Jailhouse Humor Lesson

Ever watch a comedian deliver a genuinely distasteful, cringe-worthy joke?  And in that split second before your filter kicks in telling you not to laugh, your body takes over and it just comes out?  You can’t stop it.  You turn to your companion and say something like, “Oh, that’s just so wrong!” or “I know I shouldn’t laugh, but…”

Humor is about context and nothing drives that point home like spending some time behind bars.  It might take you awhile, you may need a period of adjustment not to feel guilty laughing at something that’s way inappropriate.  But if you can get past the awkwardness, then you’ll be laughing, and that can make life in here feel a little more normal.

Here’s an example from my early days as a guest of the BOP.  I’m in a holding cell with another guy who seemed as confused as I was, and then we are joined by a talkative older dude who would just ramble on making somewhat entertaining random comments.  And then a fourth guy enters, sporting a black eye and a heavily bandaged hand.  Blood dripping from the bandage.  I suggest that the guy should call for a nurse.  So while he’s out of the cell getting fixed up, the Old Timer tells us that somebody had been on the news last night for getting in a fight.  Before he can finish the story, the guy with the bandage returns.  He seems nervous and says he needed to talk to the police and explain that the fight was over an ex-girlfriend.  The other guy had pulled a knife (hence his bloody hand) and he had acted only in self-defense.

Nothing funny here, right?  But then comes my introduction to jailhouse humor, courtesy of the Old Timer, who had seen the news story about the fight.  He explains, “The way I see it, you get into a fight with a dude, he pulls a knife and you get it from him?  Maybe you stab him 1, 2, 3, maybe even 4 times and you can call it self-defense.  When you get to poking him 43 times, that argument goes out the window!”

After a momentary pause, I will have to admit that all four of us started laughing.  In the outside world, of course, getting stabbed that many times is no joke.  But in jail, well, I’m learning what that old phrase means:  “If you don’t laugh, you’re gonna cry.”  Not funny, no way, I get that.  But at that moment, in that context, with that deadpan delivery?  Well.

Flip Flop Flap

My great luxury here in prison is a pair of Adidas Slides (flip-flops).  While we are not allowed to wear them outside, they are essential for comfort around the unit.  For anyone new to this blog, yes I’m in a prison that’s relaxed enough to let you take off your boots indoors.  Many guys will return from work or the yard and slip on their slides or put them on for a shower.  I’ve learned to keep mine by the bunk in case I need to get up in the night for the bathroom.  Which leads to this installment of the clumsy white guy chronicle: 

The other night I climbed out of the bunk, slipped on my Slides, and headed to the bathroom to pee, neglecting to put on my glasses.  Well, the accepted prison method for flushing the toilet is to shove the handle with your foot, but owing to drowsiness, impaired vision and low lighting, I lost my balance and missed.  No big deal, right?  Except in missing the handle I somehow placed my foot – shod in my lovely Adidas – right into the toilet!  I mean up to my ankle.  As you may have guessed, there are few things on earth nastier than a prison toilet.  I yanked my foot back and raced to the showers to immerse myself in scalding hot water, somehow forgetting in my panic that the showers are off limits at night.  I’d be risking a shot if I turned on the shower.  On the other hand my foot is now contaminated with radioactive prison toilet water.  My solution?  Use the sink.  Problem there being, I’m not the tallest guy and not the most flexible either.  I just could not get my foot into the sink without turning around backwards, bending at the waist, sticking out my leg and dunking my foot in the sink toes down (try to imagine this contortion).  Which, of course, was the necessary cue for two guys to come strolling into the bathroom.  Funny, though, neither said a word, just nodded like all was normal and went on about their business.  I’m not sure what that says about our lives here, but it can’t be good!  Finally, foot and Slide washed, I hopped back to my cube and collapsed into the bunk.  Even a quick trip to the bathroom can end up being an adventure when you’re a guest of the BOP.

Fake News - Prison Style

Well, we are just coming off five days of lockdown due to inclement weather.  It is amazing what 3.5 inches of snow can do to the routine of a federal prison.  Most of the time, we’re treated like dangerous hardened criminals, but get a little snow and we’re kept inside like children.  God forbid we might actually get our feet wet or enjoy getting outside in the snow.  But finally the snow has melted and we’re allowed to walk the outdoor track again, where we can release some pent up energy and get some exercise.  As good a time as any to share some of the amazing conversations overheard while we were on lockdown.  Believe me, nothing you are about to read is embellished in the least.  I am merely summarizing rather long and involved discussions for brevity’s sake.  Keep in mind that inane and arcane debates are a nonstop occurrence in here.  These are just my four favorites from our most recent lockdown:

The Moon Landing Conspiracy:  Sure, lots of people talk about this.  REM mentioned it in a song.  But in here the conspiracy has taken on a whole other layer of absurd.  You see, the moon landing hoax was propagated by the white man because they do not want black people to know the truth that the moon is a man-made machine designed to help control the masses.  The politics of all that was never explained, however, because the participants in this debate got sidetracked by the science involved.  You see, you can’t land on the moon because it’s way too hot.  That’s why it lights up at night.  It’s a giant light bulb with a powerful heat source inside making it glow.  If you go to Ethiopia, you will see all of this explained in their science text books.  The ancient Kushites knew all about it before the white man started to hide the facts.  The speaker has seen all this with his own two eyes!  I so much wanted to chime in with the hope that the utility company in charge of the moon would switch to long-lasting fluorescent bulbs to save a little money, but held my tongue.

Family Planning Through Linergy:  Two of my neighbors described this rapidly spreading family planning model which came down to us in America from ancient civilizations as the most effective way for society to function.  In this system, males mate as often as possible with as many women as possible, in order to create as many babies as possible.  The optimal number is one baby per woman or 6-9 overall.  The beauty of the system is that the man is only ever expected to care for the most recent mate and baby.  Previous mates (and their children) become the temporary responsibility of the most recent male to have mated with them.  That way no man ever has to feel responsible for more than one woman and one baby at a time.  There are complex rules governing the proper way to interact with any other kids your current mate may have had with other men, but at this point I started to lose track of things.  It began to seem like some sort of huge sexual Ponzi scheme.  But anyway, keep in mind that this model is called (for some reason) Linergy and it’s spreading like wildfire.  If any male readers out there choose to run this idea by their wife, please do let me know how that conversation turns out!

Learning Spanish:  This is a quick one.  Two guys are sitting together diligently attempting to learn Spanish (you’ve got to give them credit for their dedication).  Discussing the challenges of this endeavor, one guy says to the other, “Man, the crazy part is that for every English word, they expect you to know a Spanish word!  Whoever thought this shit up was pretty smart!”  I don’t mean to make fun, but it struck me as really funny the way he said that.

The Emancipation Proclamation, Page Two:  Okay, first off, I don’t know how many pages are in the Emancipation Proclamation, so by no means am I judging that part of this conversation.  But did you know that there is a secret page to the document giving the President the right to reinstate slavery immediately nationwide with ONLY the approval of the Illuminati?  Expect this to happen any day now, according to the learned historians holding this discussion.  I did want to join in this conversation, because I find it intriguing and would love to learn where people come up with this fake news.  In the end, though, I decided to pass.  Just didn’t have the energy at the moment, though I do plan to bring it up again next lockdown.

Well, as you can see, just another typical stretch of killing time in prison.  If nothing crazy, unusual, or surprising happened in here then nothing would ever happen at all.  Although, now that I think about it, if everything that happens is nuts, then doesn’t that become the norm?  As one oldtimer put it to me, “If nobody has it, then why do they still call it common sense?”

Life on the Beach

Here's a guest post by a friend; thought you might enjoy it:
  

I live on the beach.  Well that’s what we call it.  If you haven’t read along with this blog, you may need some background.  See, in the 1990s the U.S. decided to lead the world in incarceration, so it ramped up its prison population, I mean way up, and things in here got crowded.  To fit everybody in, they pulled the tables and chairs out of the common area and welded in place four sets of bunk beds, thus the beach!

The beach is right out in the middle of everything.  The lights never go out, ever.  And anyone who wants to go anywhere passes just inches from your bed.  In our block, a room designed for maybe 70 people, 170 now live and with that many guys in a confined space, the coming and going all day and night is constant.

So how does one end up on the beach?  Newbies often times spend a few weeks there while hoping for a bunk in a less conspicuous corner to open up; if you’re not homeboys with the guards or counselors the smallest infraction can land you on the beach, too.  I spent a week there when I first checked in and returned recently for a minor infraction.  Apparently, I left a sweaty shirt to dry on the back of my chair during the daytime.  Now, if you’re a counselor’s homeboy, you can drape your clothes on chairs and even hang clothes lines with nary a comment.  But I’m not that guy, so up to the beach I went and here I sit.

When you first try to sleep on the beach (sleep meaning lying there with your eyes closed), you notice how loud this place really is.  At 11 o’clock, about an hour after supposed quiet time, the tv room begins to empty out so that dozens of people come pouring forth paying no mind to those in their bunks trying to sleep.  You hear loud debates over whether Lebron or Steph is the best or whatever else has been on the tube that night.  When the tv room finally empties out the bathroom runs start.  My bed on the beach is about four feet from the bathroom door.  Many of my 170 roomies are past middle age, so all night there is a constant stream (pun intended) to the toilet.  You may not know that prison protocol requires us to flush constantly while sitting on the pot, then to wash our hands, and hey, why push the hand dryer button with a finger when you can pound it with your fist as hard and loud as possible?

At some point amidst all the bathroom visits, it’s time for evening count.  Which means that guards with a known aversion to this concept called numbers strut up and down the hall with flashlights blazing and keys jangling.  It never fails that Tweedledee and Tweedledum end up with conflicting totals.  They yell “Recount!”  And start all over again.

And then there’s our obsessive floor buffer guy.  Our geri-curled transgender orderly fires up the buffer and sets to work some mornings at 4:30 am.  If you work in the cafeteria, you have to get up at 4 to be ready for work by 4:45.  Insulin call is at 5:30 am.  Breakfast call is 5:45.  Medical call at 6.  The first interesting arguments start up around 6:15.  And there you are, bleary-eyed, wondering what sleep must feel like for anyone lucky enough to be deaf and blind in this place.

Once I’m up and unrested, I get to hang out with my fellow beach mates.  Since everyone starts out on the beach, you meet all sorts.  Guys that just arrived from country jails look shell-shocked; those that dropped down from medium security sleep in their boots, keep their shank handy, and rag about how this place is no real prison.  I currently share the beach with a guy who wears a colostomy bag (after a hospital screw up) and another we call Louis Farrakhan (constantly preaching Nation of Islam while pointing a finger at someone in this loud staccato voice claiming he used to be a rich securities trader (this is normal in prison, where guys will claim with a straight face that they used to make $150k a day and drive a Bentley and live in three mansions and by the way, if you want a good stock tip all you have to do is send his people a couple thou.)

So that’s a typical day on the beach.  Never dark, never quiet, no sleep, and crowded like you can’t imagine.  Don’t get me started on the smells.  But, you know, I guess it’s not as bad as living in a cube with a floor polishing tranny and Dr. Strangelove.  But that’s a story for another time….