Tuesday, May 5, 2009



Disclaimer: Many of you peeps may already know and have heard every last detail of the below tale, but it’s truly one of my finer moments so, wtf, why not repeatedly relive the glory?

A few years ago, I made the mistake of falling for one of my brother’s friends. I don’t, for the most part, go through life with my head up my ass, so I knew this was a risk seeing as, generally, the one way to ensure monumentally pissing off your much older brother is by dating and fucking one of his buddies… and doing the latter exceptionally well and anywhere at any time. The man had a dick the size of my forearm, hung like ox, so I had no choice, abso-fucking-lutely none. It’s all my bro and their friends could talk about:
“Dude, he whipped it out to piss and I thought that shit was gonna hit the ground.”
“Fucker has elephantitis of the dick, I swear… I want elephantitis of the dick, shit.”
“Fuck, yeah I check it out. Pretty sure it’s turning me gay.”

Elephantitis? Really? That’s it, I was in love. Lost under the spell of the skin flute’s sweet song. Seeing as I always fall for the man in the pink helmet and he couldn’t resist a blonde with a nice snatch we were both powerless to the attraction. So for three months over the summer the heat in the bedroom made the sweltering summer months feel more like an early winter. We rocked that headboard so hard it put a hole in his wall. His neighbor asked him to move the bed and started using sleeping pills. I, at times, needed aspirin for my beat up pussy. He’d pull chunks of my hair out. We’d slap each other all over the room. Shit was ON. It was the porn version of WWE, except co-ed. I’d have trouble walking normal and taking stairs, but would promptly sit on it and ride it whenever it was around. Those were my glorious Rodeo Days.

But, much like hot sex, it ended in a mess all over the place leaving a semi-bitter taste in my mouth. All I could do is swallow my pride, clean myself off and get the feck over it. Turns out I did indeed monumentally piss off my brother and since he’s a dick, he and his other friends plotted to set the Ox up with another chick. The Ox didn’t have the balls (seeing as they were tiny, like two limes trying to look desirable amidst a watermelon) to tell them to fuck off… or maybe he was over the Fuck-a-thon and wanted a woman with more “substance” who wouldn’t suck his dick nearly as often or as well, who knows. I wasn’t too surprised; I knew it would come to an end and figured my brother would happily squash it. I just didn’t think the Ox would be such a fucking d-bag about it. Instead of being sent to my relationship grave with dignity, he breakup email’s me at work. I’m sorry, am I Carrie Bradshaw? Is this Sex and the City? I guess this is where “he’s just not that into you” applies, although I think that shit should be rephrased to “he just doesn’t give a fuck about you, bitch.” A little face-to-face “you’re the biggest loser” talk would have been appreciated, but I guess if I had to choose between the Ox doing one thing well I’d leave it at fucking and not communicating. On top of the totally awesome email - the preferred breakup choice of leading vaginas everywhere - which consisted of two heartfelt poetic sentences, by the by, I show up at my family river trip in Arizona a month later to find the Ox there holding court, acting like nothing ever happened.

This is the story of #33, the Pussy, who is to thank for my introduction to *#34, Convict # 27901356764.

If I know I have to see someone on a somewhat regular basis or they know and/or are friends with my family, I usually like to keep the line of communication flowing, even in difficult times so everyone can get over their issues in a non-dramatic somewhat healthy adult way and move on. I’m not a fan or practitioner of the passive aggressive pussy ass shit. But I was now thrust into that environment, so fuck it, what could I do? Not give a shit, is what. My family just loves the Ox, thinks he’s so cute and is such a great catch, which added juuuust a pinch of lemon to my paper cut. That, and him being heavily involved with the girl my brother helped set him up with was like a cherry polyp on top of the shit sundae. But fuck it, I live a big girl life, knew what I was getting into and that I’d probably get screwed (which I did… many times… in every position). Only thing to do now was party and get shitty.

And during the day, par-tay I did. I tore that river up, it was 1999 all fucking over again. I was there to kick ass or chew bubblegum and, you bet your sweet ass, I was all out of bubble gum. Oh yeah, I went there. I shook my money maker, drank some drank, smoked some smoke, mingled with some sausages. Truly didn’t care that the Ox was ten feet away the entire time. The river has that power. All was good in this bitch's hood until sundown hit the horizon, and the drunken brokedown palace ho’s staying at the house next door to my brother’s invited themselves over and started an impromptu stripper party, that I became less than pumped. Since I didn’t have anyone to gyrate on and the Ox insisted on locking eyes with me every time one of the coug’s started grinding on him I was ready to mosey on to the next leg of my river adventure sans the Ox and his stupid face and its stupid smile. Normally, the mere mention of “stripper party” would be go-time for me but since my family was around I decided to split to the kick ass Indian Casino down the street instead. I promptly went inside, put on my shortest skirt, my tightest, lowest top and doused myself in so much perfume I smelled sweeter than a French Whore House - when its 95 degrees out with no breeze that shit straight lingers. At about 8pm my sister, cousin, niece and I peeled out to the casino, which should change its name from Bluewater to Bluehair. I’m pretty sure they have weekly drink specials for anyone hooked up to an oxygen tank. This particular weekend it was dead – shocker - and I couldn’t very well show up the Ox’s cougar with my very own Silverback, who may or may not have control of his own bowels. You followin' my National Geographic shit?

So, we hop in the whip, which in this case was my sick ass Jetta GLS, and go to the Roadrunner, a river-front bar that serves a 60oz. drink called the Roadraper. What’s better than a drink with the word rape in it? Nothing, that’s what. Who needs roofies when you’ve got the Raper? Gotta admire things that get right to the point. Unfortunately, this little gem of an establishment was also dead. Our options were either Willie Nelson’s toothless grinning twin at the bar or Dom Delius’s chunkier cousin who was staring from two tables down. I’d fuck just about any man: fat, short, tall, skinny, bald, dreaded, hairy and horny but I couldn’t get a hard on for either of these trailer treasures. After about an hour of being somewhere between bored and bored we bone the fuck out. My sister keeps a death grip on her Roadraper refusing to part with it. See, chicks dig it.

Just before the last turn to my brother’s house my car passes an Arizona Deputy traveling the opposite direction… until, of course, he immediately flips a bitch, rides my ass and lights me up. This is no good. The car is flooded with a blinding tractor beam ray and I was half hoping this was in fact an alien invasion as opposed to a traffic stop. I pull my ride over and out of the eye-piercing glare walk’s a teenager with a shockingly severe acne problem, pants hiked up to his nipples and a badge. I jump in my seat a bit. He notes this, taps on my window. I roll it down and study what it is I’m looking at. I mean this guy could be Freddy Krueger for Halloween and not have to buy a mask. They clearly do not run Proactiv commercials around these parts… or have mirrors… or soap… or friends that clue you in.

“Clocked yew at farty two in a tharty fave, were you off ta in such a hurry?” Freddy Krueger asks.

I’m sorry, did I take a wrong turn and we’ve somehow found ourselves in the Ozarks? Where’s the kid with the banjo?

“Nowhere sir, just going back home to my brother’s house down the road there.”

“Lisanse and registration, and foller me to the back of the ve-hickle, ma’am.”

Ma’am? I’m like a year older than this pig. But his face scares me and he’s Johnny Fuckin’ Law, so I oblige. He immediately proceeds to give me a field sobriety test, which I pass. Ain’t gonna catch me gettin’ any DUIey’s. No way, no how bitches. I can tell Freddy is pissed, he expected some shit to go down and was spittin’ mad. He starts pressuring me to search the “ve-hickle.” Uh-oh; I’ve got a cowboy on my hands with butt loads of pent up high school aggression to take out on someone who is nowhere near as unfortunate as he is. I mean this kid is a skinnier version of Pizza the Hut; his face actually looked to be melting in several different areas. I try to tell him I don’t understand why any of that is necessary, I haven’t done anything to warrant a vehicle search. He does not like my resistance.


Dick. Again with the ma’am.

“Ma’am, if you have nothin’ to hide than thur should be no problim with my inspecktin’ ur ve-hickle. Now we can be her all night, it don’t make no diffarance ta me."

I know this prick really has no right to search my vehicle. I listen to Jay Z. But I lack that intimidating black gangster rapper vibe you need to back yo’ shit up. I’ve got a miniskirt and boobs and this guy is not giving up. I mean I can practically rest my chin on my tits and he hasn’t looked below my neckline once. Probably never seen a pair of funbags and has no idea what they are. I’m sure he thinks I have some pectoral inflammatory disease or some shite. That or he can’t see them over his raised, puffy facial goiters. I, eventually, reluctantly agree to let him search my vehicle, which was a dumb shit move on my part. Always fight The Man to the end. He pulls all the girls out of the car. Lines us up Usual Suspect style against the chain link fence. It was a typical family affair.

This is when I realize I’m going to jail. In my haste, to get out of the Ox’s presence I grabbed the same purse that I had on the boat earlier, which had a tiny bit of what was left of my happy plant in it. I practice a serious green lifestyle at the river. It’s somewhere in the vicinity of a Phish concert and Woodstock. Sure enough, the Krueg comes up with my bag,

“Whoose pank and green bag is this?”

I raise my hand which feels like it’s made of lead and step forward. Freddy freaks out, unhinges his holster. Yells at me to,

“Stay right were ya are. Don’t move.”

Is this douchebaggery for real? Did he really just make for his gun? This is already the longest, worst night of my life. He asks me what is in the bag. I tell him everything that’s in it except for the Mary Jane and pipe, of course.

“Is that all?”


“Ya wouldn’t be lying to ma, wouldja? That would be against the law.”


I figured the “less is more” motto was a good one to follow at this juncture.

“Then what’s this?!”

*DUM, DUM, DUM.* He dramatically comes up with my weed kit.

“I don’t know what that is, but it’s not mine.”

“Tell it tew tha jedge.”

And like a typical Cops episode he slaps the cuffs on me – I note that on-duty is the only time a woman would let him cuff her - and hauls me off to the clink leaving my sister, cousin and niece in the dust. But not before he writes my sister an open container ticket for the RoadRaper. You can have a gun rack of sawed-off shotguns in your car, go through the drive-thru liquor store and buy a handle of Wild Turkey while ten of your kids sit in the bed of the truck, but you’ll get pinched like a motherfucker for committing a heinous crime like open container or cutting down a cactus in the great state that is Arizona. On the ride back to the jail I truly wished I was the head of a notorious gang so my henchmen would ram the car, pinning the officer as it is pushed onto the train tracks and I could make my escape just seconds before the car was struck… I’ve seen The Fugitive, like, a lot. But no, I’m just a dumb stoner who was lookin’ for a little Ox-free fun and wound up getting hassled by an adolescent redneck cowboy. Fucking rad sauce.

The last thing you see before the big steel door to Mesa County Hell closes is the “Welcome to California” sign for an extra dash of fuck-you-you’re-fucked. The jail was home to some long-term prisoners, who lounge about like the last period bell just rang. One of the prisoners greets Freddy when we walk in,

“Hey, how’s it going Officer *wet ass explosion*?

To date that is some of the gnarliest ass blowing I’ve ever heard. It was wet and loud and long and sounded a bit painful. Freddy is clearly highly respected around the jail. The incoming garage leads right into the booking room and I’m sat in a chair in front of one of the holding cells. Immediately I notice, but do not make direct eye contact with, a man who, no doubt, was Ed Norton’s body double in American History X. Although he was lacking the barage of different sized Schwaztika's. I know this because he's got his jumpsuit pulled down exposing his ink... it was all very Cape Fear. I was waiting for him to break out some pull ups. He sways back and forth while he eye-fucks me from the other side of the glass. At this point, because of the cuffs, I haven’t been able to adjust shit, so my miniskirt is more like a hula hoop and my nipples are a split-hair’s length from exposure. I’m practically lying in the chair because if I sit up I risk exposing not only g-string but partial labia… bitch needed to readjust, shoot.

According to the booking whiteboard, the other two prisoners in the cell are George “American Horse” Jones Jr., an (shocking reveal here) American Indian who was charged with violating parole – awesome - and Jimmy Blanchard, who looked like a giant mound of swept-up salon hair with Birkenstocks sticking out the bottom. Hippie, like myself, was rolled for possession of the Ganj. AHX’s charges were not listed, I assumed due to lack of board space. American Horse and the Hippie both looked just as terrified of AHX as I did sitting safely on the other side of the glass. AHX starts yelling and jumping. An officer the size of a teenage elephant comes shuffling into the room.

“Dammit Sebastian, I told yous to knock that shit off. I ain’t gon’ tell ya gain.”

I’m starting to think that the Texas Chainsaw Massacre family may have relocated to Arizona to run a jail. And do white trash people really name their children Sebastian? On the board it reads “Billie.” I don’t think that’s short for Sebastian, but I had bigger worries at the moment, trying not to puke at the sight of Freddy’s face in the fluorescent K-Mart lighting as he questioned me and took down my information. I could see every juicy detail of every single white and blackhead. Freddy wasn’t a fan of popping. The elephant throws a 20 lbs. blanket made of Brillo Pad material on top of me.

“Yous stirrin’ up the animals with those.”

Fuck, yeah. At least someone noticed them. I don’t give a shit if it was the “animals.” After I’m questioned, its mug shot time. Something for mom’s fridge, yay! And as a bonus because I’m like a Manson-style criminal, and charged with a double felony I get pictures of all my hardcore tats taken. The butterfly tramp stamp is by far the most menacing. It must have been like Paris Hilton leaving Mr. Chow’s when they photographed all of AHX’s tattoos… or maybe they’re on file at this point. After my photo shoot, I’m then taken to a bathroom that looks like a medieval dungeon and handed some eye-shattering fluorescent orange scrubs with matching bleach-spotted Vans and boxers. Okay, ew, some prisoner’s dick and balls has rubbed up in these. I’m told to undress, shower and change into my new pretty prison uniform. I can barely touch the boxers let alone put them on. Freddy locks the dungeon door on me and I run the shower, to appear to be doing what I’m told. But there is no way in Lucifer’s Inferno of Hell that I was getting in that thing and showering. Fuck no. AHX was just washing his cock and balls in there not even an hour ago. I wait long enough for it to seem like I’m showering, never mind I’m about to exit the bathroom with my prom-do still intact. I put on my new favorite and brightly-flattering, prison uniform but leave my underwear on; prison crabs is one avenue I never really wanted to travel down.

I exit the bathroom to find Freddy in my face, which scared the shit out of me as I feared one of the cysts might rupture in my direction. He yanks the clear plastic bag containing my belongings out of my hand and inspects the contents.

“Wer’s ur undiegarments?”

Probably the first pair he’s seen besides his mom’s. I’m still not understanding why he talks like we’re filming a scene in Deliverance, but I simply move on and respond by telling him that I’m still wearing them. This sends Freddy into a near panic attack.

“Yew will dew as ur towld, dew you understand me? You’re in a world a trouble and it's time yew start realizin’ that. Now, yew will go back into that bathrewm and remove all of ur personal beelongin’s.”

I march back into the Pit of Despair and “dew as ‘m towld.” Fuckin’ genius doesn’t even notice my hair’s as dry as Death Valley in July… and just as hot if I do say so myself. When I come back out, with a fresh new case of crabs, he takes me further into the back of the prison to the bedding section where I pass the women’s holding cell aka “The Beaver Trap.” I see two twitchy tweaker bitches pacing the cell and a very large, and I mean very B-I-G woman on a bunk with her back to the door somewhat firmly punching the brick cell wall. Holy shit. I always thought I could handle my own… but I never factored in prison fights. So, I grab my thin blue gymnastic-type mat and Brillo pad blanket and prepare to try and not shit myself. Freddy tells me that the women’s holding cell is for the long term inmates and I’ll be held in the drunk tank which is right next door to AHX and the boys. Yipee, never thought I'd be Xmas morning overjoyed to hear I’d be spending the night in the drunk tank next to some guy who could probably break through the wall with his head. But seriously, I had negative interest in tangoing with Tweaker Flora and Junkie Fauna nor their Orangutan, which is exactly what that thing in the corner looked like in a prison uniform. As I’m walking into my cell AHX starts screaming and pounding the glass. I cannot for the life of me understand what the fuck he is saying or what language he’s saying it in for that matter, it’s complete and utter gibberish.

I try to sleep, which is impossible due to the amount of times the incoming door right outside my cell is opened and slammed shut and because I now fear that prison crabs have fully invaded my honey pot. I slept like Al Bundy hand-in-crouch style all damn night, trying to pretend that was enough to protect me from prison syphilis. On top of my STD issues, I’m having a blast nodding off about every 20 minutes only to reawake and repeatedly realize where I am and what happened.

Morning finally breaks about 47 fucking hours later and I’m brought out of my 10 degree below zero drunk tank to find the Indian, Hippie and AHX shackled together at the wrist and ankle. Thank God the Arizona prison system allows for court on the weekends, which is the only positive I can draw from this experience. There is no sign of Freddy and I breathe a sigh of relief, I can only imagine how abundant that garden of zits would have appeared in the sunlight. There is a new officer taking charge of us felons who I lovingly refer to as Mongoloid or Mongo, he just had that air about him. Mongo handcuffs me, but secures only one wrist, the other bracelet just slides off my arm. I tell him I’m not properly cuffed.

“I do not want to hear any complaining, if it’s too tight that’s just too, damn bad!”

Ooooo-kay. Never mind that I said they were not on all the way! Dipshit. I just go with it. I figure if AHX starts to lose it and break free of his shackles, not being cuffed will raise my chances of getting out of there alive. Speaking of, I quickly eye AHX's shackles to make sure they're snug and secure. We are told to line up and AHX is now directly behind me. I hear him sniff my hair. It’s creepy when a dude does that in a bar, it’s now happening to me in fucking jail by a guy who has face tattoos. Two enthusiastic thumbs up, folks. For added fun, the courthouse is three blocks down the road, so I get to walk outside in my outstandingly attractive prison uniform with The Three Stooges shackled and shuffling along behind me. I prayed to God a bus of college football hotties or something would drive by on their way to an away game so I could show off my fly new irresistible style. Before we get to the outdoor fun though we go through about ten bank vault-style steel doors and have to wait for the door behind us to close and lock before the one in front of us can be unlocked and opened. The only thing missing was being strapped to a dolly like Hannibal Lecter. AHX decides to break the ice. Goody. I have to ask him to repeat himself about five times because I cannot understand a fucking word he is saying, the reason I can’t understand a fucking word he is saying is because AHX is deaf and talks as if he’s a 5 year-old with a disability, and since one of his biceps is the size of my head it’s clear he is not disabled… at least physically. Then I see the hearing aids.

I finally gather that he is trying to tell me that he wanted the teenage elephant to give me his blanket last night because he knows how cold it gets in the cells. And how upset he was when he wouldn’t give it to me. Now, if sacrificing your prison blanket isn’t love I don’t know what is. It was fucking cold in that brick cave. I turned back around hoping that he’d stop talking to me because it’s really hard to understand what he’s saying and I’m afraid I’ll piss him off if I say “What?” fourteen times in a row again. But he, of course, does not stop talking to me. He winks at me a lot as he talks, maybe so it’s clear that he’s flirting with me. He goes on to tell me that I shouldn’t be in there – no shit – and that I’m the prettiest girl he’s seen in his whole life (how long has he been in here?) and that I smell very good… and I even skipped the dungeon shower so that’s impressive. He offers up that he has to stay in the drunk tank cause he gets in too many fights in the Men’s Holding Cell. I’m already picturing telling people our “how we met” story. Designing neon orange wedding gowns in my head. Mongo readies to open the last vault door before we are outside in the 109 degree desert terrain. He warns AHX to,

“Stop talking, this isn’t the senior prom.”

Really? Thanks, cause I thought this was just a new and creative prom theme and that I’ve been shot back in time. AHX is not amused by Mongo’s outburst. You never cock-block a shackled convict runnin’ his game, everyone knows that. He cracks his neck in a very I-could-kill-you way, as if to say “try me.” I just sort of scooted closer to AHX and flashed an “I’m with him. Now what?” smirk. Mongo opens the door and I consider running, I’m not cuffed after all. He produces a shotgun and I quickly reconsider and pray to the big guy he doesn’t now notice that my cuffs dangle from one wrist and think I actually am trying to escape. A squirrely guy is not someone you want holding a shotgun. This just keeps getting better and better. We have to walk at a snail’s pace because The Three Stooges can only shuffle so fast. I’m constantly told to “slow down!” as the shotgun is raised on me. I’m in neon fucking orange, in the middle of the damn desert; he’d be able to see me three miles down the road in every direction, where am I going to go?

I’ve never been so excited to reach a courthouse and go through a preliminary hearing in all my life… until the judge enters and I see that she is roughly 101 years-old. I’m parked at the defendant’s table and The Three Stooges are sat in the jury box. If I’m being judged by these peers, this bitch is home free. It takes Judge Dinosaur with the shaking head about 5 minutes to get through my name. She finally releases me on my own recognizance and into my sister’s custody, who, praise Jesus, dragged her hung-over ass out of bed to come get me. It’s all I can do to patiently wait in my seat as she goes through the other three guys’ charges at a painfully slow, shaky-voiced pace. I was ready to take the bailiff’s gun and end it all as she struggled through AHX’s list, which included but is not limited to – possession of an illegal narcotic, possession of an illegal narcotic with the intent to sell, possession of an illegal weapon, assaulting an officer – can’t really blame him there – grand theft auto, three DUI’s and a partridge in a fucking pear tree. Out of nowhere, a *pounding* begins on the courtroom door. The bailiff opens it and one of the finest looking trailer trash couples (like Jerry Springer worthy - in its heyday) I’ve seen to date comes charging in on a rampage.

“Do not, I repeat DO NOT, release Sebastian. Our son is a rotten apple, a danger to himself and others, he’s been kicked out of our home for being a druggie and if you release him he’ll have no place to go. He’s a no good junkie!”

I'm now understanding the bigger picture of AHX's life. Where things may have gone wrong for him. They are yelled at to stop with their outbursts, but the Barney Fife bailiff works himself into an uncontrollable coughing fit so they carry on until the fossil behind the judge’s bench finally works up the strength to bring down her gavel. AHX is fully sobbing at this point and, I’m not gonna lie, I was misting up. He instantly begins pleading with the judge claiming his innocence, telling her he’s been sober for seven months and to please test him. He really doesn’t want to go back to jail again, please. That’s really all I could make out through the deafness and tears. Although the pleading was much longer and heavier. I gotta say I felt for my prison boyfriend, while he looked like a skull-cracking convict dick on the outside he sounded like a little boy and the desperation behind his eyes pierced through each one of us… except his pink flamingo collecting parents, of course. It felt like he was really trying this time and just couldn’t catch a break. I never thought I’d have, well, anything in common with a near lifelong felon but I did at that moment more than anyone else sitting in that courtroom. Who knows though, I could have still be stoned... I only smoke the chron.

Mongo interrupts the heartfelt saga when he barges in with a toothless drunk who was picked up and immediately brought to the courtroom of Judge Fossil for sentencing. I was miraculously released and ordered to return back to the jail with him. As I exited the courtroom I locked eyes with AHX and mouthed “Good luck to you” in which he responded with some gibberish I interpreted as “Thanks pretty girl, you, too. Take care of yourself.” And that was the last I saw of my prison stud. Maybe he's immortalized our love by adding me to the black and gray naked lady collage on his back, I'll always be left with that uncertainty and hope. On the walk back to the jail, the officer’s crosshairs on my back, I couldn’t help but wonder… shit, do I really have prison crabs?

The moral of THIS story: Never judge a multiple felon by his prison tats.


Easy Lover

*While AHX and I didn’t have sex, I’m pretty sure we shared some prison crabs and other such juices which definitely qualifies him for a consummation number.


SlooterMcGavin said...

You should look AHX up now. I'm sure he's out, perhaps even a graduate from Blythe Technical Institute or some radical trade school nearby. Plus I hear Squirrel Masters have been known to be quite the lasting lovers from all the Beat Session practice. Not that I would know :/