Photo via Flickr user kennejima
When you’re locked up in an upstate New York prison, you're in an alternate universe. Everything happens very far away from you and on a time delay. A serious example is the death of my grandmother, who I was very tight with—I was in prison when she died and I couldn’t be involved with the grieving, the funeral, or supporting my loved ones. Once I got out, then daaaammmn, the reality sunk in and I still get real sad thinking about how I’ll never see her again; I’m ashamed that I was AWOL during her funeral, the black sheep of the family. But when she passed away, I was in the void… nothing really reaches you down there.
To a lesser extent, this delay occurs in the entertainment world. All the albums and movies that came out while I was locked up might as well have not even existed. If you’re an inmate who wants to devote himself to keeping up with popular culture, it’s not easy. Usually if you're lucky enough to get a magazine, it's months late, and if you read about the hot new songs or movies you have no way to experience them anyway. You might catch some ballsackesque pop music on the radio station, but then you have to decipher who the fuck was singing, ‘cause the DJ doesn’t tell you that shit anymore.
I used to follow that stuff like a motherfucker and dream of energetic bouts of frenetic fornication with pop stars all the time. I joined the Britney Spears fan club in 2006 and wrote her a lotta hot hot hot love letters. In 2010, when Miley Cyrus came out with “Party in the USA,” I used to write to my friend Tako, who was out in the world, and send him long, laborious, libido-laden librettos I wrote for Miley in hopes that he would somehow pass that message along. I just wanted her to know that she had some fans in prison, lo mein? It wasn’t just me, either—there was a whole gang of us writing to our favorite famous honeys' fan clubs in hopes some starlet would have some crippling longing for a real bad boy, see our enclosed photos of our hard bodies flexing and our bulging gym shorts, and become crazed with desire.
One guy in particular, nicknamed Sexx Money, had an incredible level of self-confidence, all things considered, which is what you need to mack on unattainable honeys when you’re stuck pounding your pud in the state pen. Of course, most convicts develop an insane invulnerability for guilt or shame and don’t care in the least bit about constantly being coldly rejected and ignored.
Anyway, Sexx Money’s been pouring his guts out to Miley since the days when his fantasies were illegal, and when he learned—weeks later than anyone outside of prison—that pretty much the whole world was writing open letters to her after Sinead O’Connor told her publicly not to turn into a prostitute or whatnot, he wanted in on the action. So he sent me this, and I’m passing it onto you:
Dear Miley “FineFuckingWhiteBitchAss” Cyrus,
I’ve been writing you the past three years, so you know I feel your fuckin’ fine ass more than a muthafucka, for real. I know you be busy and shit and ain’t got time to hit a cracker back with the facts ‘bout how you feel for me and shit. You know I’ll do anything for you girl, so I’m a write this to clear the air that this old lady O’Connor farted all up.
Bitch basically be sayin’ that sweet white pussy of yours is for sale, which like, yeah, of course it is! You earnin’ millions dancing nekkid and shit on the TV! What’s wrong with that? I mean, you should be honored that millions of motherfuzzies wanna peep your buttery biscuits, then you got some other broad trying to get a fly young thing like you to cover that tightness up an feel bad about you sexilisciousness. FUCK THAT NOISE.
Bein’ locked up with no decent cable TV I don’t even know what this hullabullubba is all about. Muhfuckas b sayin’ you learned how to twerk it from some fat-assed real broads, and you be grinding your 12-year-old lookin’ pancake ass all over the place lookin’ for it to get covered in some syrup. That’s what the fuck I’m talkin’ ‘bout, boo… I got the syrup, like gallons of the sauce all saved up for you. I’ll give you all I got to give when I get up out this bitch. I already got my rap career planned out so you can sing on my shit and we can be the first to do porno video songs. I’ll take you straight to the top with the cherry drippin’ juicy and all that freaky-nasty-nipple-plucking shit on board like 190 percent and shit.
I know you busy, but when you finally get the chance to get back to me, just holla at a cracka! Gimme some time and I promise I’ll be your rock-hard cock in this world of jelly doughnut-dicked fuckin’ crybabies. Just keep shakin’ that ass and poppin’ that pussy all the way to the top, laughin’ at these uptight Puritanical, in-the-closet pornography addicts jerkin’ off for a fuckin’ livin’ while they talk shit about open sexuality. You do you, Boo-Boo. Big Daddy Sexx Money always goin’ be in your corner, keeping your mouth moist, lettin’ you spit in the bucket while I massage your shoulders, then I rub some of that grease on yo face, make you shine, and then you go knock them other hatin’-ass bitches the fugggout! See how I get all metaphorical all in your sphere. I only does that for you… you inspire me to be a great muthafuckin’ cracker ’n’ shit… I love you.
Hugs ’n’ Kisses,
Yo Bert! Good-lookin, ma dude. Make sure my Boo gets this shit, yo, and hit me back if you get any returned mail from anyone. Stay Black, cracka!
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. Also Sexx Money is not a real person, but one of the dudes who lives in Bert's head.
Previously: My Search Engine Results Are Wrecking My Life