The Tipping Point

Officer Steve, possibly the most hated correctional officer of the Lake County Correctional Facility, leads Fred Dewitt, an ex-alcoholic laborer, in his mid-50’s, down a concrete block corridor, past the protective custody cells (one of which houses a mouse of a man whom to Fred looks more like a pedophile than anyone he has ever seen – although the man’s actual charges are unknown to him. The other is occupied by a large pool of vomit. The vomit is composed entirely of baby-shit-colored stomach bile in which the solids have congealed into a single pulpy mass, the liquid having run off in a stream that creeps steadily towards the cell door. Fred estimates that 80% of the countie’s inmates are junkies in on heroin related charges) and then to the door of the visiting room. C.O. Steve radios the control tower and there is an audible click as the steel door unlocks. Steve gestures for Fred to enter and he does. Continue reading


A Suicide Bombing Sure Does Ruin Your Day

Official disclaimer: nothing in this post reflects the views of the Department of Defense, the Army, the Marines, etc. This is only the unofficially terrible, wrong and poorly written opinion of one person who happened to have served at some point since 9/11. This is a work of fiction, but still, better to throw this disclaimer in here. You have been warned.

Beele was not pleased with the deployment. He had joined the Army, specifically the infantry, so that he could prove himself in combat. To get right down to it and quit fucking around, he joined up so he could have the chance to kill someone. But the deployment so far was a joke. The unit had deployed in December. In November, most of the tribes fighting the U.S. decided to switch sides and were now our allies, which coincided with an 85 percent drop in enemy contact. Can’t fight the enemy when they’re your pals now.

It was now February, and only one platoon in the entire battalion had even had a chance to fire their weapons. Three months in, and that was it? That was bullshit, Beele thought; a waste of his time. His platoon spent most of its time on patrol – driving out to some hillbilly, dusty Iraqi village of 30 people to ask them if they’d “seen the enemy.” Yeah right, like they weren’t still the enemy and like they wouldn’t be again if the U.S. money dried up. The platoon leader and one of the squad leaders would meet up with the local sheik and find out if anything was needed in the area. The usual answers were water, electricity and more weapons for security. The exact three things the unit had zero ability (or authorization, in the case of weapons) to provide. Continue reading

Poem # 1,2,3,4 I Don’t Like You (Curmudgeon Song)

i am what and where you are

when you fall out of a dream

into an everyday


you have to steal your first foot


through a world full of C.O.’s,

everyone out

for themselves,

still they insist on shaking hands,

with their mustache smiles,

flat-top faces,

eyes that perceive only


guffawing as they drag your broken body Continue reading

contemplation of a drive-by

i had just drunk Nyquil

in preparation for sleep

when i heard what sounded like

someone taking a baseball bat to aluminum


whap. whap. whap. whap.

what the hell are these little bastards

up to now? I thought Continue reading

Navigating The Minefield that is (potential) Fatherhood

As a middleclass white male in his 30’s with a steady job, married to a middleclass white female in her 30’s with a steady job, you can imagine that conversations often turn to when we should start trying to have a kid.

That’s the obvious next step, right? Everyone is having kids. Some of my friends are on their second kid already, and I can’t even decide what the fuck I want to do for a living.

What to name it, what room to turn into a nursery, what to do with all the shit that was in the room that will become the nursery, what books to read, what hospital to choose, are there any decent daycares nearby, should we use Pampers or cloth diapers, and on and on and on.

There is so much information out there about having kids that you start to forget that humans have obviously been having children forever. The same amazing internet that allows you to read this bullshit blog also gives every crackpot and weirdo with a bone to pick about parenting a venue to discuss their philosophies. It’s overwhelming. Continue reading

Jail-House Workouts: Killing Time (New Veins)

A Preamble and Explanation:

It is often a habit of those who have had an extended stay in jail and/or prison to talk excessively about jail and/or prison. (I’ve only been to county thank god and I owe this mostly to Judge “Go-Home” Gibson’s thought process: Well… he’s seems smart, shows genuine remorse, and is… WHITE. Time served and 2 years intensive felony probation! …sound of gavel slamming on wood…) Obviously, there can be a multitude of reasons for this disquieting behavior, but one of the most fundamental is that it is an important and indelible time in anyone’s life. Perhaps not a positive experience, but memorable nonetheless. One of the most striking is jail’s unique juxtaposition of long stretches of utter boredom interspersed with moments of intense action and violence. The only other experience with comparable attributes is war. Or so I’ve heard. (Obviously, I am not comparing them in terms of danger and honor but only in their experiential reality.) Also, there is the preconceived notion most people have about jail as something to be feared, somewhere they hope to never wake up at. And once one makes it through such an experience there is a sort of relief, an awe at having been there and survived. In Down and Out In London and Paris, George Orwell explores this thought process (as regards abject poverty) and sums it up nicely (I’m paraphrasing here) as something you have always feared so much so – wondering how you would handle it – that when it finally comes about there is almost a feeling of elation at having been through it and survived. It’s something akin to the way junkies, active and recently recovered, pervert their shame into a sort of competitive pride as regards their level of degradation: “I had a gram-a-day habit man…” “Okay, dude, but have you ever SHOT crack before?” Obviously not anything anyone should be proud of, but, amongst the initiated, they function as war-stories. A way to brag about just how far over the edge you’ve been. Continue reading

Classifieds: Employment: Your Only Qualifications

Wanted: Professional Deliverance Stewards, Emancipation Brokers, Remission Emissaries, Reclamation Laborers, and Salvation Handlers

We are a consulting firm

specializing in assisting

current fuck-ups,

who are fucked-up,

and actively fucking-up,

get themselves



the shit-holes

they have hustled themselves

into. Continue reading

%d bloggers like this: