A Beer for the Big House

First off, a big thank you to Pickleope, who rammed us into a vat of vinegar and pickle-ized us into bite-size bar snacks over on his blog. Check it out here.

So, this morning while leafing through the Reader I came across a dinky advertisement for the blog of a prison inmate who somehow found himself on the business end of the judicial system’s raging boner. It’s a damn interesting blog about life on the inside, and legitimate as far as I can tell. But swing by and judge for yourself.

Anyhow, it got me and Bryan to thinking. What would life be like if we were stuck in the Big House, rooming with Bubba and lounging in our neon jammies? For me, the answer seemed obvious. Since I typically have trouble just lazing around (and an aversion to becoming a piece of prison ass), I’d probably go into business to garner myself some respect. Doing what, you ask? Why, I would become the Al Capone of Cell Block D.

That’s right, with just a bit of toilet water, a few sugar packets, a hunk of moldy bread, and some tender loving care…voila, the miracle of fermentation would turn me into a bona fide distiller of jail yard hooch. And by selling my craft concoctions to the prison population, I would become the burgeoning baron of booze.

             This would consequently allow me to hire some beefy bodyguards to keep my pretty face from becoming someone’s personal blow-up doll. That’s the plan, anyway. Just in case lighting bags of dogshit on fire and putting them on Stephenie Meyer’s doorstep ever becomes a felony.

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             As for me (Bryan), I'd employ another tactic. I'd join a gang, slowly climb my way up the social ladder, and become their leader. The question, then, would become which gang to choose. Sure, there are the Aryan gangs. The black gangs. The Mexican gangs. But that's so racial. The gang I would join has no racial prejudice.
             The drag queens.
             Roll your eyes, but these are some of the baddest bitches around. You ever mess with one? I know I wouldn't.

              The only problem I can foresee with this is what it would take to become a member of this gang.

 

           But as their king (or perhaps 'queen'), I will rule with an iron, French manicured fist. And a big ass shank.

        Or, maybe it's better that neither Brandon or I are in prison.

Stay classy, friends,
Brandon and Bryan

Mood: Stabby
Music: Johnny Cash (Live at Folsom Prison)
Beer: Heineken