maybe some kinda cancer was eating my precious sperm and I wouldn’t be able to fornicate and produce seeds when I got out. For the first time in my life, I really started to feel around on my nuts, which was a mindfuck. I had no idea that you can actually feel little nodes, tubes, and ventricles that form a bizarre landscape down there. I’m walking around asking dudes, “What do your balls feel like? No homo.” Pretty soon, some grown-ass prisoners got terrified right along with me, ‘cause we didn’t know what our nuts were all about, and I got to playing with them so much I think I twisted them with a vicious case of testicular torsion.
The jail doctor I saw was a monster who squeezed my balls HARD and then seriously asked, “Did that hurt?” A nurse told me the pain was from beating off too much. I told her I didn’t beat off, and she switched her diagnosis to me not beating off enough. She said, “Go back to your dorm and tug one out for me, honey.” The doctor finished by telling me it wasn’t a hernia and that I was fine, but the shit really hurt, and I figured I should file an official complaint.
So old man Pops explained to me the excruciating process to just put the problem on record. I didn’t want any money from New York, unless I learned I had cancer and they hadn’t done shit. So to start a paper trail, I had to file a grievance at the jail and lose. Appeal the grievance and lose. Send an Article 78 to Albany and lose. Then appeal (and lose) before going on to the higher courts. This process took over a year. Meanwhile I was handwriting this shit over carbon-copy paper like it’s the stinkin’ 1970s, ‘cause I don’t want to pay Pops to use his typewriter. Everyone thinks it’s a joke ‘cause I’m writing extensive descriptions of my testicle, and since I’m a known pervert, they all think I just want the medical staff to jiggle my nuts ‘cause I’m lonely… Really a bunch of bullshit.
Anyhow, my nut was not cancerous. Much later, while I was on work release, a nurse in Harlem rubbed jelly on it and massaged it with an ultrasound wand and told me it looked good, real good. A fond memory… I’ve made many children with bountiful women since getting out of prison to prove my un-fuck-with-able virility, just like every ex-con should. Fuck the Man. Fuck Women. Fight the Power.
Bert Burykill is the pseudonym of our prison correspondent, who has spent time in a number of prisons in New York State. He tweets here.
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