Sucking the Government's Teats

In “Genius of Love,” The Tom Tom Club asks, “Whatcha gonna do when you get outta jail?” And the response is, “I’m gonna have some fun!” The answer is more than correct, concerning the little shit like drinking, eating, boning, and being merry, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s not too exactamundo. Ice Cube answers the same question: “I’m gonna have some fun with the bop gun!” I always thought the bop gun was a dick, but according to Wikipedia, it’s used by “Starchild” to “achieve ‘Funkentelechy’ for all humanity.” Point is, we all want to have fun when we get out. I don’t know what you think happens when you get out of jail, but in New York State, the man and his minions help make an already difficult situation shittier. The system is not quite finished punishing us, even when we’re out.

Everyone’s life is different when they leave the penitentiary, and praise to Baby Jesus’s Micropenis, I have good fortune on my side. I get to come home to my brother’s family house and play with my highly adorable funtastic nieces and live semi-lovely. Still, coming home is somewhat complicated for a cracker jackass.

At parole, my re-entry specialist social worker broad (fat neck, Spanish, nice boobs) referred me to drug programs and the Department of Social Services (DSS). I went to the drug program, and it turns out they want my ass for five hours, five days a week, and want to charge me a cumload out the ass. Then, DSS also decides to refer me to ANOTHER drug program to waste more hours and more money. Both programs want to get paid for their evaluation of me, which is that I’m an insatiable addict simply because I like to get fucked up sometimes and GOT CAUGHT selling drugs. Obviously I can’t pay for these things without Medicaid, and I need the evaluations to say I’m disabled by drug addiction so I can get welfare, Medicaid, and food stamps. Now maybe I could just get a job and say forget all this nonsense, but no—since I have a drug charge, parole is making me do this shit anyway, so I might as well get paid for it.

So how well am I getting paid for being a mentally ill drug-addicted ex-con? I get $200 in food stamps a month, which is pretty much pussy droppings. I spend that in a week, because I’m a fancy cracker. Chef Boyardee and Ramen are for the jailbirds. I want to waste dough on organic seaweed and unidentifiable vegetables grown in authentic animal shit. I’m supposed to get public assistance dough (minimum $200 per month) mega soon, but I’m still waiting. If I had my own kids in the household, I would’ve had it already. Shucks. All in all, I do rehab about 18 hours a month, get paid about $400, and get free healthcare. All I have to do is show up, piss clean, and share my feelings. I guess rehab is actually kinda bonerable.

No one wants to hire me anyway, so I’m going to increase my shame tolerance and proudly embrace my unemployed, drug-disabled welfare status. See, the sad part is I am better off than a lot of people coming out. Some people have to go to a shelter or straight to 28-day inpatient rehab. I’m still kind of feelin’ like my brown eye is about to get creamed by the MAN.

Hot damn on a stick of shit I haven’t even talked about my PO and her debilitating bullshit yet!! I’m afraid this lady has a lotta bitterness. I’m guessing she’s an angry lesbian and a racist, meaning she hates a cracker guy like me doubletime. She has abusively yelled at me every time we met. In person, I am not confrontational—I am an adorable baby seal. She came to my brother’s family house at 4:45 on a Thursday morning and wandered around like she owned the place barking Jabba the Hutt speak. She went upstairs to my room even though I told her my bonerabelle was in there sleeping. She looked in and saw titties and ass, snorted, then went back to her decrepit ladyfriend in the passenger seat to ventilate how much she hates crackers fresh out the clink with bonetasty vagina in the bed.

She will send me back upstate in a heartbeat. I live in bumblefuck burbs, and she took my driver’s license away. She literally took it out of my hand and never gave it back. I queried kindly, “Ma’am, may I please have my ID back?” And she barked, “No!” and walked away leaving a wet fart in her wake for me to ponder.

It’s not easy being sleazy. I have goals, aspirations, and desires, and they are all very hard to obtain with the numerous roadblocks set before me. It is a blessing that I am deemed handicapped by drug addiction, which makes me the recipient for many bonerable bureaucratic benefits, but now I have to jump through all these flaming hoops. I left the path of normalcy the moment I got got by the porkchop patrol in 2004, so now I need to finesse and front to get those free bucks I’ve earned by sitting in prisons day after day. Basically, rehab is throwing me a bone, and I’m just a dumb doggy trying to find his way back home.

Previously - Sweet Release