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Pen Pals

I Saw an Inmate Get Struck by Lightning Through the Phone

The sky got crazy, there was a sonic boom and a MEGA flash of light—from across the room I saw Black sprint 20 feet while holding his underarm/heart area. He slowed down, turned around, stumbled back ten or 15 feet stuttering, “It hurts, it burns,” and...

by Bert Burykill
Sep 26 2012, 4:36pm

SHIT IS TOTALLY UNBONERABLE RIGHT NOW. FAT CAMP SWALLOWS DONKEY-DICK  BASE-DEEP. My body fat percentage is down to 3.5 or maybe 4 (no carbs or fruit! Strictly mackerel, peanuts, and pickles for me), but these cocksucker motherfuckers won’t let me go. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised ‘cause parole has their own executive law or some shit and there’s really no one for them to answer to. At least that’s the way it seems…

I’m working on an intermittent fasting (IF) regimen in combination with excessive rigorous physical conditioning, and not to brag or boast, but my girth is expanding profusely from coast to coast. These guys in here have taken to calling me Triple H, which I guess I should take as a compliment, especially ‘cause they called me Zorro for a while until they found out I wasn’t Spanish. I wish I had some steroids… I’d have a much more aerodynamic scrotum less prone to herniation, not to mention bulbous tits like a brollick Holstein heifer.

So mostly I ain’t shit and I ain’t been doing a thing but trying not to stress out about the prospect of my life crumbling to shit while I slave away in here. I thought I’d be knee deep in some wet velvet chocha by now, but instead I ‘m going into the shower to furiously jack my dick, do the splash and dash, and then silently weep under my sandpaper blanket. Life could be worse though. There’s some interesting stuff happening in here.

As a young’un, back in the days of landlines, I recall my folks telling me to get off the phone during a lightning storm. I ignored them and dismissed their warnings as frivolous poppycock. But then those tornadoes hit New York and I witnessed some bona fide MythBusters shit. A gentleman named Harry, aka Black, aka Planet of the Apes (not trying to be racist, he looks like a skinny crackhead chimp), was on the phone when lightning struck the building and he got fried. The sky got crazy, there was a sonic boom and a MEGA flash of light—from across the room I saw Black sprint 20 feet while holding his underarm/heart area. He slowed down, turned around, stumbled back ten or 15 feet stuttering, “It hurts, it burns,” and collapsed.

At first I thought he was playing games, ‘cause we like the jokes in here, but it soon became apparent that he wasn’t moving at all. At the same time, these brown phones that the COs use to do their counts started ringing, eerily. The CO on duty was kinda on point and tried to call in the emergency, but his phone was dead. He started banging on the door screaming, “Phones are out! Code signal three!” Dudes were going crazy, running around—and the other two phones were still being used, unbelievably. More COs and nurses rushed in and ordered the 45 inmates to get on our racks while they tried to save Black’s life.

I didn’t have a good view of what was going on, but it seemed like a heart attack. He stopped breathing, so the nurse gave him CPR and brought him back. They had some sorta defibrillator machine hooked up to him that told the nurses what to do in a robot voice. I guess I have to give them credit. We could hear them slapping his face and shouting, “Harry! Harry! BREATHE!” Shit was real.

Of course, it took the EMTs a half-hour to get through the labyrinth of security at this stinking fat camp, and then they chained him to the stretcher so it probably took him an hour to get to the hospital. He made a full recovery and is back on the block now, loudly declaring, “I’ve been shot, stabbed, electrocuted, and I’m still here! I must be here for a reason! This is a wake-up call!”

Now we only have one phone for the whole dorm. My girl’s been too busy to talk when I get through the line and call her. I miss her and now she’s going to Las Vegas this weekend all mad at me for still being here. I’m pretty sure that pretty girls catch dick action in Vegas, so I’m feeling a smidge less than stellar. So I guess I’ll try to get my body fat down to 3 percent and squeeze my glutes. Maybe I’ll focus on pulling out my ass pubes and scrotal ‘stache so my undercarriage is presentable for when the time of sweet release finally comes.

It’s pretty frustrating just sitting here waiting for paperwork to come through so I can get the fox outta here. Almost a month of sitting here for no fucking reason is highly unbonerable. As usual, I’m falling apart. I’m afraid I’ve done permanent damage to my lower gums with my shitty toothbrush and no floss. I hope gums regenerate or I’m fucked. I hope experiencing these valuable life lessons will make me one BONERABLE BASTARAD someday. However, that is doubtful. I feel the rust accumulating… My PH is off… I’m getting slicked with scum, becoming irretrievably lackluster. A pathetic, parentless, pussyless, moneyless reality is approaching. If I don’t straighten up and fly right I’m going to fuck myself straight up the pooper.

Bert Burykill is the pseudonym of our prison correspondent, who is currently serving time in a prison in New York. When he's not in jail he tweets here. Previously on Pen Pals:

Finish What You Start

Shit Dudes in Prison Say 

Lockup Crackup

bert burykill
freak accidents
struck by lightning
prision sucks