Does anyone believe in karma? I’m talking about the consequences of a person’s actions that determine their specific destiny. Sometimes, I think about karma and wonder if it had anything to do with why I’m here. Why I’m serving this assload of time in federal prison and why all this is happening to me. Then, I think about what I might have done. Surely I didn’t do anything too awfully bad. Surely I haven’t hurt or harmed anyone so bad that I deserve this much mental and physical torture. Have I? Yet if someone believes in the laws of karma, I did something somewhere along the line that caused this to happen to me. And let me tell you folks, whatever it was, I sure wish I hadn’t done it. It had to be something to do with me selling drugs. That’s all I can think of. That’s all I can figure out. Because that’s all I’ve ever done. Sold dope to friends and acquaintances.

I didn’t sell marijuana, cocaine or speed to little kids. I sold it to my buddies. Grown adults who were capable of making their own decisions. Individuals just like me who simply wanted to alter reality a little and have a good time. Despite what society and law enforcement want you to believe, I wasn’t the guy in the dark trench coat hanging around schoolyards forcing drugs on small children. Yet that’s the way the legal system paints guys like me to be. The decision to use and purchase drugs is a conscious one. And to me, buying and selling dope is a consensual crime. Looking back, I wish I hadn’t used or sold. I wish I would have went to college and become a lawyer or doctor. Wait, not a lawyer. Changed my mind on that. They’re just as crooked as any criminal there is, doing time right, here sitting next to me in federal prison.

Anyway, back to karma. Some dealers have sold dope to individuals who overdosed and died. Not me. I’ve never done that. No one ever kicked the bucket as a result of doing any of my party material. In drug rehab at the prison my 2nd or 3rd go round it was offered in prison, I’ve watched films showing the most strung out, fucked up, totally wasted out of their minds junkies in the world! But truthfully everyone. I’ve never even met anyone like that! All the people I sold to and partied with were average folks. So, why is karma kicking my ass? Can anyone explain that to me? Or, is it karma at all? They say hindsight is 20/20. Wish I knew why this is happening to me. Maybe one day, after I finally leave this world, and my entire life is played back for me on a big movie screen, I’ll know. I’ll have found out what it was I done that was so fucking bad. Think that’ll happen? I doubt it. But you know what I mean.

My friend Robert T. was an asshole of a drunk. He hung around all the meanest bars in Fort Smith mouthing off and running his head to those he shouldn’t have. He fought all the time and probably hurt some people too. I know he at least stabbed one or two. Yet they didn’t die. Sure, they went to the emergency room with a couple of puncture wounds but they didn’t bite the big one. But one day something happened to old Robert. Was it karma that fucked Robert off? Drunk as a dog, he said something stupid to the wrong guy. Finally went and done it. He got stabbed and killed at Abe’s Oasis on Midland Boulevard. Was it Robert’s specific destiny to die at the hand of another wielding a knife? Or, was it simply coincidence? I don’t know. Even as ignorant as Robert acted sometimes, I don’t think he deserved to go out like that. If it was karma, then karma is a mother fucker. A stone cold mother fucker that I detest and abhor.

In closing, was it the laws of nature that put me here? And, will my good or evil ways have a bearing on me being reincarnated into someone decent or something bad? Or, is there really such a thing as karma and reincarnation at all? I honestly don’t think I’ve done anything that horrific in life. And if there is a heaven, I’ll go there because I’m not a bad person. My nature, disposition and character are that of a happy individual who never once meant to hurt or harm another living soul or creature. Yes, I broke society’s laws. I sold speed and weed to people and I’m doing time for it. But did I really deserve all this? I know some of you self righteous do-gooders out there will say I did. And others who have been in my shoes will say just the opposite. If anyone has any mind boggling insight on karma they’d like to share with me, I’d like to hear about it. Because right now I’m sitting here in prison kicking myself in the ass constantly wondering if it was karma that fucked me off, took 17 years of my life, and put a black label on me stating I am a no good rotten asshole. I’m Tripper. Better Days to all of you readers! Thank you for hanging out, it’s been rough here lately.

My last drink of hooch. Sitting here in federal prison, I just finished my last goddamn cup of prison wine. Thinking to myself … what will I do now? I’ll write a blog. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll write whatever comes to mind and try to make people laugh. And at the same time, I’ll try to make myself chuckle a little bit too. Because just like they say in Reader’s Digest, “laughter is the best medicine.” And everyone likes to laugh. Right? I don’t normally get drunk in prison. Actually, this is the first time I’ve ever done so. Couldn’t resist. I’d been having a bad day and decided to tie one on. Looking around, all I see are a bunch of men who are afraid of their own shadow. Guys who’d literally pull down their pants and let a person fuck just by hearing the word “boo!” What pussies there are here doing time. Makes me wonder how some of these wimpy dudes ever got put in prison in the first place. Just a bunch of weak individuals who let the system run over them day-in, day-out. They literally aggravate me to death.

Me? I’m a bit different. I’m outspoken. If a guard mouths off to me, I talk back. If I get screwed over by the prison laundry, food service or medical? I file formal complaints. I won’t eat bread and water and work like a Hebrew slave in the prison war factory known as UNICOR. I could give a damn less about their 23 cents an hour job. Newbies come in and say, “Tripper, why don’t you go to work in the UNICOR factory?” And I say, “Hell boy, if I wanted to work in a factory, I wouldn’t be in prison!” Fuck working in prison, fuck UNICOR and fuck the bullshit hard labor that senile bastard of a federal judge supposedly sentenced me to. I’m not here to work nor kiss the prison administration’s ass. They’re not going to work me to death. Some say I’m incorrigible. I say I’m a convict. And convicts don’t always do what prison officials tell them to do. Yeah, if I would have wanted to work at a factory, I’d be working at one of those old furniture factories in Fort Smith making minimum wage and I wouldn’t be doing time. Sorry everyone, but that’s not my idea of a life. Just keeping it real.

Had a couple of cups of wine with my friends tonight. And with the headache I have right now, one thing’s for sure, I won’t be doing it again for a while. Back to my writing … yeah sure. I’ve spent a few days in the hole. But when I left I still had my pride and dignity. I never rat and each and every morning I wake up and look at the man in the stainless steel mirror, and I know I’m not one. I don’t like abusive prison guards, jailhouse rats and penitentiary queers. One day I’ll once again be free to roam the earth as the warped, deranged idiot I am. And to those out there who might thing they’ll want to take a shot at me and run me down? Rest assured, you’ll have a bad day coming. Because again, I ain’t the one. With all this pent up anger, hatred and racism driving me day after day, if you decide to fuck with me, expect to get your head knocked off. Believe it or not, I ain’t no joke. No brag, just fact. If you want to be an idiot, I can be an idiot too. Don’t like being that way but sometimes shit just happens. Know what I’m saying?

Some of these so-called inmates in here are simply wasting good air. Their oxygen supply should be cut off. Especially the child molesters and homosexuals who take advantage of little kids. Take this sex offender that sleeps in the rack next to me for example. He comes in from the factory every day bragging to his bunky about just having sucked a wee-wee. And how his relationship with his big black daddy from Cincinnati is going so well. A guy that got a couple of years for possessing hundreds upon hundreds of images of child porn while I sit here doing a 17 year bit for a small amount of methamphetamine. A 45 year old white male who is still a predator just waiting for the day he is released from prison so he can go right back out there and rape more little boys.

Real Life Sex Offenders, Not All of Them The Nasty Picture You See In You Mind. One Smiling, and Quite Proud. Sick. Sick and WRONG!

Sorry everyone, but tonight I feel like speaking my mind. And one thing’s for sure, a drunk always speaks the truth about what’s on his mind. Yeah, this guy is one sick, perverted, twisted little boy goober gobbler who I detest and abhor. He needs to be run off the yard. He needs to be forced to check into protective custody. Yet he is allowed to live here. Why? Because the punishment for making him check in is too severe.

Then occasionally, I run into a real mother fucker. Someone who’s been there/ done that and doesn’t give a fuck about society’s law in that smoking pot is illegal but former politicians who rape little babies is okay. Like my friend Big Sam for instance. The guy who shared a couple of cups of wine with me tonight. Now here’s a guy that lives in a world of reality. At 62 years old and having just spent almost 16 calendar years in the pen, he knows life is almost over for him. And when he gets out? Fuck some supervised release. He’ll jump that first day I predict. I imagine plans of cooking up a batch of speed and hittin’ one last good lick. No need in being scared! Eat, drink and be merry. Enjoy life to the absolute fullest. No living in the gray twilight, never having had any fun in life for Sam. Be all you can be! Kick ass, take names and tell the Judge and Prosecuting Attorney that put you in here … kiss my fucking ass! Again, I’m sorry everyone. Just my drunken rant. But I admire guys like Sam. Fuck ‘em and feed ‘em fish heads. He’s the real deal all the way!

Men without a program. Men without ambition or a plan in life. That’s all who live and sleep around me. Everyone but Wild Bill Archer. Now here’s a guy who has literally done it all. The former Las Vegas Chapter President of the Hessians Motorcycle Club. The feds never caught him doing anything. Yet they lied on him in open court, set him up from the git-go and sentenced him to 295 months in the pen. Bill doesn’t work at UNICOR. He doesn’t conform and kiss the warden’s ass. He hasn’t raped any little boys or girls and got a minimal prison sentence. Just like me, he can’t stand the child molesters who are allowed to do their time on this yard. Bill is a man’s man. He does his time the way he wants to do it. If someone says something stupid to him, whether it be a prison guard or one of these cho’mo’s (prison slang for child molester), he tells them where to get off—how the cow chews the cabbage. I respect guys like Wild Bill and Big Sam. They’re convicts who mind their own business and do their own time. And I want to be just like them when I grow up. I already am. I’m Tripper. I’m drunk. And I hate all who live in my world wasting fresh air.

Just thought I’d rant a little bit tonight and let you know what’s going through a drunk convict’s mind. I write this blog sitting in a prison barracks full of noisy, disrespectful, asshole inmates who have no respect for anyone. Not even themselves. The mental and physical torure a man puts up with in prison will drive him to drink. And it’s unfathomable to the normal every day Joe. It’ll be amazing if I leave here with my sanity and not hate every law enforcement official, faggot and gangbanger I run into out there in the world. Nights like tonight wear on me. I sometimes feel like a ticking time bomb waiting for my time to explode. Again, thank God for what little sanity I still possess and thank the prison psych for Prozac. Wish I had a big fat joint of marijuana to smoke right now. From the mind of a temporarily drunken, unusually disgruntled inmate locked away in federal prison for a little bit of speed. I’m Tripper. And really everyone … I’m okay. Better Days!