Playing the board game RISK with some guys, a Romper Room Reject suddenly got mad at me and threw the dice hitting me right square between the eyes. Blood gushed everywhere and I had to be taken to the infirmary. Mad that I invaded South America from the U.S. and wiped out all his armies, Buddy lost his temper and not only hit me with the little white cubes, he also turned the game upside down tossing all the cards and game pieces on the floor. At the hospital, I spoke with Nurse Cake as she bandaged up my nose. “Sorry to ruin your solitude tonight Ms. Cake. But some idiot flipped out on me when I reneged on my promise not to invade his country. Ever play RISK?” I asked. “Yeah! What a fun game! I personally like to start out with North America and go from there.” she said. “By the way,” I continued with our conversation, “Is that idiot we all call the crypt keeper bothering you? Because if he is, we’ll make sure he leaves you alone.” “No, it’s alright,” she said and smiled. Bandaged and smitten with the beautiful nursey named Cake, T returned to the unit with a smile.

Every man in the joint malingered, feigning illnesses. Everything from full blown heart attacks to migraine headaches just to get to see Nurse Cake. It got to the point where a truly sick person couldn’t get medical treatment at all. Staff started to notice the attention Nurse Cake was getting. Other nurses gossiped and hated on Nurse Cake and I knew it’d only be a matter of time before they’d get jealous and she’d get canned. And sure enough, when speaking to Nurse Cake at pill line one evening, she told me she’d given her two week notice and was being forced to resign. Never fails. Every time we’d get a nurse or female doctor that gave a shit, the administration would come along and find a way to get rid of them. Fire them, saying they were either too friendly or not doing their job. When Donnie, aka the crypt keeper, aka ass clown, found out Nurse Cake was leaving, he damn near cried. He really was sick then. And the fucker faked so many illnesses those last two weeks, he spent the entire time in an observation cell on suicide watch just so he could be close to Nurse Cake.

I got out of prison. 8 months later I got a P.V. (parole violation) and was sent back to the pen. At Pine Bluff Diagnostic, who else did I run into? The ass clown! Housed in a different barracks than mine, I only briefly got to talk to him in the chow hall. But when I did, he whispered to me, “Remember Nurse Cake?” “Yeah,” I said. “Well, I married her!” “No you didn’t! Why you lyin’ little piece of shit!” I yelled. “Quiet down inmate!” screamed a nearby CO. knowing inmates weren’t suppose to talk in the chowhall. “You didn’t!” I whispered across the table. “No, I did! I swear it! She and I have an apart­ment together in North Little Rock. I got a job working on a barge and I am supporting her and her kid.” A week or so later, we rode the prison transport van to Varner Unit. That’s when he told me the whole story and I’ll have to say, the dumbass kid really did hit a lick. Once at Varner he even showed me a picture of he and Cake together. In the end, as much as it surprised me, I guess old Donnie really did get to have his Cake and eat it too!

T’m Tripper! Better Days!

Monday I’ll be taken to what they call UDC (Unit Disciplinary Committee). I can already tell you what they’re going to do. They’ll find me guilty of possession of contraband and they’ll suspend both my commissary and tele­phone privileges for 30 days. All that means is I won’t be able to call my dear old 70 year old mom once a week like I have for the last 8 plus years letting her know I’m okay. Retaliation and reprisal against an inmate for ex­ercising his First Amendment Constitutional Right to file a complaint is strictly prohibited by law. Yet the B.O.P. and all their undereducated, vindictive cronies do it all the time. I’ll appeal my write-up. And, I may very well win. But, the entire process will take well over a month and by that time, I will already have suffered the consequences and they’ll say, “Oh well! Damn the bad luck! Harmless error! Sorry Tripper!” Again, not my first rodeo. I know exactly what’s going to happen even before they open their rotten-ass mouths.

Do your job! B.O.P. employees hate to hear that. And the higher up the ladder they advance, the less work they think they have to do. If the assholes in the kitchen would do what they’re suppose to do, stuff like this would never happen. It all boils down to prison staff being inmate haters. They have the attitude they’re here to punish us. They prepare the sorriest tasting food using the poorest quality ingredients they can buy. Then, they serve us a child’s portion and tell us to like it! If you buck and write them up, they’ll put a hit on you. Just like they did me. But you know what everybody? I’m used to this kind of shit. I knew what to expect when I started this war with Food Service. I knew they’d retaliate. I knew they’d send one of their henchmen after me to destroy, search through and steal my personal property. But guess what? No matter what the consequences or repercussions, I’m going to file again, again and again. Nothing will ever change around here unless I put the paper on their sorry ass! I’m not a quitter. I’ll never lay down.

In closing, just wanted to give everyone a little insight as to what’s been going on with me lately. And let everyone know I may be writing my blogs from the SHU (punitive isolation) sharpening my stubby little golf pencils on the concrete floor. I’m not the kind of inmate that’ll just bend over and let them fuck me in the ass. I know I broke the law and I know why I’m in federal prison. I am incarcerated “as” punishment, not “for” punishment. And the sooner the idiots that run this shithole figure that out, the better. I won’t waiver. I’m doing my bit and all I’m asking the jerkoffs that run this place to do is … their job. Do your fucking job! Is that too much to ask? I think not. I’ll send a copy of my shot with this blog and see if Nic can scan and post it for your amusement. Be advised, I’m a dangerous convict who possessed a 0.6 fluid ounce bottle of white-out which in effect threatened the good orderly running of the institution. Not really! What I did was complain about the shitty food and got slammed for it! I’m Tripper! Better Days!

There’s not much to do on a Sunday afternoon here in federal prison. So I decide to go out on the recreation yard to enjoy the sun and a little fresh air. I take my radio, water jug and a couple of books with me. One, a book I’ve perused many, many times but wanted to re-read as research for an upcoming blog I planned to write. And the other, something I picked up in passing. “The Devil’s Notebook” by the well known Satanist Anton Szandor LeVey. I’m minding my own business and doing my own time. I’m sitting on a metal bench overlooking the west Texas desert when all of a sudden, a well known religious nut comes over and sits down next to me. “Jesus loves you!” he says. Not really wanting to listen to the sex offender’s bullshit I replied, “That’s nice. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.” I then started gathering my things to move away

“Say! Is that Winnie-the-Pooh by A.A. Milne you’re reading there? Great book! I loved that book when I was a little boy!” said the molester. “Yes,” I sheepishly replied. Knowing it must seem a bit strange that a grown man covered in tattoos and serving an assload of time in prison for drugs was reading Pooh. “I always loved the book too. A classic.” “And oh,” he says. “You have some other interesting stuff too. What’s that book there?” he went on pointing toward one of the manuscripts partially sticking out of my athletic tote bag. “Is that the Holy Bible?” “No,” I said, again quickly attempting to gather my personal property. Suddenly, I dropped everything. The wind caught some of my notes blow­ing them toward the perimeter fence. “Damn it!” I said and went to retrieve them. When I returned, Mr. Nosey had the book.

“Tripper! I knew you were bad! What are you doing to poor Winnie-the-Pooh? Are you planning to cast a spell on all those who read it? Defile Pooh and sacrifice his namesake to the Devil for some twisted personal gain or reason? I can’t believe you! I always knew you were evil! You with all your tattoos of monsters and demons on your arms.” “Shut up and get out of my face,” I laughed. Thoroughly not believing the audacity of this narrow minded do-gooder who unjustly invaded my personal space in the first place I added, “Go away mother fucker. Go hang out with the other baby rapers and leave me the fuck alone!” The nerve of this idiot.

I didn’t have Pooh and the Devil’s Notebook together for satanic worship reasons. I had Pooh to read so I could re-familiarize myself with the characters for an upcoming fun and amusing blog!

Next thing I know, the asshole runs down the hill to find his friends. He tells them I’m a devil worshipper and freak of nature. A sick and twisted demonic entity and they should pray for me. Walking back to the cellblock, I got a lot of stares from the men standing in front of the chapel. I felt the urge to go over and give them a piece of my mind but didn’t. Thought about telling them I was planning to make a puppet of Pooh and torture him. And if they fucked with me, I’d make a puppet of all of them too. Standing at the gate, I kicked it with two of my other tattooed friends. I told them what happened. They laughed. Then Jack started making faces at the cho’mo’s (child molesters) yelling stuff like, “Hail Satan!” and “A pox on you!” Yeah, what an entertaining afternoon this turned out to be. Heh! Heh! Shit that happens in prison never ceases to amaze me.

Back indoors, I sat on my bed reading part of another novel I’d picked up called, “Son of A Twitch” by Gregory Magquire, Sam sat nearby reading a Hot Rod magazine. When in came the shot caller for the mo’s who said, “I want to apol­ogize for the idiocy Joe Brown caused on the recreation yard this afternoon. He’s not right. Not all there upstairs, if you know what I mean. But I do want to warn you. He went to the Chaplain complaining about you. So don’t be sur­prised if they don’t try and perform an exorcism on you or at least call you to the Lieutenant’s office or something. Then we all just laughed and laughed and laughed. Thus another typical afternoon in a prison full of nutcases. It’s gotten to where a man can’t enjoy a simple read without someone else coming along and fucking stuff up. I’m Tripper. Better Days!