28 April 06
Visited by Dad & Sis
3:00pm
I’ve just returned from the first visit with my dad and sister. Our Derick, all smiles, looked healthy and relaxed. Our Karen, wrinkle free and fair of skin, continues to defy her age.
As I write this, I'm still on a natural high – despite Ogre’s greeting when I returned to the yard, “Why the hell isn’t yer sis here to visit me?”
As it's Friday, there were few visitors (eight parties only), so the vending machines were full and my dad and Karen brought many quarters. I ate four bean-and-cheese burritos, five packets of chips (crisps), one granola bar and one chocolate bar. My visitors were shocked that I ate so much.
One thing we agreed on is that prison has benefited me in certain ways. I'm no longer involved in a dangerous lifestyle that could have resulted in something terrible happening – such as my death. Although I was stablising prior to the arrest, who’s to say whether or not I would have deteriorated again, and suffered worse consequences. I’ve gone from being angry that I was arrested, to accepting it, to now feeling as though I’ve somehow been saved. I know that sounds bizarre, but we agreed that incarceration has changed me for the better.
Dad offered to make a room ready for my return home into a cell, complete with black-and-white-striped pajamas, pink boxers and socks purchased from Joe Arpaio.
During the visit we walked around outside, sat at the picnic tables and talked a lot. We discussed everything from our lives in general to literature. Dad and Karen have read extensively, but I've only begun reading widely since I was arrested. Dad likes Hemingway and Kafka. Karen, who spent four years teaching in Japan, likes Haruki Murakami. Two Tonys introduced me to Tom Wolfe and I introduced them to Wolfe, and now we are all Wolfe fans.
Post Script: Excerpt from todays thought journal entry written for my psychotherapist.
I have many pleasant thoughts of the visit today. Being in the presence of family members who I’ve been unable to have close contact with for years put me on a high. A combination of good company and vending-machine products caused my thoughts to race, making the last four hours of the visit seem like one. Departed feeling happy hypomanic.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
24 April 06
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
20 April 06
Two Tonys Philosophizes
“I’m feeling’ philosophical,” Two Tonys said.
“How so?” I asked.
“I was watchin’ some show on PBS about the Norwegian explorer, Roald Amundsen. To get to the South Pole without dyin’ he lived with the Eskimos for a few years, and learnt how to live in harmony with that environment. That got me thinkin’: prison is my environment. I ain’t goin’ nowhere for the rest of my life, bro, except on a trip to the hospital every now and then. Instead of fightin’ my environment, I need to be livin’ in harmony with it. I can’t be raisin’ my blood pressure because the breakfast biscuits were cold, or my cell door didn’t open at exactly one forty-five for rec, or I didn’t get called to Property when I was supposed to. I’ve gotta go with the flow. Why should I be blowin’ gaskets over the small shit when there’s people gettin’ blown up in Iraq, mudslides are killin' thousands in the Philippines, and there’s earthquakes in Turkey? Shame on me. Shame on me.”
“Yes, there’s a lot of bad stuff going on in the world. At least we’re alive.”
“Yeah.”
“So what do you think about the war in Iraq?”
“It’s a fuckin’ joke. You don’t hafta have read Robert Fisk’s The Great War For Civilisation to know it’s about oil. We’ve got pricks life Wolf Blitzer talkin’ about how great America is as we bomb Iraq and plunder their oil.”
“Oil’s a part of it. Defence spending is too. The US is spending over half a trillion dollars a year on the military: destroying the Middle East with bombs, while their own inner cities, and health and education systems, are suffering cutbacks. Then they pretend to wonder why crime is so high. The British liberated Iraq twice last century, and pulled out because of the high casualties and the fact that the Iraqi people didn’t want us there. History rhymes.”
“And your Tony Blair is helpin’ Bush right now, I might add. Those motherfuckers in Washington are brainwashin’ eighteen year old kids – who just wanna get college scholarships – into goin’ to Iraq, and the next thing they know the kids are comin’ back with their nuts blown off, headin’ for the nearest VA hospital, never able to fuck again. And what have they got to show for it? They went to Iraq for George Dubya Bush – fuck that shit! I was a seaman in the US Navy 'cause I didn’t know any better. Now, if I had a son, I’d talk him outta goin’. When it was Bush’s turn to go, he dodged the draft.”
“Yes, he’s a chickenhawk,” I said.
“What’s that?” Two Tonys asked.
“According to Michael Parenti – other than the doves who are for peace and the hawks who are for war – there’s chickenhawks: the current US leaders who dodged military service and are now getting richer by being pro war. War is good when they can profit and not have to fight. Bush isn’t the only chickenhawk. Other draft dodgers include Dick Cheney, Karl Rove, Richard Perle, Paul Wolfowitz and John Ashcroft. And get this, Rush Limbaugh – one of their mouthpieces – dodged the draft because of anal cysts, a treatable condition he managed to suffer from for the entire duration of the Vietnam War.”
“I can imagine that big fat motherfucker with boils on his ass,” Two Tonys said. “The world has become more of a fucked up place. It’s not like the old days of the British Empire. It’s all corporations now: it’s the likes of Nike goin’ to the Philippines payin’ poor peasant motherfuckers a pittance to make sneakers, while givin’ Tiger Woods one-hundred million to wear the Nike swoosh.
I was raised in Detroit, in the shadow of the Chrysler plant – literally. I told the time as a kid by listening for when the whistle blew in the Chrysler factories – and then it was American owned. Now it’s Chrysler-Daimler. If you’d o’ told my old man back when your people were getting’ bombed by the German motherfuckers, that the Germans were gonna own half of Chrysler, he wouldn’t have believed it.
It’s the New World Order, bro. It’s here. And you know somethin’, I’m kinda glad I’m in here and not getting’ fucked over by those motherfuckers in Washington, like some old people in America, who have to make a choice between buying medication or eatin’, or figurin’ out which nursin’ home they can afford.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Two Tonys Philosophizes
“I’m feeling’ philosophical,” Two Tonys said.
“How so?” I asked.
“I was watchin’ some show on PBS about the Norwegian explorer, Roald Amundsen. To get to the South Pole without dyin’ he lived with the Eskimos for a few years, and learnt how to live in harmony with that environment. That got me thinkin’: prison is my environment. I ain’t goin’ nowhere for the rest of my life, bro, except on a trip to the hospital every now and then. Instead of fightin’ my environment, I need to be livin’ in harmony with it. I can’t be raisin’ my blood pressure because the breakfast biscuits were cold, or my cell door didn’t open at exactly one forty-five for rec, or I didn’t get called to Property when I was supposed to. I’ve gotta go with the flow. Why should I be blowin’ gaskets over the small shit when there’s people gettin’ blown up in Iraq, mudslides are killin' thousands in the Philippines, and there’s earthquakes in Turkey? Shame on me. Shame on me.”
“Yes, there’s a lot of bad stuff going on in the world. At least we’re alive.”
“Yeah.”
“So what do you think about the war in Iraq?”
“It’s a fuckin’ joke. You don’t hafta have read Robert Fisk’s The Great War For Civilisation to know it’s about oil. We’ve got pricks life Wolf Blitzer talkin’ about how great America is as we bomb Iraq and plunder their oil.”
“Oil’s a part of it. Defence spending is too. The US is spending over half a trillion dollars a year on the military: destroying the Middle East with bombs, while their own inner cities, and health and education systems, are suffering cutbacks. Then they pretend to wonder why crime is so high. The British liberated Iraq twice last century, and pulled out because of the high casualties and the fact that the Iraqi people didn’t want us there. History rhymes.”
“And your Tony Blair is helpin’ Bush right now, I might add. Those motherfuckers in Washington are brainwashin’ eighteen year old kids – who just wanna get college scholarships – into goin’ to Iraq, and the next thing they know the kids are comin’ back with their nuts blown off, headin’ for the nearest VA hospital, never able to fuck again. And what have they got to show for it? They went to Iraq for George Dubya Bush – fuck that shit! I was a seaman in the US Navy 'cause I didn’t know any better. Now, if I had a son, I’d talk him outta goin’. When it was Bush’s turn to go, he dodged the draft.”
“Yes, he’s a chickenhawk,” I said.
“What’s that?” Two Tonys asked.
“According to Michael Parenti – other than the doves who are for peace and the hawks who are for war – there’s chickenhawks: the current US leaders who dodged military service and are now getting richer by being pro war. War is good when they can profit and not have to fight. Bush isn’t the only chickenhawk. Other draft dodgers include Dick Cheney, Karl Rove, Richard Perle, Paul Wolfowitz and John Ashcroft. And get this, Rush Limbaugh – one of their mouthpieces – dodged the draft because of anal cysts, a treatable condition he managed to suffer from for the entire duration of the Vietnam War.”
“I can imagine that big fat motherfucker with boils on his ass,” Two Tonys said. “The world has become more of a fucked up place. It’s not like the old days of the British Empire. It’s all corporations now: it’s the likes of Nike goin’ to the Philippines payin’ poor peasant motherfuckers a pittance to make sneakers, while givin’ Tiger Woods one-hundred million to wear the Nike swoosh.
I was raised in Detroit, in the shadow of the Chrysler plant – literally. I told the time as a kid by listening for when the whistle blew in the Chrysler factories – and then it was American owned. Now it’s Chrysler-Daimler. If you’d o’ told my old man back when your people were getting’ bombed by the German motherfuckers, that the Germans were gonna own half of Chrysler, he wouldn’t have believed it.
It’s the New World Order, bro. It’s here. And you know somethin’, I’m kinda glad I’m in here and not getting’ fucked over by those motherfuckers in Washington, like some old people in America, who have to make a choice between buying medication or eatin’, or figurin’ out which nursin’ home they can afford.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
8 April 06
Tarot
I obtained a tarot reading from Xena, who has been a Wiccan high priest for fifteen years.
“These are the rules,” Xena said. “Don’t ask questions with time limits. Don’t ask more than one question at a time. Think of a question but don’t say it. OK?
“Yes,” I said.
"Now shuffle the cards and think about your question."
As I shuffled, the thought that came to mind was: how successful will I be?
“The question, Xena said, “has to do with what you are gonna be doin’ in your life.”
“It certainly does.”
“Now cut the cards three times.”
After I’d cut them, Xena arranged the cards in rows. Studying them carefully, Xena began the reading: “The Six of Wands covered by the inverted Eight of Swords means you’re in bondage not of your approval. Crossed by the Two of Cups. The crosses mean communication with a person you envisage yourself with. The Wheel of Fortune – the card below you – indicates past abundance. From past to present, the inverted Death card says what happened in the past is counting in the present, and you’re past abundance is somethin’ you don’t want to let go of.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Also, you are takin’ on more than you can handle. You must drop one thing, and focus on another, or else things will collapse on you. Your future card is Temperance. You will do incredibly well emotionally. You have a lotta support, which is gonna be a large influence in your life.
In terms of hopes, somebody who is already there is gonna help you carry a burden. And somebody you have doubted, is gonna be there for you when you get out.”
“Interesting, I wonder who?”
“Your environment – the inverted Knight of Wands signifies that even though you’ll have lots of support, you’re gonna hafta give yourself your own support. Your fears, all your fears are gonna stop when you get out - you’re gonna be left alone.
The whole readin’ tells me you need a solid support structure, and you’ll thrive. But you fear you’re not gonna have abundance or a support structure – nothin’ but yourself."
“Hmmm.”
“The final outcome is the upright King of Cups. Your family and friends will be there for you, but most prominent of all is your father, who will be like a stone, solid as a rock, emotionally and otherwise. He’ll have a lot to do influencin’ your future.”
“My dad will be amused to read that. There’s plenty to ponder there. Thanks, Xena. I’m glad the reading turned out so positive.”
“Let me know if you want me to do another readin’ for you or any of your friends, or even your readers.
“How could you do it for a reader?
“They just pose a question, and I put it to the cards.”
Any takers?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Tarot
I obtained a tarot reading from Xena, who has been a Wiccan high priest for fifteen years.
“These are the rules,” Xena said. “Don’t ask questions with time limits. Don’t ask more than one question at a time. Think of a question but don’t say it. OK?
“Yes,” I said.
"Now shuffle the cards and think about your question."
As I shuffled, the thought that came to mind was: how successful will I be?
“The question, Xena said, “has to do with what you are gonna be doin’ in your life.”
“It certainly does.”
“Now cut the cards three times.”
After I’d cut them, Xena arranged the cards in rows. Studying them carefully, Xena began the reading: “The Six of Wands covered by the inverted Eight of Swords means you’re in bondage not of your approval. Crossed by the Two of Cups. The crosses mean communication with a person you envisage yourself with. The Wheel of Fortune – the card below you – indicates past abundance. From past to present, the inverted Death card says what happened in the past is counting in the present, and you’re past abundance is somethin’ you don’t want to let go of.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Also, you are takin’ on more than you can handle. You must drop one thing, and focus on another, or else things will collapse on you. Your future card is Temperance. You will do incredibly well emotionally. You have a lotta support, which is gonna be a large influence in your life.
In terms of hopes, somebody who is already there is gonna help you carry a burden. And somebody you have doubted, is gonna be there for you when you get out.”
“Interesting, I wonder who?”
“Your environment – the inverted Knight of Wands signifies that even though you’ll have lots of support, you’re gonna hafta give yourself your own support. Your fears, all your fears are gonna stop when you get out - you’re gonna be left alone.
The whole readin’ tells me you need a solid support structure, and you’ll thrive. But you fear you’re not gonna have abundance or a support structure – nothin’ but yourself."
“Hmmm.”
“The final outcome is the upright King of Cups. Your family and friends will be there for you, but most prominent of all is your father, who will be like a stone, solid as a rock, emotionally and otherwise. He’ll have a lot to do influencin’ your future.”
“My dad will be amused to read that. There’s plenty to ponder there. Thanks, Xena. I’m glad the reading turned out so positive.”
“Let me know if you want me to do another readin’ for you or any of your friends, or even your readers.
“How could you do it for a reader?
“They just pose a question, and I put it to the cards.”
Any takers?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
13 April 06
Psychotherapy with Dr O (Part 2)
Dr O was listening to Beethoven and reading Synaptic Self by Joseph LeDoux. He read my homework: a thought journal detailing my recent nightmares about being chased and shot, and a description of the anxiety I experienced when asked to speak at a Smart Recovery class. I was expecting him to begin by stating how I'd scored on the personality test.
“Why do you do yoga?”
“Because I’m trying to achieve some balance in my life.”
“Yoga means union. In the context of universal energy, you need to increase your awareness of the universality of your life.”
“How does that relate to my problems?”
“What do you want to do with your problems?”
“Get rid of them.”
“All energy is constant through the universe, psychic energy or whatever. If you get rid of your problems, then you must consider what you are going to put in their locations. You must clarify your thinking, and consider multiple solutions to your problems. Do you have hermit fantasies?”
“It’s funny you should ask that because a friend recently called me the quintessential hermit. I certainly don’t come out of my cell very often.”
“Using phrases, you can redefine yourself, and challenge your own assumptions. You can redefine your language using yoga, by changing your thinking, and thinking comfortably.”
“How did I do on the personality test?”
“Primarily, you showed an anxiety disorder, and also social detachment – which is an inability to socialize, not antisocial. In the sub categories, physiological stress shows, and anxious thinking, inability to relate to others, your need for attention is high, sense of importance is quite high.”
“High enough for delusions of grandeur?”
“No. Just high. Take the quite off. Your level of looking for cheap thrills is high. You have polysubstance abuse, anxiety, and borderline tendencies. You have a fear of being abandoned.”
“How high?”
“High enough.”
“If I have a polysubstance-abuse problem, yet drugs are readily available in prison, then how come I’m not doing drugs?”
“Your problem is in remission due to prison. Getting arrested was a slap upside your head. You realised, ‘Holy shit. What have I been doing?’ If you hadn’t been arrested would you still be doing rave parties?”
“I honestly don’t know. I was tapering that activity off, but who’s to say whether I’d get stressed out and go wild again. I see how vulnerable I can be.”
"You obtained a definition of who you were through partying. On drugs, your anxiety went away. You surrounded yourself with folks in similar situations, and there’s generally no true bonding in those environments. The club drugs you did caused a cascade of neurotransmitters. With huge amounts of drugs in the system, the brain operates at another level. Studies of substance abuse have shown volumetric reductions in the limbic system and short-term memory areas. You also show a sense of lack of social skills.”
“When I was asked to read at the Smart Recovery class, I felt I was drowning. All that existed was me and the booklet I was reading from. I ended up gasping for air, and my nose started running. I’ve only got like that in recent years. After I was arrested, at the Towers jail, I volunteered to read a passage from the Bible in a packed room. I did it easily and coherently, and I was praised by the priest afterwards. Ask me to read in front of people now, and I become a basket case.”
“Are you familiar with the fight or flight response?”
“Yes. When you feel threatened the chemicals in your body prepare you to either fight or run for it.”
“What about the third response: freeze?”
“Like the deer in the headlights?”
“Yes. This happens with most primates. During freeze, all that exists in the world are themselves and the thing they are looking at.”
“Like the pages I was struggling to read.”
“Yes. The situation seemed worse than it was. You needed to step back and breath. You weren’t breathing effectively.
“But it was pages long, and I was trying to get through it as quickly as possible to end my discomfort.”
“Then you should have stopped, and took a deep breath at the end of each paragraph. Your discomfort was a state of mind. Your classmates were not going to beat you up because of the way you were reading. The situation was in control, and you were not. You must learn to be able to say to yourself, ‘I’m going to do what I can do today, no matter who is in front of me.'”
“OK, I’ll try,” I said. “From looking at my test results, can you tell me where my mental-health problems sit in comparison to an average person?”
“If I told you that, I fear you would use it as an excuse to say that’s who I am.”
“But I’m trying to learn about these problems, including doing a psychology correspondence course, to help understand myself, and to get better.
“Do you think a medical student doing a correspondence course could successfully perform an appendectomy?”
“No, of course not. But at least I’m making an effort.”
“I don’t want you to beat yourself up with labels. I want you to be able to say to yourself. ‘I am perfect’,”
“But isn’t that egotistical?”
“No. I would like you to consider that in the context of your yoga. Read about your connection to the universal. And for your homework, I’d like you to observe, and to write down positive and negative thoughts – but don’t do another nightmare journal. I’m trying to raise your awareness of your thinking.”
“You’ve begun to do that already, by making light of my panic in the classroom. I appreciate your help."
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Psychotherapy with Dr O (Part 2)
Dr O was listening to Beethoven and reading Synaptic Self by Joseph LeDoux. He read my homework: a thought journal detailing my recent nightmares about being chased and shot, and a description of the anxiety I experienced when asked to speak at a Smart Recovery class. I was expecting him to begin by stating how I'd scored on the personality test.
“Why do you do yoga?”
“Because I’m trying to achieve some balance in my life.”
“Yoga means union. In the context of universal energy, you need to increase your awareness of the universality of your life.”
“How does that relate to my problems?”
“What do you want to do with your problems?”
“Get rid of them.”
“All energy is constant through the universe, psychic energy or whatever. If you get rid of your problems, then you must consider what you are going to put in their locations. You must clarify your thinking, and consider multiple solutions to your problems. Do you have hermit fantasies?”
“It’s funny you should ask that because a friend recently called me the quintessential hermit. I certainly don’t come out of my cell very often.”
“Using phrases, you can redefine yourself, and challenge your own assumptions. You can redefine your language using yoga, by changing your thinking, and thinking comfortably.”
“How did I do on the personality test?”
“Primarily, you showed an anxiety disorder, and also social detachment – which is an inability to socialize, not antisocial. In the sub categories, physiological stress shows, and anxious thinking, inability to relate to others, your need for attention is high, sense of importance is quite high.”
“High enough for delusions of grandeur?”
“No. Just high. Take the quite off. Your level of looking for cheap thrills is high. You have polysubstance abuse, anxiety, and borderline tendencies. You have a fear of being abandoned.”
“How high?”
“High enough.”
“If I have a polysubstance-abuse problem, yet drugs are readily available in prison, then how come I’m not doing drugs?”
“Your problem is in remission due to prison. Getting arrested was a slap upside your head. You realised, ‘Holy shit. What have I been doing?’ If you hadn’t been arrested would you still be doing rave parties?”
“I honestly don’t know. I was tapering that activity off, but who’s to say whether I’d get stressed out and go wild again. I see how vulnerable I can be.”
"You obtained a definition of who you were through partying. On drugs, your anxiety went away. You surrounded yourself with folks in similar situations, and there’s generally no true bonding in those environments. The club drugs you did caused a cascade of neurotransmitters. With huge amounts of drugs in the system, the brain operates at another level. Studies of substance abuse have shown volumetric reductions in the limbic system and short-term memory areas. You also show a sense of lack of social skills.”
“When I was asked to read at the Smart Recovery class, I felt I was drowning. All that existed was me and the booklet I was reading from. I ended up gasping for air, and my nose started running. I’ve only got like that in recent years. After I was arrested, at the Towers jail, I volunteered to read a passage from the Bible in a packed room. I did it easily and coherently, and I was praised by the priest afterwards. Ask me to read in front of people now, and I become a basket case.”
“Are you familiar with the fight or flight response?”
“Yes. When you feel threatened the chemicals in your body prepare you to either fight or run for it.”
“What about the third response: freeze?”
“Like the deer in the headlights?”
“Yes. This happens with most primates. During freeze, all that exists in the world are themselves and the thing they are looking at.”
“Like the pages I was struggling to read.”
“Yes. The situation seemed worse than it was. You needed to step back and breath. You weren’t breathing effectively.
“But it was pages long, and I was trying to get through it as quickly as possible to end my discomfort.”
“Then you should have stopped, and took a deep breath at the end of each paragraph. Your discomfort was a state of mind. Your classmates were not going to beat you up because of the way you were reading. The situation was in control, and you were not. You must learn to be able to say to yourself, ‘I’m going to do what I can do today, no matter who is in front of me.'”
“OK, I’ll try,” I said. “From looking at my test results, can you tell me where my mental-health problems sit in comparison to an average person?”
“If I told you that, I fear you would use it as an excuse to say that’s who I am.”
“But I’m trying to learn about these problems, including doing a psychology correspondence course, to help understand myself, and to get better.
“Do you think a medical student doing a correspondence course could successfully perform an appendectomy?”
“No, of course not. But at least I’m making an effort.”
“I don’t want you to beat yourself up with labels. I want you to be able to say to yourself. ‘I am perfect’,”
“But isn’t that egotistical?”
“No. I would like you to consider that in the context of your yoga. Read about your connection to the universal. And for your homework, I’d like you to observe, and to write down positive and negative thoughts – but don’t do another nightmare journal. I’m trying to raise your awareness of your thinking.”
“You’ve begun to do that already, by making light of my panic in the classroom. I appreciate your help."
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
5 April 06
Healed Scrotum
By all appearances, my scrotum has healed.
“I know why your scrotum was bleeding,” George said.
“Why?”
“It’s to do with your latent homosexuality. You’re about to come out of the closet, and you’re afraid your homosexual lovers will scorn your deformed scrotum, so you decided to hack off your moles.”
“That sounds like more wishful thinking on your behalf George,” I said.
“It’s true. You’re afraid your gay lovers will make fun of your hideous deformity.”
“George,” I said. “The moles on my balls are tiny. Granted there are a lot of them, but I’ve never had any complaints.”
“That’s because you only did it in the dark. The only people who got close enough to see the moles were your midget lovers, and thank God they had little midget eyeballs that were far sighted, and couldn’t see your deformed scrotum.”
“George, I never had midget lovers! My scrotum isn’t deformed, and I didn’t only have sex in the dark!"
Xena entered the cell and said, “Did you snag your nutsack on somethin’?”
“Not that I know of,” I said.
“He did it masturbating,” George said.
“There’s nothin’ wrong with that,” Xena said.
George attempted to grab Xena’s penis. They fell on the bottom bunk and began wrestling.
“I’ll kill you,” Xena yelled, pinning George to the bunk. “Don’t be tryin’ to touch my testicles. He thinks I’m hung like Donkey Kong, but I’m only hung like a bull hamster.”
George, panting heavily, said, “He needs someone to help him count the moles on his scrotum, Xena.”
“There’s too many,” I said.
“Have you tried numberin’ them?” Xena said.
“No.” I laughed.
“He’s trying to cut the moles off his testicles because of his latent homosexuality,” George said.
“Explain the word latent,” Xena said.
“It’s deep down in Jon. It’s going to come out later. He’s a soon-to-be homosexual,” George said.
Xena, ignoring George, said in a tone of concern, “You need to pay attention to your moles, especially if they become irregular in shape or if red marks grow around the perimeters.”
“Yes, I’ll keep a check on them.”
“He needs an independent assessment,” George said. “I need to look at them!”
“You've really gotta be careful who looks at them,” Xena said. “If it's George, you’re in trouble - the moment you take your eyes off him, he’ll be messin' with more than your moles.”
“I’m not attracted to Jon any more,” George said. “I don’t think about him like that now.”
“Bullshit,” Xena said. “Everytime I come over here you’re tryin’ to work it, slut.”
“You lying whore!” George said. “Skin that.”
“I put it on my skin,” Xena said. “Why do you keep insistin’ he’s homosexual?”
“Because he’s tall, bald, British and skinny.”
“You have a point,” Xena said and eyed me suspiciously. “All the people I know that are tall, pale and bald are homosexuals – especially skinny guys.”
“Not this skinny guy,” I said.
“Have you ever been to San Francisco?” Xena asked.
“Yes,” I said.
George and Xena oohed in sync. Their eyes lit up.
“Did you go to a neighbourhood called The Castro?” Xena said.
“No, I went raving in San Francisco.”
“He’s outta the closet,” George yelled. “What did I tell you about tall, pale, deformed-scrotum, English dudes!”
“Almost all the English guys I’ve met are homosexual,” Xena said.
“That’s because you guys attract homosexuals!” I said.
“If he’s been The Castro, he’s gay,” Xena said, as if that settled it.
“I’ve never even heard of The Castro!” And whose side are you on anyway, Xena?”
“I guess I gotta take a man at his word,” Xena said.
“Especially a tall, bald, deformed-scrotum man,” George said, approaching me with a leer on his face. “Elton John is a typical bald, pale, gay English guy. I wonder how many knights bones Sir Elton has jumped.” George turned and jumped on Xena.
Xena wrestled George down until George was winded.
“Xena, stop toying with my fucking emotions,” George said.
“What emotions?” Xena asked.
“I love you, Xena. Come and live with me,” George said slowly in-between panting.
Xena smiled at me and strutted out.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Healed Scrotum
By all appearances, my scrotum has healed.
“I know why your scrotum was bleeding,” George said.
“Why?”
“It’s to do with your latent homosexuality. You’re about to come out of the closet, and you’re afraid your homosexual lovers will scorn your deformed scrotum, so you decided to hack off your moles.”
“That sounds like more wishful thinking on your behalf George,” I said.
“It’s true. You’re afraid your gay lovers will make fun of your hideous deformity.”
“George,” I said. “The moles on my balls are tiny. Granted there are a lot of them, but I’ve never had any complaints.”
“That’s because you only did it in the dark. The only people who got close enough to see the moles were your midget lovers, and thank God they had little midget eyeballs that were far sighted, and couldn’t see your deformed scrotum.”
“George, I never had midget lovers! My scrotum isn’t deformed, and I didn’t only have sex in the dark!"
Xena entered the cell and said, “Did you snag your nutsack on somethin’?”
“Not that I know of,” I said.
“He did it masturbating,” George said.
“There’s nothin’ wrong with that,” Xena said.
George attempted to grab Xena’s penis. They fell on the bottom bunk and began wrestling.
“I’ll kill you,” Xena yelled, pinning George to the bunk. “Don’t be tryin’ to touch my testicles. He thinks I’m hung like Donkey Kong, but I’m only hung like a bull hamster.”
George, panting heavily, said, “He needs someone to help him count the moles on his scrotum, Xena.”
“There’s too many,” I said.
“Have you tried numberin’ them?” Xena said.
“No.” I laughed.
“He’s trying to cut the moles off his testicles because of his latent homosexuality,” George said.
“Explain the word latent,” Xena said.
“It’s deep down in Jon. It’s going to come out later. He’s a soon-to-be homosexual,” George said.
Xena, ignoring George, said in a tone of concern, “You need to pay attention to your moles, especially if they become irregular in shape or if red marks grow around the perimeters.”
“Yes, I’ll keep a check on them.”
“He needs an independent assessment,” George said. “I need to look at them!”
“You've really gotta be careful who looks at them,” Xena said. “If it's George, you’re in trouble - the moment you take your eyes off him, he’ll be messin' with more than your moles.”
“I’m not attracted to Jon any more,” George said. “I don’t think about him like that now.”
“Bullshit,” Xena said. “Everytime I come over here you’re tryin’ to work it, slut.”
“You lying whore!” George said. “Skin that.”
“I put it on my skin,” Xena said. “Why do you keep insistin’ he’s homosexual?”
“Because he’s tall, bald, British and skinny.”
“You have a point,” Xena said and eyed me suspiciously. “All the people I know that are tall, pale and bald are homosexuals – especially skinny guys.”
“Not this skinny guy,” I said.
“Have you ever been to San Francisco?” Xena asked.
“Yes,” I said.
George and Xena oohed in sync. Their eyes lit up.
“Did you go to a neighbourhood called The Castro?” Xena said.
“No, I went raving in San Francisco.”
“He’s outta the closet,” George yelled. “What did I tell you about tall, pale, deformed-scrotum, English dudes!”
“Almost all the English guys I’ve met are homosexual,” Xena said.
“That’s because you guys attract homosexuals!” I said.
“If he’s been The Castro, he’s gay,” Xena said, as if that settled it.
“I’ve never even heard of The Castro!” And whose side are you on anyway, Xena?”
“I guess I gotta take a man at his word,” Xena said.
“Especially a tall, bald, deformed-scrotum man,” George said, approaching me with a leer on his face. “Elton John is a typical bald, pale, gay English guy. I wonder how many knights bones Sir Elton has jumped.” George turned and jumped on Xena.
Xena wrestled George down until George was winded.
“Xena, stop toying with my fucking emotions,” George said.
“What emotions?” Xena asked.
“I love you, Xena. Come and live with me,” George said slowly in-between panting.
Xena smiled at me and strutted out.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
1 April 06
Bleeding Scrotum 2
During count, I sat down on the toilet and ripped the old Band-Aids off my scrotum. I applied the ointment and put new Band-Aids on.
At chow, I explained to my friends what had happened.
“Your story,” Weird Al said, “is meeting with considerable scepticism among inmates as to the alleged cause of the nutsack injury.”
“How vigorously were you scrubbing when the mole fell off?” Shane asked.
“I wasn’t scrubbing vigorously.”
“Your explanation ranks right up there with Dick Cheney’s quail hunt.”
“It seems,” Shane said, “you had a brain haemorrhage. You’ll probably get called to the psych now for suspicion of testicular self mutilation – an actual disorder: gender identity disorder.”
“How do you know about that disorder?” Weird Al asked Shane.
“'Cause I read about it.”
“Yeah right,” Weird Al said. “Just like he behaves normally in the shower. If I had a blog, I’d put a rival story about Jon and a loofah on it. My story would guarantee that the British authorities would never allow him back in their country.”
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Bleeding Scrotum 2
During count, I sat down on the toilet and ripped the old Band-Aids off my scrotum. I applied the ointment and put new Band-Aids on.
At chow, I explained to my friends what had happened.
“Your story,” Weird Al said, “is meeting with considerable scepticism among inmates as to the alleged cause of the nutsack injury.”
“How vigorously were you scrubbing when the mole fell off?” Shane asked.
“I wasn’t scrubbing vigorously.”
“Your explanation ranks right up there with Dick Cheney’s quail hunt.”
“It seems,” Shane said, “you had a brain haemorrhage. You’ll probably get called to the psych now for suspicion of testicular self mutilation – an actual disorder: gender identity disorder.”
“How do you know about that disorder?” Weird Al asked Shane.
“'Cause I read about it.”
“Yeah right,” Weird Al said. “Just like he behaves normally in the shower. If I had a blog, I’d put a rival story about Jon and a loofah on it. My story would guarantee that the British authorities would never allow him back in their country.”
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
29 March 05
Mochalicious
Frankie is in love. Xena has competition. All because Mochalicious is here.
At rec Xena and Mochalicious squared off.
Mochalicious: a petite Chicana with brown eyes, purple lips, black shoulder-length hair and eyebrows sculpted with a fifteen-cent razor in the style of Jennifer Lopez as featured on page 32 of People (Feb 27,2006).
Xena: a giant with grey eyes, brunette hair tied back in a ponytail, and eyebrows fashioned like Alicia Key's (at this year’s Grammys), plucked with string, in a style recommended in the makeup tip’s section of a five year old Vogue.
Mochalicious shuffled toward Xena and grabbed Xena's chest.
“Quit grabbin’ my tits, bitch,” Xena said.
“I like grabbin’ yer tits, bitch,” said Mochalicious.
“You fish bitch. Get away from me you fish-eatin’ les.”
“You know you like it, bitch.”
“You’re cock ain’t big enough, slut.”
“If you say so, bitch.”
“Shut up, bitch,”
“ I’m gonna grab your tits again, bitch.” And Mochalicious did.
“Don’t grab my tits like that, bitch,” Xena said. “You’re worse than a man. I’m gonna hafta put a collar and leash on you, and tie you to the door. And quit droolin’ on my boobs like a Great Dane."
“Lemma see 'em, whore. I wanna grab 'em,” Mochalicious said.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Mochalicious
Frankie is in love. Xena has competition. All because Mochalicious is here.
At rec Xena and Mochalicious squared off.
Mochalicious: a petite Chicana with brown eyes, purple lips, black shoulder-length hair and eyebrows sculpted with a fifteen-cent razor in the style of Jennifer Lopez as featured on page 32 of People (Feb 27,2006).
Xena: a giant with grey eyes, brunette hair tied back in a ponytail, and eyebrows fashioned like Alicia Key's (at this year’s Grammys), plucked with string, in a style recommended in the makeup tip’s section of a five year old Vogue.
Mochalicious shuffled toward Xena and grabbed Xena's chest.
“Quit grabbin’ my tits, bitch,” Xena said.
“I like grabbin’ yer tits, bitch,” said Mochalicious.
“You fish bitch. Get away from me you fish-eatin’ les.”
“You know you like it, bitch.”
“You’re cock ain’t big enough, slut.”
“If you say so, bitch.”
“Shut up, bitch,”
“ I’m gonna grab your tits again, bitch.” And Mochalicious did.
“Don’t grab my tits like that, bitch,” Xena said. “You’re worse than a man. I’m gonna hafta put a collar and leash on you, and tie you to the door. And quit droolin’ on my boobs like a Great Dane."
“Lemma see 'em, whore. I wanna grab 'em,” Mochalicious said.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
27 March 06
A Kiss (Part 1)
Royo Girl – a criminology graduate who sends me scented letters and fantasy art by Luis Royo – shall be visiting here this summer, and we have agreed to kiss.
A kiss may not be a big deal to most people, but to a prisoner deprived of female contact, a kiss means a lot.
The prospect of kissing Royo Girl is something I’m looking forward to, but it has also caused some concerns to arise. What kind of a kiss will it be? A quick peck? A long-lasting lip lock? Will my tongue try to dive down her throat? Why do I feel as if I’m in high school again?
It’s been a while since I’ve experienced the pleasure of kissing. I'll probably just move in for a small kiss at first, and then try to build from there. I’ve never given so much thought to a kiss. Why am I so excited over something so simple? It’s only a kiss – right?
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A Kiss (Part 1)
Royo Girl – a criminology graduate who sends me scented letters and fantasy art by Luis Royo – shall be visiting here this summer, and we have agreed to kiss.
A kiss may not be a big deal to most people, but to a prisoner deprived of female contact, a kiss means a lot.
The prospect of kissing Royo Girl is something I’m looking forward to, but it has also caused some concerns to arise. What kind of a kiss will it be? A quick peck? A long-lasting lip lock? Will my tongue try to dive down her throat? Why do I feel as if I’m in high school again?
It’s been a while since I’ve experienced the pleasure of kissing. I'll probably just move in for a small kiss at first, and then try to build from there. I’ve never given so much thought to a kiss. Why am I so excited over something so simple? It’s only a kiss – right?
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25 March 06
Bleeding Scrotum
After towelling myself dry in the shower, I felt something warm trickling down my leg. Blood was coming from a mole on my scrotum.
What should I do? I thought. I'd best get back to my cell and try and stop the bleeding. But I need to shower this blood off my legs first.
I turned the shower on.
“What the fuck are you doin’ in there, England? Showerin’ again?”
“I’ll be right out,” I said.
Hurrying home, I thought, I can patch this up up with Band-Aids. Hopefully, Frankie won’t be in my cell setting up the chessboard.
Walking down the run, I noticed someone as tall as my cell door attempting to hide behind it. It was Blackheart, my Lakota Indian friend, trying to surprise me.
“Blackheart, I’ve really gotta use the toilet right now. I’ll catch you later.”
“You’re supposed to use the toilet before you shower,” Blackheart said and left.
I sat on the toilet - drip-drip-drip-drip. Using two Band-Aids, I stopped the bleeding.
On the yard, I sought the advice of George, an ex-paramedic, who was with Frankie. “George, my ballbags bleeding. Could you get me some medical supplies?”
“Englandman, you’re gonna hafta let George see it,” Frankie said.
George looked me up and down.
“That’s not going to happen,” I said. “I just need some extra Band-Aids by lockdown.”
“I’ll get you Band-Aids and some ointment,” George said. “But I think you should get it seen. How did it start bleeding?”
I explained what had happened.
“You should tell that cop to get you down to Medical, and they’ll give you supplies,” Frankie said.
“A bleeding mole on the scrotum merits an examination,” George said.
A female guard, Officer Diaz, was nearby.
“I think I need to go to Medical,” I told her.
“Why?” she asked.
“It’s kind of embarrassing,” I said. “I’d finished showering and I noticed my testicle sack was bleeding.”
“If you’re bullshittin’ me, I’m gonna put you on report,” Officer Diaz said in a severe tone.
“I’m telling the truth,” I said, my face blushing.
She glowered at me.
A crowd gathered. My humiliation increased. Inmates spoke on my behalf.
“He’s not the type to bullshit.”
“He’s serious. His sense of humour is different from ours,” Bones said.
"He’s a Limey. His sense of humour is as dry as a popcorn fart,” Slope said.
Officer Diaz snatched my ID, and entered the control room.
I was surrounded by curious inmates.
“Wassup witchoo?”
“The goddam Limey’s balls are bleedin.”
“Just put some salt on that motherfucker – or sulfur,” Slope said.
“Which ball is it, dawg?”
“The left,” I said.
“Let’s see it!”
“I’d rather not show it, if you don’t mind.”
“What were you really doin’ in the shower, Englandman?” Frankie asked.
“Whackin’ off his Prince William too aggressively,” George said. “What the hell did you do to yourself?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’d just dried myself off and I noticed my ballbag was bleeding through a mole.”
“Sounds like bowlshit to me,” Slope said. “I reckon he’s been yankin’ his crank and rippin’ moles offa his bawls. It must be a new sex-fetish thang outta England.”
“It could be he’s a sadomasochistic closet homosexual who gets his rocks off by cuttin’ his scrotum,” George said.
“It’s all that fuckin’ standin’ on his head,” Two Tonys said. “He thinks he’s in trainin for Cirque du fuckin Soleil.”
“See where naked yoga gets you, Englandman,” Frankie said.
On and on they went, until Officer Cooke arrived with my ID.
“The sergeant said just to give you a Band-Aid,” Officer Cooke said, and walked away bandy-legged. Everyone was laughing by the time he turned around, and said,”I was just kiddin’. Go to Medical. You’re never gonna live this down, Jon.”
Walking to Medical, I wondered how I would be received by the nurse, Odd Job.
Gingerly, I entered the building.
“Wazzupwivya now? Odd Job said.
“When I’d finished my shower, I noticed my ballbag was bleeding.” My face blushed again.
“Whatthahellwuzya doin’ in there?” Her eyebrows leaped.
“Just having a shower.”
“How much blood?”
“Enough to make me brave coming down here. It was dripping out of a mole.”
“What colour is the mole?”
“Almost black, like the others. I’ve got loads of moles down there.”
Odd Job giggled and shook her head.
I was beginning to relax, but a guard said, “It could be cancer.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Odd Job said, rolling her eyes. “'Eres what I can do for ya. I can take a look at it – "
Oh no, I thought. I imagined Odd Job ordering me to tear the Band-Aids from my short hairs.
“ – or, I can give ya Band-Aids and antibiotic ointment to take home, and if the bleedin' doesn’t stop you can come back to see the doctor.
Phew! I thought. “I’ll take the Band-Aids, and see the doctor if it keeps bleeding.”
“Alrighty then. Keep a record of if and when it bleeds.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Back at the yard, I was greeted by Officer Cooke, who was doing a funny walk: “Did you get fixed up?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Go easy on yourself in the shower," Officer Diaz said in a tone full of insinuation.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Bleeding Scrotum
After towelling myself dry in the shower, I felt something warm trickling down my leg. Blood was coming from a mole on my scrotum.
What should I do? I thought. I'd best get back to my cell and try and stop the bleeding. But I need to shower this blood off my legs first.
I turned the shower on.
“What the fuck are you doin’ in there, England? Showerin’ again?”
“I’ll be right out,” I said.
Hurrying home, I thought, I can patch this up up with Band-Aids. Hopefully, Frankie won’t be in my cell setting up the chessboard.
Walking down the run, I noticed someone as tall as my cell door attempting to hide behind it. It was Blackheart, my Lakota Indian friend, trying to surprise me.
“Blackheart, I’ve really gotta use the toilet right now. I’ll catch you later.”
“You’re supposed to use the toilet before you shower,” Blackheart said and left.
I sat on the toilet - drip-drip-drip-drip. Using two Band-Aids, I stopped the bleeding.
On the yard, I sought the advice of George, an ex-paramedic, who was with Frankie. “George, my ballbags bleeding. Could you get me some medical supplies?”
“Englandman, you’re gonna hafta let George see it,” Frankie said.
George looked me up and down.
“That’s not going to happen,” I said. “I just need some extra Band-Aids by lockdown.”
“I’ll get you Band-Aids and some ointment,” George said. “But I think you should get it seen. How did it start bleeding?”
I explained what had happened.
“You should tell that cop to get you down to Medical, and they’ll give you supplies,” Frankie said.
“A bleeding mole on the scrotum merits an examination,” George said.
A female guard, Officer Diaz, was nearby.
“I think I need to go to Medical,” I told her.
“Why?” she asked.
“It’s kind of embarrassing,” I said. “I’d finished showering and I noticed my testicle sack was bleeding.”
“If you’re bullshittin’ me, I’m gonna put you on report,” Officer Diaz said in a severe tone.
“I’m telling the truth,” I said, my face blushing.
She glowered at me.
A crowd gathered. My humiliation increased. Inmates spoke on my behalf.
“He’s not the type to bullshit.”
“He’s serious. His sense of humour is different from ours,” Bones said.
"He’s a Limey. His sense of humour is as dry as a popcorn fart,” Slope said.
Officer Diaz snatched my ID, and entered the control room.
I was surrounded by curious inmates.
“Wassup witchoo?”
“The goddam Limey’s balls are bleedin.”
“Just put some salt on that motherfucker – or sulfur,” Slope said.
“Which ball is it, dawg?”
“The left,” I said.
“Let’s see it!”
“I’d rather not show it, if you don’t mind.”
“What were you really doin’ in the shower, Englandman?” Frankie asked.
“Whackin’ off his Prince William too aggressively,” George said. “What the hell did you do to yourself?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’d just dried myself off and I noticed my ballbag was bleeding through a mole.”
“Sounds like bowlshit to me,” Slope said. “I reckon he’s been yankin’ his crank and rippin’ moles offa his bawls. It must be a new sex-fetish thang outta England.”
“It could be he’s a sadomasochistic closet homosexual who gets his rocks off by cuttin’ his scrotum,” George said.
“It’s all that fuckin’ standin’ on his head,” Two Tonys said. “He thinks he’s in trainin for Cirque du fuckin Soleil.”
“See where naked yoga gets you, Englandman,” Frankie said.
On and on they went, until Officer Cooke arrived with my ID.
“The sergeant said just to give you a Band-Aid,” Officer Cooke said, and walked away bandy-legged. Everyone was laughing by the time he turned around, and said,”I was just kiddin’. Go to Medical. You’re never gonna live this down, Jon.”
Walking to Medical, I wondered how I would be received by the nurse, Odd Job.
Gingerly, I entered the building.
“Wazzupwivya now? Odd Job said.
“When I’d finished my shower, I noticed my ballbag was bleeding.” My face blushed again.
“Whatthahellwuzya doin’ in there?” Her eyebrows leaped.
“Just having a shower.”
“How much blood?”
“Enough to make me brave coming down here. It was dripping out of a mole.”
“What colour is the mole?”
“Almost black, like the others. I’ve got loads of moles down there.”
Odd Job giggled and shook her head.
I was beginning to relax, but a guard said, “It could be cancer.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Odd Job said, rolling her eyes. “'Eres what I can do for ya. I can take a look at it – "
Oh no, I thought. I imagined Odd Job ordering me to tear the Band-Aids from my short hairs.
“ – or, I can give ya Band-Aids and antibiotic ointment to take home, and if the bleedin' doesn’t stop you can come back to see the doctor.
Phew! I thought. “I’ll take the Band-Aids, and see the doctor if it keeps bleeding.”
“Alrighty then. Keep a record of if and when it bleeds.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Back at the yard, I was greeted by Officer Cooke, who was doing a funny walk: “Did you get fixed up?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Go easy on yourself in the shower," Officer Diaz said in a tone full of insinuation.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
20 March 06
Ogre Confronts Two Tonys
Thundering through the chow hall toward Two Tonys strode Ogre.
“There’s that old motherfucker who started shit just 'cause I wuz goin’ thru the laundry,” Ogre yelled at Two Tonys.
The crowd divided into three: California gang members behind Ogre, local lifers and murderers behind Two Tonys, and the rest - blood-hungry spectators.
“This big-headed motherfucker,” Two Tonys said, pointing at Ogre’s face, “wanted to kill me over the laundry.”
“You fuckin’ started it!”
“And you insulted me by callin’ me a CO, and threatenin’ to put me somewhere there’d be tubes in my fuckin’ nose. Have you looked under your nose lately? Your moustache looks like a womb broom you haven’t washed since you’ve been down. I can see nits in it, and lice crawlin’ round yer fuckin’ head.”
“Why you gotta be actin’ like a cop around the laundry? Whattaya tryin to do, earn parole? You ain’t gettin’ parole. This motherfucker's servin’ natural lifes – he ain’t ever gettin’ out. He needs to stop actin’ like a fuckin cop.
“Lemmetellyasomethin’, motherfucker: if you’d wash your hands and face, and stop blowin’ snot all over the place, you could handle my fuckin’ laundry.”
“How about I just straight kill you and stick yer laundry up yer ass, you old motherfucker.”
“We all know you ain’t gonna kill nothin’, motherfucker. The only thing yer gonna kill, motherfucker, is a fuckin’ extra chicken breast if some motherfuckin’ fool gives you one at chow.”
“You need to watch yer back, motherfucker.”
Sensing rising tension, Officer Redrock shouted, “Chows over. Everyone back to your houses and lockdown!"
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Ogre Confronts Two Tonys
Thundering through the chow hall toward Two Tonys strode Ogre.
“There’s that old motherfucker who started shit just 'cause I wuz goin’ thru the laundry,” Ogre yelled at Two Tonys.
The crowd divided into three: California gang members behind Ogre, local lifers and murderers behind Two Tonys, and the rest - blood-hungry spectators.
“This big-headed motherfucker,” Two Tonys said, pointing at Ogre’s face, “wanted to kill me over the laundry.”
“You fuckin’ started it!”
“And you insulted me by callin’ me a CO, and threatenin’ to put me somewhere there’d be tubes in my fuckin’ nose. Have you looked under your nose lately? Your moustache looks like a womb broom you haven’t washed since you’ve been down. I can see nits in it, and lice crawlin’ round yer fuckin’ head.”
“Why you gotta be actin’ like a cop around the laundry? Whattaya tryin to do, earn parole? You ain’t gettin’ parole. This motherfucker's servin’ natural lifes – he ain’t ever gettin’ out. He needs to stop actin’ like a fuckin cop.
“Lemmetellyasomethin’, motherfucker: if you’d wash your hands and face, and stop blowin’ snot all over the place, you could handle my fuckin’ laundry.”
“How about I just straight kill you and stick yer laundry up yer ass, you old motherfucker.”
“We all know you ain’t gonna kill nothin’, motherfucker. The only thing yer gonna kill, motherfucker, is a fuckin’ extra chicken breast if some motherfuckin’ fool gives you one at chow.”
“You need to watch yer back, motherfucker.”
Sensing rising tension, Officer Redrock shouted, “Chows over. Everyone back to your houses and lockdown!"
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
16 March 06
Anal Virginity Threats: A Peeping Tom?
(Threat level: mild)
“How come you’ve been showing up so much recently when I’ve been sat on the toilet, George?"
“I think you’re a reverse voyeur,” George said. “You see me coming up the walkway and – wham bam – you drop the royal drawers."
“I think you’ve been getting peeping-Tom jollies at my expense.”
“I think you orchestrate it, Jon.”
“That’s wishful thinking in your warped mind.”
“I don’t think about you in that fashion since you’ve turned out to be a homophobic superhetro. I’ve no inkling at all. If you dropped the royal drawers right now and got a woodie, I’d step back and say ‘Hmm. How interesting. How utterly British’.”
“That sounds like a cover story for your recent voyeurism.”
“I don’t think it’s voyeurism on my fart – oops! – I meant, on my part. I think it’s exhibitionism on yours.”
“You were doing well, George, but the Freudian slip gave you away. Fart slipping out suggests the guilt you are experiencing from peeping at me on the toilet – a position in which I’m likely to release wind."
“That’s not true. You’re an exhibitionist who likes to show off the royal bum. And, speaking of Freud, I believe the problem stems from your Oedipus complex, when you were a young child screaming, ‘Wipe my royal bum, Mum’.”
“Then please explain the increasing frequency of your visits when I’m on the toilet?”
“That’s just chance.”
“Oh, yeah. Explain the gawking then?”
“Well, I’ve never seen anyone quite wipe their butt like you do.”
“How so?”
“It’s odd. There’s a regal air to it. You cock your head back and flap your arm out.”
“George, they are necessary movements for bum wiping.”
"Yes, Jon, but you do it so aristocratically.”
“The fact that you can detail my wiping technique is proof of your crime. Anyone else seeing me on the toilet would quickly turn away, and not ponder how I'm wiping.”
A sinister look came over George's face and his trembling arms reached for my thigh.
I grabbed my pen and quickly stabbed his arm.
Seeing I'd drawn blood, he shrieked and ran out of the cell.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Anal Virginity Threats: A Peeping Tom?
(Threat level: mild)
“How come you’ve been showing up so much recently when I’ve been sat on the toilet, George?"
“I think you’re a reverse voyeur,” George said. “You see me coming up the walkway and – wham bam – you drop the royal drawers."
“I think you’ve been getting peeping-Tom jollies at my expense.”
“I think you orchestrate it, Jon.”
“That’s wishful thinking in your warped mind.”
“I don’t think about you in that fashion since you’ve turned out to be a homophobic superhetro. I’ve no inkling at all. If you dropped the royal drawers right now and got a woodie, I’d step back and say ‘Hmm. How interesting. How utterly British’.”
“That sounds like a cover story for your recent voyeurism.”
“I don’t think it’s voyeurism on my fart – oops! – I meant, on my part. I think it’s exhibitionism on yours.”
“You were doing well, George, but the Freudian slip gave you away. Fart slipping out suggests the guilt you are experiencing from peeping at me on the toilet – a position in which I’m likely to release wind."
“That’s not true. You’re an exhibitionist who likes to show off the royal bum. And, speaking of Freud, I believe the problem stems from your Oedipus complex, when you were a young child screaming, ‘Wipe my royal bum, Mum’.”
“Then please explain the increasing frequency of your visits when I’m on the toilet?”
“That’s just chance.”
“Oh, yeah. Explain the gawking then?”
“Well, I’ve never seen anyone quite wipe their butt like you do.”
“How so?”
“It’s odd. There’s a regal air to it. You cock your head back and flap your arm out.”
“George, they are necessary movements for bum wiping.”
"Yes, Jon, but you do it so aristocratically.”
“The fact that you can detail my wiping technique is proof of your crime. Anyone else seeing me on the toilet would quickly turn away, and not ponder how I'm wiping.”
A sinister look came over George's face and his trembling arms reached for my thigh.
I grabbed my pen and quickly stabbed his arm.
Seeing I'd drawn blood, he shrieked and ran out of the cell.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
12 March 06
The Chicken Patty
“Hey, you gonna eat your chicken patty?” Little Wood, a youngster, shouted to Two Tonys.
“No, I’m not,” Two Tonys said.
“Can I get it?”
“Lemme check with my dawg here first,” Two Tonys said. “Hey, Cowboy, you want my chicken patty?”
“Yeah. Fuck, yeah,” Cowboy, a lifer, said. “I wannit if you’re not gonna eat it.”
“Hey, I asked first," Little Wood said in a raised voice. “I thought we were better than that, Two Tonys.”
“Hey, Little Wood,” Two Tonys said. “You know Cowboy here’s my road dawg. He’s gonna get food off my tray before you. You gotta accept that.”
“Fuck it,” Little Wood said. “I ain’t talkin’ to you no more. I ain’t got no rap for you.”
“Awww,” Two Tonys said. “How da fuck am I gonna make it through life without you rappin’ to me. I’m sixty-five-fuckin-years old. I’ve killed sixty-three of those years without you rappin’ to me. Do you think I can make it through another ten?”
Little Wood scowled at Two Tonys.
“What the fuck, Little Wood,” Two Tonys said. “Are we gonna have beef over a chicken fuckin’ patty? If that’s the way it is, fuck it, you ain’t got nothin’ comin’ from me.”
Two Tonys and Cowboy took their trays to their regular table - out of earshot of Little Wood. Cowboy took the chicken patty.
“Would ya believe it,” Two Tonys said. “Here I am, a guy who’s eaten abalone in Hawaii, and lobster in Cancun, and I’ve got a jabroni over here who wants to argue with me over a thirty-nine-cent, state-issue, piece-o-shit chicken patty. Sometimes I think I’m better off checkin’ outta this fuckin’ place and seein’ what’s on the other side. Stupid shit like this – arguin’ over chicken patties – makes my fuckin' blood boil.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
The Chicken Patty
“Hey, you gonna eat your chicken patty?” Little Wood, a youngster, shouted to Two Tonys.
“No, I’m not,” Two Tonys said.
“Can I get it?”
“Lemme check with my dawg here first,” Two Tonys said. “Hey, Cowboy, you want my chicken patty?”
“Yeah. Fuck, yeah,” Cowboy, a lifer, said. “I wannit if you’re not gonna eat it.”
“Hey, I asked first," Little Wood said in a raised voice. “I thought we were better than that, Two Tonys.”
“Hey, Little Wood,” Two Tonys said. “You know Cowboy here’s my road dawg. He’s gonna get food off my tray before you. You gotta accept that.”
“Fuck it,” Little Wood said. “I ain’t talkin’ to you no more. I ain’t got no rap for you.”
“Awww,” Two Tonys said. “How da fuck am I gonna make it through life without you rappin’ to me. I’m sixty-five-fuckin-years old. I’ve killed sixty-three of those years without you rappin’ to me. Do you think I can make it through another ten?”
Little Wood scowled at Two Tonys.
“What the fuck, Little Wood,” Two Tonys said. “Are we gonna have beef over a chicken fuckin’ patty? If that’s the way it is, fuck it, you ain’t got nothin’ comin’ from me.”
Two Tonys and Cowboy took their trays to their regular table - out of earshot of Little Wood. Cowboy took the chicken patty.
“Would ya believe it,” Two Tonys said. “Here I am, a guy who’s eaten abalone in Hawaii, and lobster in Cancun, and I’ve got a jabroni over here who wants to argue with me over a thirty-nine-cent, state-issue, piece-o-shit chicken patty. Sometimes I think I’m better off checkin’ outta this fuckin’ place and seein’ what’s on the other side. Stupid shit like this – arguin’ over chicken patties – makes my fuckin' blood boil.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
10 March 06
Ogre Romances The Giantess
“My back's killin’,”Ogre said.
“I’m told George gives good back massages,” I said.
“No!" Ogre said.
It’s alright. If you sit on a stool, his hands won’t be able to slip down to your lower regions.”
“That motherfucker wanted to take a shower with me. He offered to exfoliate my back.”
“Did you take him up on that?”
“Hell no! I told him I’d beat his ass down in the shower.”
Entering the cell, Xena said, "The worst part about gettin’ beaten down by me is that I’m a homosexual.”
“Yeah,” Ogre said, turning to me. “Imagine a six-and-a-half foot, two-hundred-and-somethin’-pound fag, beatin’ you up and takin’ your ass.”
“I only do that to people like you, Ogre. I’ll tell you what, seein’ as though you claim you’ve never took it in the ass before, I’ll go easy on you at first.” Xena, drew circles in the air with his fingers while describing in detail what he would do to Ogre.
“Stop. You’re makin' me blush,” Ogre said.
“I’m gonna hafta blog this, Ogre,” I said.
“If you make me out to be a queer on the Internet, I’ll give you a fuckin’ black eye!”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Ogre Romances The Giantess
“My back's killin’,”Ogre said.
“I’m told George gives good back massages,” I said.
“No!" Ogre said.
It’s alright. If you sit on a stool, his hands won’t be able to slip down to your lower regions.”
“That motherfucker wanted to take a shower with me. He offered to exfoliate my back.”
“Did you take him up on that?”
“Hell no! I told him I’d beat his ass down in the shower.”
Entering the cell, Xena said, "The worst part about gettin’ beaten down by me is that I’m a homosexual.”
“Yeah,” Ogre said, turning to me. “Imagine a six-and-a-half foot, two-hundred-and-somethin’-pound fag, beatin’ you up and takin’ your ass.”
“I only do that to people like you, Ogre. I’ll tell you what, seein’ as though you claim you’ve never took it in the ass before, I’ll go easy on you at first.” Xena, drew circles in the air with his fingers while describing in detail what he would do to Ogre.
“Stop. You’re makin' me blush,” Ogre said.
“I’m gonna hafta blog this, Ogre,” I said.
“If you make me out to be a queer on the Internet, I’ll give you a fuckin’ black eye!”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
08 March 06
Psychotherapy with Dr O’Malley (Part 1)
Psychotherapy with Dr. O, a cognitive behaviourist and neuropsychologist, has commenced.
When I arrived at his office a Mozart concerto was playing.
After exchanging greetings, he began by reading some homework he had assigned me when I was at Medical viewing my mental health records.
Homework question:
Look at what you are doing with yoga, and how you use it to confront mental health issues. How could you do better?
My response:
My emotions seem to depend on two things: activating events and my interpretations of those events. Mental yoga has taught me that I have the power to choose whether or not I become upset about events over which I have no control.
Siddha Yoga teaches that activating events are kriyas, (purification processes) necessary to restore karma. If something bad happens, I shouldn’t mope. I should appreciate that I’m having a kriya, that the Shakti (cosmic force) is cleaning out samskaras (impressions that misshape current thoughts) to restore my karma. If I suffer a depression, I can wallow in self-pity and exacerbate the condition, or I can choose to recognize – and maybe even rejoice – that the Skakti is cleaning out the depression and restoring karma.
This approach is similar to Stoic philosophy taught by Epictetus, who pointed out that people are disturbed not by events, but by the views which they take of them.
If I feel stressed, I can use yogic breathing (full belly breathing with active exhalation as opposed to shallow chest breathing) to calm down. Concentrating on breathing instead of on a stressful event can enable me to relax.
I am striving to do better by following Socrates’ advice – know thyself – and by learning cognitive and yogic techniques to manage my flaws. I’ve discovered that one of the causes of my wild partying may have been the need to self-medicate depression and anxiety problems that I never knew existed until I received professional help after being arrested. I aim to do better by learning, and putting that knowledge into practice.
The first thing he said after reading my homework was, “Do you ever feel like you’re a fish out of water?”
“In here or before my arrest?” I asked.
“Whichever.”
“Yeah. Since I was a teenager.”
“How was you family life?”
“Normal. Good parents and a younger sister who I teased a lot.”
“Why did you do drugs?”
“Perhaps so I wouldn’t feel like a fish out of water, to self-medicate depressions triggered by relationship breakdowns - I don’t know all the reasons.”
“Which drugs did you use?”
“Club drugs: Ecstasy, Special K, and GHB. We were a modern-day Ken Kesey and the Pranksters.”
“Do you know how Ecstasy works?”
“It raises serotonin levels, and may cause brain damage when abused.”
“How long have you been doing yoga for?”
“My sister, Karen, sent me a beginners’ book not long after my arrest. It must be over three years now.”
“Yoga systems have been around for over five-thousand years. Yoga can help the brain. The Dalai Lama had neuroscientists monitor the brain-wave activity of Buddhist monks, and they found increased gamma-wave activity. By exercising the brain through techniques such as yoga, we know that you can restructure certain parts of the brain.”
“By neurogenesis?”
“Yes. The brain is malleable in small but significant ways. For example, a brain scan of a musician listening to music will show more biochemical activity in specific areas of the brain, that when you or I listen to music.”
“Wow! So we really can workout and reshape our brains?”
“Yes. And that’s what you’ve been doing with the yoga you’ve written about. There are many types of yoga. There are strange yogic paths that some people take.”
“Like Aleister Crowley?”
“Yes. He did, but tell me what you are looking to get out of these therapy sessions?”
“I want to understand myself better. I don’t want to go through life having runs of success followed by knocking everything down. If I can understand my past mistakes, I’ll be less likely to repeat them in the future.”
“Yoga and psychotherapy should give you a growing awareness of yourself. You must learn to be happy in the present – with or without success. You certainly shouldn’t be beating yourself up – whether consciously or subconsciously. I’m going to have you do a PSI [Personality Assessment Inventory] test this week, and we’ll go from there. Do you have any questions?”
“Yes, why is it every time I get going with psychotherapy, the doctor gets moved? Will you be here for the foreseeable future?”
“I’d like to say yes, but frankly, with DOC, you never know. DOC is like a glacier moving incredibly slowly, and every now and then a fragment chips off, and you never know if you will be in that fragment.”
“Well, I hope they keep you here. I like the cognitive approach, and I think I could make a lot of progress with you."
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Psychotherapy with Dr O’Malley (Part 1)
Psychotherapy with Dr. O, a cognitive behaviourist and neuropsychologist, has commenced.
When I arrived at his office a Mozart concerto was playing.
After exchanging greetings, he began by reading some homework he had assigned me when I was at Medical viewing my mental health records.
Homework question:
Look at what you are doing with yoga, and how you use it to confront mental health issues. How could you do better?
My response:
My emotions seem to depend on two things: activating events and my interpretations of those events. Mental yoga has taught me that I have the power to choose whether or not I become upset about events over which I have no control.
Siddha Yoga teaches that activating events are kriyas, (purification processes) necessary to restore karma. If something bad happens, I shouldn’t mope. I should appreciate that I’m having a kriya, that the Shakti (cosmic force) is cleaning out samskaras (impressions that misshape current thoughts) to restore my karma. If I suffer a depression, I can wallow in self-pity and exacerbate the condition, or I can choose to recognize – and maybe even rejoice – that the Skakti is cleaning out the depression and restoring karma.
This approach is similar to Stoic philosophy taught by Epictetus, who pointed out that people are disturbed not by events, but by the views which they take of them.
If I feel stressed, I can use yogic breathing (full belly breathing with active exhalation as opposed to shallow chest breathing) to calm down. Concentrating on breathing instead of on a stressful event can enable me to relax.
I am striving to do better by following Socrates’ advice – know thyself – and by learning cognitive and yogic techniques to manage my flaws. I’ve discovered that one of the causes of my wild partying may have been the need to self-medicate depression and anxiety problems that I never knew existed until I received professional help after being arrested. I aim to do better by learning, and putting that knowledge into practice.
The first thing he said after reading my homework was, “Do you ever feel like you’re a fish out of water?”
“In here or before my arrest?” I asked.
“Whichever.”
“Yeah. Since I was a teenager.”
“How was you family life?”
“Normal. Good parents and a younger sister who I teased a lot.”
“Why did you do drugs?”
“Perhaps so I wouldn’t feel like a fish out of water, to self-medicate depressions triggered by relationship breakdowns - I don’t know all the reasons.”
“Which drugs did you use?”
“Club drugs: Ecstasy, Special K, and GHB. We were a modern-day Ken Kesey and the Pranksters.”
“Do you know how Ecstasy works?”
“It raises serotonin levels, and may cause brain damage when abused.”
“How long have you been doing yoga for?”
“My sister, Karen, sent me a beginners’ book not long after my arrest. It must be over three years now.”
“Yoga systems have been around for over five-thousand years. Yoga can help the brain. The Dalai Lama had neuroscientists monitor the brain-wave activity of Buddhist monks, and they found increased gamma-wave activity. By exercising the brain through techniques such as yoga, we know that you can restructure certain parts of the brain.”
“By neurogenesis?”
“Yes. The brain is malleable in small but significant ways. For example, a brain scan of a musician listening to music will show more biochemical activity in specific areas of the brain, that when you or I listen to music.”
“Wow! So we really can workout and reshape our brains?”
“Yes. And that’s what you’ve been doing with the yoga you’ve written about. There are many types of yoga. There are strange yogic paths that some people take.”
“Like Aleister Crowley?”
“Yes. He did, but tell me what you are looking to get out of these therapy sessions?”
“I want to understand myself better. I don’t want to go through life having runs of success followed by knocking everything down. If I can understand my past mistakes, I’ll be less likely to repeat them in the future.”
“Yoga and psychotherapy should give you a growing awareness of yourself. You must learn to be happy in the present – with or without success. You certainly shouldn’t be beating yourself up – whether consciously or subconsciously. I’m going to have you do a PSI [Personality Assessment Inventory] test this week, and we’ll go from there. Do you have any questions?”
“Yes, why is it every time I get going with psychotherapy, the doctor gets moved? Will you be here for the foreseeable future?”
“I’d like to say yes, but frankly, with DOC, you never know. DOC is like a glacier moving incredibly slowly, and every now and then a fragment chips off, and you never know if you will be in that fragment.”
“Well, I hope they keep you here. I like the cognitive approach, and I think I could make a lot of progress with you."
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
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