Dear Santa

Well, it's 2011.  December is the month and Christmas is in the air.  Only if that smell is 72 snoring, burping, farting prisoners.  Let's hope not.

Just the same, kids around the world are making their list, and checking it twice.  Santa traded the sled in for a Cadillac on 24s.  We are in for a hood-Christmas.  Years ago a little kid sang that all he wanted was his two front teeth.  This year he wants a platinum grill with any icy chain. 

Somewhere deep within the department of corrections a man scratches his chin.  Will he make the list?  Does the good outweigh the bad yet?  How will the naughty or nice list read this year?  Just in case...a list is made....

Dear Santa,

This year I don't ask for much.  My requests are not in any certain order.  Of course, Peace on Earth is first.  Forgetting that would be like Little Wayne and Nikki Minaj forgetting to thank their Savior Jesus Christ at the Grammy's for their extraordinary talent. 

Second on my list?  A bull whip.  Ever since I saw Indiana Jones save the world and find the holy grail....all with the help of a bull whip?  I have wanted one. 

I'm not even sure if my next gift idea even has a name.  It looks fairly simple.  Have you ever seen Crocodile Dundee, Santa?  Remember the aborigine dude who made the phone call?  Well, he twirled that string thingy with a chunk of wood tied on the end.  It made this humming noise that was heard across the jungle.  Yeah...I could really use that here. 

I'm not sure if the property sergeant will let the bull whip in.  Maybe if you package it as a "fitness tool"?  Well, it kind of looks like a jump rops.  Maybe you could put some pink handles on each end.  No, I don't want a bull whip with pink handles.  I'm just trying to throw the property sergeant.  That may be enough to distract him.  Who knows...he's a littly 'funny'. 

I have read over the large handbook of prisoners.  All the 'thou shalt nots'!  But nowhere did I see any stipulations on pink-handled jump ropes.  Hey, bull whips are not mentioned for that matter.  Well, it's worth a shot. 

And then the jungle cell phone.  They don't carry them at Toys-R-Us.  You may need to google it.  Try Crocodile Dundee aborigine portable cell phone.  If that doesn't work, try eBay.  I will settle for a  used one.  That's OK.  I will be the envy of the pound, no doubt.

When I stand on the reck field and begin to twirl that string, I will instantly gain superior status.  Perhaps I will even wear the traditional groin cloth.  I am super excited.  Now you can probably send that in as a religious relic.  Well, I mean dudes get their special hats and these floor mats sent in to them.  Oh!  Prayer mats....that's right.  So, if they can get a chunk of carpet sent in....there should be no problem with a small piece of wood.  Worse case scenario?  Just roll it up in one of those mud flaps and send it in. 

If it's not too much, I would like to ask for only one last thing.  Could you roll past my Grandma's and grab me some of her peanut brittle?  She makes the best!  But, listen Santa.  If you drive the Cadi, turn the bass down at Grandmas.  And if you still have those big rims?  Don't stay too long.  Granny may think she's being robbed and spray your ride.  Don't mess with Granny!  She's packin' enough heat to make the ghetto proud.  Just snag some peanut brittle and slide out, OK? 

You can look her up on mapquest.  Just punch her into your GPS.   She lives in a little place called Houghton Lake.  And listen, mail me my shit, OK?  You roll in here and they will jack your shit, for sure! 

Sorry, there is no way I can leave out cookies and milk here.  Not happening.  These boys will steal your rims and leave your whip on blocks 'yo'. 

Word.  Santa!  Just shoot it Dawg!!

Santa's Ghetto by guerrilla artist Banksy
Photo from London Evening Standard
More about this can be found at http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/arts/article-23376642-christmas-greetings-from-banksy.do

Big World. Small Planet. (Guest post by Tasha)

Note from Ester: This is a follow-up post to Michael's piece about his daughter.  

When we were in our mid-20s, my girlfriend posted this on her personal blog.  I had never met her father, and had no idea that he had spent a portion of his life - a portion of her life - in prison.  This post is an amazing insight into one family pulled into pieces by one event years ago, and how they found healing.  Thank you, Tasha, for sharing your story. 

"I was fourteen.  Whenever I spoke about the incident, I always thought I was younger than that.

I always started off saying that I was eleven. But I was fourteen.

It was April, 1997.

My grandpa, the only grandpa that’s ever been worth mentioning in my life, was in Louisville getting a bone marrow transplant in a last ditch effort to provide some treatment to his prostate cancer. My Grandma Reba, the only grandma that’s ever been worth mentioning in my life, was beside herself with grief.

She asked my Dad to dinner at Applebees attempting to smile, even momentarily. My Dad faked pleasant conversation and even mentioned that they should see a Reba McEntire concert together.  (My grandma is a ringer for Reba McEntire. Dead on.)  He said that everyone’s always saying how much she looks like her, but he’s never seen her perform.

As coincidence would have it, my grandma had been offered tickets earlier that day. (Yah! I know, right? That shit NEVER happens to me.) Reba was performing at the Rupp Arena in Lexington. And they went. My grandma frequented the Rupp Arena.  An avid hockey fan, my grandpa got the two of them season tickets to an inaugural hockey team called the Kentucky Thoroughblades. (Clever name, I know).  So, many of the people there recognized her and they were buying my dad free beer all night. Which, he drank of course. Who turns down free beer at a hockey game?? You almost have to get a second mortgage to afford the alcohol at sporting events.

Upon arriving back to my grandma’s house, she asked my dad to stay and he chose to head home. He stayed up a little later composing music, playing the guitar, and finished off the beer in his fridge.

5:30 a.m. the next morning my grandma was calling asking him to check the oil in her car because she wanted to head to Louisville and see my grandpa. My dad obliged, checked the oil, and when my grandma left at 6:00 a.m., he was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper.

When she arrived home and 6:00 p.m., there was a message on the answering machine that he was in jail, caused an automobile accident injuring three children and the accident was on the evening news.

My dad received a phone call from a friend asking him to help fix their car for $50. My dad agreed, wishing to use the money to visit my grandpa in the hospital.  Times back then for him were pretty, much the way time is for us now…financial duress. He got in the car, drove a few blocks, turned on Winchester Rd, missed a traffic light and slammed into the side of the vehicle.

Two women in the front seat, four kids in the back.  One with a broken leg. One suffered major injuries, the other, critical. My dad said he'll never forget convincing the people that stopped to help NOT to move the little boy in the back seat.  Head and back injuries were sustained in the crash and my father was worried about him being even MORE hurt. Turns out my dad’s insistency on leaving the boy where he was may have saved his life.  He was in a coma for quite some time after the accident.

…And why the need to tell you all this?

Well, my dad went to prison.  For nine years.  He’s never been able to attend anything of mine. Not my graduation, my wedding, the day my daughter was expelled from my uterus...and last Thursday, my brother, Donnie, graduated boot camp in Fort Jackson, SC. As usual, dad wasn’t going to be able to attend.  In his defense, he can’t request time off work and can’t risk losing his job to miss work....  BUT he received a phone call at 4:30 a.m. on Tuesday night saying they wouldn’t be working until Monday. …Right in time for him to jump in his car and head to SC and see my brother graduate.  Once again, that shit NEVER happens to me.

My mom, Grandma Angie and I flew in Wednesday night at midnight.  My Gma (Reba), my brother’s girlfriend, one of her friends, and my brother’s best-friend, Dwayne, arrived a couple hours before us, and my dad shortly after them.  We all made sure we stayed at the same hotel.  My brother’s friend Dustin was supposed to come but couldn’t make it.  So instead of all my brother’s friends sleeping in one room and my dad and grandma sleeping in one room, Dwayne and my dad had a room, and my Gma and the girls had a room.  I bunked with my mom and Grandma Angie.  …Who snores like a drunk sailor, btw.

Family Day was a blast. …For everyone but me. Tired, jet-lagged and pregnant isn’t a good combination. I spent some of the day sleeping in the car. Seeing my brother, Donnie, for the first time was incredibly emotional...Dwayne and I cried like babies. …Both of us. We then left to entertain ourselves. Dwayne and my Dad rode together, I was stuck with Mi madre and Grandma Angie and my Gma, the girls and my brother rode in another car. 

Donnie couldn’t leave base so we pretty much...shopped. An insane amount. I bought nothing.  My grandma Angie has diabetes, arthritis and asthma and wasn’t doing well with all the flying and walking.  Dwayne stayed behind with her most the day, lending an arm.  He’s been like a little brother to me for the last five years.  Dustin introduced my brother to him.  Dustin is the son of my grandma’s next door neighbor.  Ever since I can remember traveling to KY for Summer, he's always been our next door neighbor.

Then, as fate would have it, Donnie and Dwayne attended the same church youth group and have been best friends ever since.  I haven’t visited Kentucky since 2003 without spending my time with Donnie, Dwayne and my grandma.

By Friday morning I was so exhausted, I didn’t even make my brothers graduation! I’m awful, I know. However, after graduation, he was able to leave base, so everyone agreed to meet me at the hotel before they went out to eat. They took two cars. Seating arrangements changed.  My mom, dad, Grandma Angie and Donnie. My Gma and the rest of my bro's friends.  My mom and dad were commenting on how nice Dwayne is.  And he is! …Such a good kid.  He's family. My brother was saying Dwayne’s the best friend he's ever had, and he gets angry because people are always saying he’s slow. 

"He's not slow. He was just in a car accident awhile ago and has plates in his brain and spine.  He's been through a lot." 

My dad asked what Dwayne’s last name was. My brother told him.

Time stopped.

My dad said, "Donnie. Dwayne ******** is the kid I hit."

"No. No it isn’t, Dad. Can’t be."

"I’ll never forget that name, Donnie.  I prayed and prayed that he would survive the accident. Every day."

My brother ran to ask Dwayne when his accident was. It was the same day. Same road. Same car.

My dad approached Dwayne tentatively. Said, "Im sorry to have to tell you this son, but I’m the one that hit you."

Dwayne took a step back.

How the hell do you tell someone what that’s like? How can I even begin to tell you how agonizing it was? It’s inexplicable. …Just to think that he’s been in our life for six years. RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF US - becoming family - and we never knew.  …Never even thought for a second. It’s a miracle.

I wish I could describe what everyone felt at that moment, but I wasn’t there. I was home sick. And even if I had been there, I don’t think it would be possible.

And the unexpected...he forgave my dad. There were a lot of things in the middle of him hearing it, and accepting it, but after some time... He said things along the lines of:

"I forgive you but I’ll never tell my mother. She hates you."

"Your son and daughter have become a brother and sister to me. They’re family. If it had been any other circumstances..."

"God knew eleven years ago that this day would happen."

They spent two days and two nights together. Riding around. Sleeping in the same room.  Talking about my dad’s success in NOT drinking.  He has a sponsor.  Six years alcohol free.  Neither of them mentioned the accident during all the things they spoke about. Ironically.  The one thing that would have related them was never brought up.  I doubt my dad proudly boasts of that moment and would understand that he doesn’t mention it to "just anyone."  I’m sure that Dwayne has pushed it out of his memory as much as possible.  It was half his life ago. Still, the coincidences are astronomical.

And my dad and Dwayne continued to ride around together the rest of the day. And still shared a room that night. Dwayne said for some reason, it brought him closer to my dad.

If Dustin had been able to come, they would have never slept in the same room and had the intimate, private talks they did.  They wouldn’t have rode around together for two days straight.

If my Dad had to work, he would have never made it.

If I hadn’t been sick Friday morning, the seating arrangements would have never been changed around and my dad wouldn’t have thought to ask Dwayne’s last name.

And most ironic, the only people that were affected by the accident that were NOT there was Dwayne’s family.  Every single person in our lives that was directly affected by this trauma was right there.

If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is.

And when the goose-bumps go away; Id like someone to say SOMETHING. I mean, this isn’t just a blog. This is half my life at peace now. This is life at peace for almost all of us now. What a perfect time for Thanksgiving."

Tis the Season.......

......for many things!  I love to snowboard.  What do you look forward to during the winter season?

Picture of Alex Duckworth

Crack Kills

It's said you can boil a toad in water if you increase the heat slowly.  Personally, I have never had the desire to boil a toad.  Yet this seems reasonable...why not?  I mean I went from smoking some pot to smoking some crack. Well, there were some steps in between that process.  Kind of like bringing lukewarm water to a boil under a frog's ass.

And, had I taken up boiling frogs, I could have quite possibly avoided my current situation.  At the very least I would have boiled less of my brain cells.

I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone...but they've always worked for me.  Are you completely lost?  Join the club!

You have to remember that I am a man well-schooled in heavy drug use.  Perhaps it takes a mind as twisted as mine to grasp what I am trying to say.  If you have never experimented in the use of mind-expanding drugs, then you are completely lost right now.  Then again...perhaps not.  Quite possibly it is I that gets lost at times.  Perhaps an easier question would be "Have you ever boiled a toad?"

You see, who has the problem now?  However, what's a problem if we can explain it away?  Take the phrase, "everything in moderation."  Wherever you see that quote, you should immediately find a warning sign posted close by.  Think about it!  When was the last time you heard someone say that?  Did they hand you a piece of triple-dipped dark chocolate fudge?  Here, try this...in moderation!  Or was is that voluptuous blonde at the company Christmas party?  Here, touch these...in moderation!  I'm gonna guess not!  No.  Most likely that was a drunk trying to explain away his drinking problem.  Or the weekend 'recreational' crack-smoker trying to explain away his habit. 

What about this one..."What's good for the goose is good for the gander."  Meaning that what 'one' goose likes, all the gooses must like.  Well...thank the good Lord we aren't geese.  Although I have been told I'm a real quack, full of shit, and I love to fly into the V.  (As in...OK, you must get that.)

Then the holidays roll around.  The radio begins to play the real gems.  Like A Partridge In A Pear Tree.  Need I even visit this train wreck?  How about Granny Got Ran Over By A Reindeer?  Well, sure you laugh.  People, we made these songs classics!!!

Let's not forget my personal favorite...A Christmas Story.  I love this movie.  The whole movie is about a Red Ryder B.B. gun and a lamp made from a mannequins bare legs.  "Be careful boy...you'll shoot your eye out!"

OH, OH!!  Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory.  Talk about mind-expanding drugs.  Who wrote that anyway?  You don't need to spike your eggnog to take a trip when you watch kids turn into blueberries.  What the hell?!  Whoever wrote that probably boiled some toads as well.  And I thought I lived a wild life.  I was only a recreational goose smoking crack in moderation.

Ahhhh.  It's been fun, but we need to go back.  Earlier, I stated drugs, alcohol, and violence worked for me.  Only for a time.  All three of those have nearly killed me.  I think a cold beer, an occasional mixed drink with a shot will keep me just right.  What that neglects, my lady can handle.  These truly are the finer things in life...the cold beer, a warm home and a nice wife.  Or perhaps that was a nice home and a warm wife.  I'm sure no-one wants a cold wife, and a warm beer.

In the end I'll probably always be the crazy goose.  I also traded the crack for that voluptuous woman and fudge.  Let's not forget the triple-dipped chocolate fudge.  The only thing better than that is my voluptuous woman drizzled with fudge.  This reminds me..."Honey!  Can you get some whip cream and a toad while you are out?  Yes, and don't forget the toad...I want to try something."

A Christmas Gift from the Tattood Hooligan: Free Art!

Last year I drew a tipsy Santa.  It was funny.  Ha! Ha!

This year I wanted to capture the story of Christmas.  In the bottom corner is the Virgin Mary.  Her face is unshaded to show purity.  You will see three crosses.  Then you see the likeness of Christ with the crown of thorns.

The story goes that God so loved the world that He gave His only son.  That baby was born an earthly birth to Mary for the sole purpose that He could one day die for the sins of man.  He completed His earthly life when He died on the cross.  It's said the spirit ascended to heaven in the form of a dove.  This is the Christmas story this art portrays.

The birth, the death, and the resurrection of the Savior to the world.  In His death, He gave life to all who will accept His free gift.

Merry Christmas to you and yours, from all of us Hooligans.  Please share this art with your friends and family.  Remind your loved ones of His gift to each of us.

Much Love! 

Occupy Wallstreet :: Occupy Prison

I first heard about the Occupy Wallstreet movement last week.  There was a small article in the newspaper.  Honestly, I didn't pay much attention.  Now, I'm handed the November edition to Rolling Stone and once again....Occupy Wallstreet.  So, after I read about George Clooney for awhile, I switched busses.  Next stop?  Occupy Wallstreet.

What is it? 

Well, we have demonstrators, drummers, some tents, and of course, the cops.  Everyone has an opinion, but it appears the end goal is change.  The articles I read mention a lack of goals. This thing grew into much more than was expected.

         (Photo from http://www.entrepreneurs-journey.com/9071/occupy-wall-street/)

I have always been a fan of the band RUSH.  Perhaps my favorite lyrics by them are...."If you choose not to decided, you still have made a choice."  Regardless 'why' these people gather, they stand on one common ground.  Seeking something different.

Protesting has been a means to get attention for years.  My world here in prison is no exception.  We are governed by a set of rules.  Most often referred to as Chapter 33.  The problem with any protest is how often violence rears its head.  This is especially true during protests on my side of the fence.  It's hard enough to run a peaceful protest out there.  Try protesting with convicts.  This is exactly what happened at the prison I am currently serving time at. 

The prison system is over budget.  So, they quit giving us a napkin at meal time.  Instead of one piece of fruit with breakfast, they give us juice.  It's easier to water down and stretch the juice supply rather than providing fresh fruit.  Instead of the required serving sizes, they short us on portions.  We call it 'shaking the spoon'. Your walking out of chow as hungry as you walked in.  Only thing different is that now your pissed as well.  It's like giving a coke head a half gram....a half-hour later he'll be pissed and calling back for more.  Well, someone decided to protest the feeding schedule.  Or the lack thereof. 

I read where Occupy Wallstreet had to resort to the people's mic.  That in itself is empowering.  Protesting in itself is to have your voice be heard.  So activating the people's mic is like a call to arms.  A form of unification.  This is exactly how word is spread on this side of the fence.  I first heard about a sit-down at reck yard.  Word traveled by the people's mic.

This compound houses 1,500 inmates.  The idea was a peaceful protest.  Nobody eats the midday meal on a set date.  Like any protest, the big question is.....who will show up?  Or in this case....who won't show up? 

Of 1,500 inmates, only 40 or 50 some ate at the chow hall.  An hour later the warden, assistant warden, and the food director came to address the general population.  Over the next week our compound went on high alert.  Officer manpower doubled and even trippled.  All movements were controlled movements.  Any persons involved with organizing this movement, were locked up and shipped to different prisons.

All this because of a peaceful protest.  Unity is not tolerated here in prison.  That activates code red.  Whether there is a display of violence or not.  For the record our portions of food were proper size for about two weeks.  Currently, we are back to the old 'shake the spoon' method. 

Unity is a powerful weapon.  I hope that Occupy Wallstreet is able to accomplish something.  Even if it only boils down to individual gratification.

Jesus Built My Hot-Rod

(Copyright M.S. 2011, All Rights Reserved)

Eviction Notice Part 2

Check this out!  So, not long ago we ran 'Eviction Notice'.  Quick recap....

My last bunkie sucked, and pissed me off daily.  After over a year of sleeping below this guy, he finally transferred.  Meet my new bunkie...

The new kid moves in.  He's 26, and we get along good. He sits and watches me draw.  He likes art.  He's clean, and he is silly stupid...just like me.  We can make the whole dorm laugh, much like me and Scottie use to do.  "HI SCOTTIE!!"  :)

So late the other night, me and the bunkie are still awake.  The dorm is quiet.  No noise.  We can whisper and be heard.  All of a sudden my bunkie pops his head over the edge, like a freakin' squirrel and says, "Mike!" in his normal, loud voice.  I say, "What dude?"  And this is our conversation, in the middle of the night.  Lights off.  Voices at normal volume...so the whole dorm of 72 dudes hear this shit...

"Mike!  I know you're a panty snatcher!" 

I say, "What the fuck are you talking aboug?"

He goes on..."Dude, I know you're stealing my panties." 

Ok, this is fine.  So we're gonna play.  You put me on blast, I'm gonna put you on blast.  So I reply with, "Bro, I don't want your panties, and quit leaving your high heels beside my bed.  You're making the block hot." 

Now, dudes are waking up.  People are now laughing.  Hooting.  Cat calling.  We are center stage.  He then points at my laundry bag, which is full of clothes and says, "Bro, I see your bag is full of panties.  You can't hide that bag!" 

"Ok, yeah, you caught me bro.  Maybe if you smelled more like a man we wouldn't have this problem.  But you smell like a chick." 

The bunkie is laughing.  The whole dorm is laughing.  And I'm inspired.  So, I continue, "And listen.  I'm only gonna tell you about these high heels one more time.  Quit puttin' them by my bunk!"  He continues to laugh, and yells, "Panty-sniffer!"

So, I continue..."And, if your gonna stay out all night 'trickin' you need to start coming home with some food.  At least some soup or a honey bun.  Don't tell me you just give that ass away!"  (Uhh...see what I am dealing with here?) This kid is funny.  Super witty.  I dig the guy.   

Right now it's 2 a.m. and again, he just leaned over the side of the bunk.  "Dude!  Dude!  Put your radio on 101.5 fm!"  (He's really excited.)  He goes on...."Marilyn Manson is on and Beautiful People."

This may not be that crazy to you.  However, my bunkie is black.  And he listens to country and rock & roll.  He hates rap music.  This kids is a fuckin' trip.  And together, we're nuts.  He only has two months left before he goes home.  I swear he's the best bunkie I've ever had. 

I do a heavy chest routine.  My pecs are freaky.  This nut-bag calls them my "man boobs."  He either calls me 'dude' or 'man boobs'.  Yeah, it's funny as hell.  I can't help but laugh.  Some days I have the upper hand. The other day he tore me up with "Hey, man boobs!  You know when you get old, you're gonna have titties!  Then you can wear those high heels for sure." 

All I can do is laugh.  The kid's funny.  Plus, I'll get beat up for a good laugh.  He went off.  Man boobs.  God, the people you meet here. 

I've been blessed.  It helps your time pass quicker when you keep it light.  This kid is 24-7 pulling pranks.  I'll get up at 2 am to piss....come back and he's in my bed curled up.  Fuckin' idiot.  So, really this has no point.  Just Part II of Eviction Notice. 

I hope that you are blessed with a great bunkie.  If you are not....hit him (or her) with an eviction notice!  And don't snatch panties or leave high heels out.  Someone could get hurt...or the wrong idea. 

Word!!

Happy Holidays

"The Holidays are here.

Isn't this the time of year you look back and reflect?  ...Make your silly little resolutions that sound nice, make us feel better, then we never do them and leave ourselves feeling like failures.  Like the gym membership that will be used once or twice.  A vow to quit smoking that lasts only until your in-laws show up to have dinner.  Then you're on the back porch, sucking down a Camel.

(Yeah -- this kind, you sick-o!)

Or how about drinking less?  Isn't that what the holidays are for?  If you're a kid, you think presents.  If you're an adult...you think booze and food.  I like to booze while I hang the lights.

So I'm looking back.  ...All those nice memories.  Like the time I crafted the perfect ice ball, then hid in the bushes to catch my big brother when he stepped outside...only to have him duck and my ice ball smashed into his six-year-old daughter's face.  I am instantly the worst uncle in the world.  "Sorry Sheila!"

Then the time I demonstrated my immense skill to pedal a BMX bike to record speeds.  While passing our campsite, my little brother Phillip steps into the road and I hit him dead center.  He goes flying, blood is everywhere, and once again....all fingers are on me."

(*Note from Ester: Drugs did something bad to Mike's memory, because that was on Spring Break one year, and all fingers were pointed at Ester because I hit him... riding Mike's bike, which, unbeknownst to me, had NO brakes.  Phil has a black eye and a concussion and my mom couldn't look at me for a couple hours, so my brother and Dad took me to see the movie Sgt. Bilko.  We were camping in Biloxi, Mississippi, and Mike's stinker ass was sneaking into an Aaron Tippin concert, which I didn't know 'til I typed up this post for him.  Just to clear all that up - We all would have corrected him if he had tried to make this claim around the holiday dinner table too, so... anyway.  Sorry for that detour.  On with the show:*)

"Of course, there are all the hunting and fishing memories.  My dad put me in the front of his canoe one year.  Big mistake.  Ten year old boys love big splashes.  So it didn't matter if we were fishing sunfish, I was using a deep-sea lure with half the hooks in my tackle box.  I guess I wound up to cast that sucker all the way across Houghton Lake.  And...my lure must have resembled a bug.  For that quick second it dangled in dad's face, he felt the need to swat it out of his way.  At that very second I hooked my dad and made a memory that we will both never forget.

That's really my life in a nutshell.  The picture perfect days, well...they are really only remembered for a short time.  It's those major mishaps that last a lifetime.

Giving tattoos in prison is frowned on.  So, it's an undercover operation.  You need a look out, and a hidden corner.  We have both.  Personally, I sew a hidden pocket on the inside crotch area of my pants.  For special occasions.  Like when the cops come in and you're in the middle of a tattoo.  Very quickly, I cram the tattoo machine and battery pack into this hidden pocket that hangs between my legs.  The idea is if they search me, hopefully they won't go high enough into my crotch to feel my nuts, or my stash spot.

So, the machine is stashed.  The cops walk past.  ...Doesn't get five feet away from me and the power wire reconnects to the machine and the needle is now piercing my ball sack.  Intense pain follows.  Just as the officer turns to look, I smack the machine to disconnect the power wire.  Thing is, the officer and all the guys just see me smack myself in the nut sack.  Bottom line, I got away that day.  That's good.  However, I tattooed, then smacked, the family jewels.  I have been called a freak, but even that was a little far for me.

These memories, at the time, make you feel two inches tall - make you wish you could just disappear - yet later down the road they make you laugh.  Those are the memories you will never forget.  They're the memories that become the very staples of our lives.

What are you grateful for?  Ask yourself that.  I'm thankful for my peeps.  My family.  My woman.  I would like to tell you Happy Holidays.  Thank you all for being a part of my life.

May the Detroit Lions rule the field Thanksgiving Day.  And don't get tangled in the lights and fall off the roof.

On a sidenote, J.J. is thankful to Sevendust, as it took 1st place for the most used keyword, bringing in a ton of traffic to the blog. At number two: "Porn for Women."  ...This touched me somewhere deep inside.  God bless you.  I take the first place award previously given to Sevendust, and bestow it on you.  May God also bless whoever linked that as a keyword.  Fuckin' genius!  And...if J.J. is bringing in MEN searching for "porn for women," then shame on whoever used that as a keyword. 

ESTER!!  Are you playing jokes on me again?  I told you I don't need anymore pen pals.  Silly wabbit!  This dick is for my chick.

Ok, before I am completely sidetracked.....hug your family, call your momma, kiss your wife.

Happy Holidays from the King Hooligan!"


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Happy Thanksgiving

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