Water-Boarding vs Truth Boarding

By now, everyone should be very familiar with one of the most common scenarios that politicians bought from prosecuting Lawyers to justify some of their most aggregious usurpation’s of constitutional law. It borrows from Hollywood to add fake suspense. It involves a made up story about a ticking time bomb. Some silk suited authority figure creates a breathless fantasy about some criminal or terrorist who hid this bomb under a daycare somewhere, full of innocent children. The story ends with the politician or lawyer-professor bleating desperately to an imagined public sweating, sitting on the edge of our seats, chewing our fingernails. He shouts authoritatively: “We must have your permission to ‘water board’ these evildoers to save the babies! Time is running out!”

So far, there has never been found any criminal or terrorist who has had a ticking time bomb buried under any day care centers. Not even close, because there is no logic in this fantasy. Yet, this fantasy has been used to justify, and probably even start, the phony war on IRAQ that caused the violent deaths of hundreds of thousands of IRAQIS, including enough innocent children to fill hundreds and hundreds of day care centers. This war was deliberately created by a pack of powerful liars. These liars secretly hired professional Lawyers to twist the law to give them the ‘legal’ power to ‘water-board’ their targets. The purpose of hiring these Lawyers was to justify the torturers after they inevitably got caught. Their time-bomb fantasy was used over and over to justify their torture of hundreds of people, many of whom turned out to be completely innocent.

And, now that all the genocidal maniacs, war criminals and torture-sadists walked away, scot free, and the heat of public opinion has died off, Trump and his cabal of warmongers want to do it again. Particularly, he wants to water-board “some bad dudes.”

Americans who work for a living got burned pretty badly after foolishly acceding to the demands of that last pack of liars. We paid over $3 trillion to “Fix terrorism by fighting it over there.” Their ‘pre-emptive’ war did not fix terrorism. Their war on terror actually increased terrorism by at least 100-fold and it brought the terrorists right here to where we live. Now, terrorism doesn’t bother these rich, powerful silk-suits who started their war on terror. Terrorists can’t get past their armies of soldiers, cops, security guards and body guards. Terrorists can’t climb the walls around their mansions, shoot through their bulletproof limousines or catch their helicopters and planes. To these silk-suited war-starters and planes. To these silk-suited war-starters, terrorism is nothing more than an abstract puzzle that helps them get re-elected by talking tough and richer by talking tough, and richer by selling more arms. (Every U.S. Politician has an arms factory or other type of war profiteering center in their district.)

So: it would seem that working class men and women are study with an ever-worsening terror situation that randomly kills us while it benefits the Gluttons Of Privilege. But, what if this “ticking time bomb” scenario could be stretched over to include our war-mongering politicians? They are like the biggest, most powerful, most numerous ticking time bombs, considering how they love to go joy-bombing all over the world and rain hell fires from drones all over the place while they watch the hilarious military mass-murder that they cause from the safety of their luxurious nuclear hidey-holes. What if, the next time that these politicians came at us for permission to attack another nation, we could water-board the truth out of them first?  Wouldn’t that be nice? To not get fooled again? To stop terrorism before it was created?

Well, thanks to modern technology, we can! Except it’s not waterboarding the truth out of them. I’d call it “truth-boarding,” because we strap their heads inside a magnetic ring and simply ask them, “Why do you really want to start this new war?” Functional Magnetic Resonance (FMRI) lie detection gets to the truth out of them 97% of the time. (3% are inconclusive) So!

The next time that hundreds of thousands of lives are at stake, we need to get our facts straight: we can’t rely on any crafty politicians. The only way to be sure is through truth-boarding.

Gateway Laws

You know how cops and politicians never miss an opportunity to try and sell the ignorant and gullible their bunk concept of “gateway drug (eek!)”? This is a weed tat dies off every year as youngsters grow into thinking adults. Authority must constantly re-plant this gateway drug nonsense in everyone’s minds for two very important reasons. The common sense ‘logic” of the concept keeps falling off like a pair of clown pants every time the scientific community reports on it. Also, authority cannot let this bogus “fact” die because 90% of their drug “war” is based solely on scaring voting fools into believing that all “drugs” (except corporate drugs) equal the worst drug.

Cops and politicians have mastered this magic trick and have been perpetrating it on the gullible, voting public for over 80 years now. Citizens are slowly getting wiser; however, especially now that we are beginning to get free of the Gov./media alliance’s top-down, one-way bullhorns that scramble our brains with endless, constant Gov-think. Now that we have our own, two-way communications where we can compare notes, many of us have learned to think for ourselves. One of the things that many of us have learned is that the cops and politicians have lied to us for 80 years. It seems that there is no “Reefer madness.” Many states have voted to de-outlaw marijuana because it suppresses crime, and it is not the same as heroin. Many of these cops and politicians have been seen to have egg on their faces now that it is found that a succession of corporate-made opioid analog drugs seem to have been gateway drugs to heroin. Of course, you don’t need a gateway to get you into the yard from the yard, but yes 90% of the gov’ts lucrative harvest from “crime” would fail if the citizens ever woke up, shook loose from their programming and realized, “This isn’t crime! This is simple parasitism! If this realization ever becomes widely perceived, then thousands upon thousands of excess cops, lawyers, prosecutors, judges, jailers, prison guards, parole bureaucrats and other leeches who live off the misery that they impose upon other would get thrown out of their sinecures. They would have to go do useful work to support themselves. We suddenly would have a lot fewer over bloated gov’t bureaucracies wasting our tax cash in luxurious accommodations where they shuffle paper and keep secret records of who has which black checkmarks that can be further exploited. Almost as good, a primary infestation route would be shut down, or at least slowed down, so that maybe we could become a gov’t of people instead of lawyers.

Though there are no gateway drugs, many of the more experienced citizens have noticed that there are “Gateway Laws.” The clearest gateway laws are, of course, the many thousands of laws against smoking pot, possessing pot, giving pot to friends, (“trafficking”) having slightly too much pot, having pot wrapped in too many little packages, having pot within 1,000 feet of a school, church, daycare or playground, etc, having pot in the same home as your kids, having something to smoke pot in, clean pot on, store pot in or to conceal pot from cops, thieves, children or kin. Cops have even bought gateway laws from the politicians to allow them to detect microscopic amount of pot, pot soot, pot chemicals, even traces of pot in piss so that they can get rich off out of every aspect of pot. We who have lived through the crime of cops and politicians criminalizing pot saw it as a slow-motion train wreck. They created crime out of pot to take away people’s assets through bonds, court fees, fines, prison and slavery (Abduction, ransom and theft of labor). Soon as they saw how easily that they could trick citizens into accepting the lie that reefer madness was a real crime, cops and politicians raced to pump out more false crimes to entrap their target class and to enrich themselves. They gave the cops the privilege to perpetrate crime in order to drag more people through their legal slaughter houses faster. Cops sold drugs to accomplish this. The cops’ greed festered, as did the insatiable greed of the Lawyers, Prosecutors, judges and politicians. With so many buzzards feeding off the same carrion, no one could get fat as quickly as they wanted. New gateway laws were invented. Now they could say that they had found microscopic traces of pot in your car or home and steal anything you own! Some greedy California cops got caught pretending to have found pot on a ranch that they had seen while flying around in their shiny new drug-chaser helicopter. Their victim had to waste almost a million dollars feeding the lawyers just to keep his own property! The “anything that touches pot is ours!”  laws were just the start. Next, they decided that they could steal anything of yours that they declared was paid for by pot “profits”. Even this couldn’t sate their greed for long. Their addiction to stealing your cash and assets made them give themselves the Midas touch: They simply point at what they want of yours and declare it to be theirs!

Gateway laws are not all about just making fat profits off of a defenseless prey class. Gateway laws are for making your targeted class even more vulnerable to exploitation by stripping us of our political power; our vote and credibility. One of the Watergate burglar-cops even confessed in his new book that the actual point of him and his cronies’ drug “war” was to steal away with the votes of hippies, Negroes and the poor who tend to vote democratic. Nixon, the republicans and “conservatives” represent the hereditary rich, the merchant class and persons who are riding the gov’t gravy train. They were drowning in democrats and could maintain election no other way. The rich, the merchants and the gov’t gravy-train freeloaders are so few in number compared to the common man that they must constantly scheme up ways to lie, cheat, steal and suppress voters in order to gain election. Their gateway laws do exactly this, disenfranchising millions of people who would normally vote for the people instead of the parasites, who do no work, but live off of loansharking their money, or who are middlemen who take a huge bite out of everything that passes, or who simply live off of their bloated gov’t privileges.

Worse, gateway laws are just the tip of the crocodile’s jaws hiding in the scum of the swamp. Cops now talk openly of using drug laws as “leverage”, now that too many state’s citizens are taking away the crime of making pot a crime. Cops whine carefully and vaguely on TV, “Without or drug laws are our main crowbars which we use to beat out courtroom testimony that makes convicting other people easy. Dirty, rotten criminals will swear to a judge and jury anything that I tell them to say when I can take years of their lives for a crumb of dope!”

Yes, the nonsense of a gateway drug was hatched from the political fact of Gateway Laws.

In the Old Days

In the old days, you could set something down and it wouldn’t disappear if you turned you head. People would stand in line, like civilised men do.

This is what separated us from animals. Almost all of us had educations. We were smarter and more knowledgeable than our parents. (These poor saps were worked to the bone by their politicians; starved out during the first worldwide financial robbery, then forced to waste the rest of their lives fighting and killing their politicians’ enemies.) Music wasn’t just a bunch of screaming and bitching. Despite all the death, hunger, and hardship they’d suffered, they hadn’t let this wrap their minds. Instead of constantly wallowing in self-pity and whining “Me more!”, they smiled with black, rotted teeth and asked what they could do for you. The politicians gave them pretty medals, ribbons and Certificates of Honor for their sacrifice, then called them “The Greatest Generation”. Killing, starving, working, and living in poverty for their politicians didn’t make them the greatest generation. What did make them the greatest generation was the way that they took all this exploitation, abuse, and chicanery with a smile, unfailing good nature and a willingness to make even more personal sacrifice, then did their best to rebuild and repair the brobdingnagian destruction that they had wrought!


Isn’t “Old Nick” one of the names of the Devil? I seem to remember that it is, but this could just be sensory deprivation talking. I do know that early European settlers used to invoke Old Nick as they sat around their campfires, too scared to sleep for fear of natives getting them. The Devil did come from European mythology, didn’t he? At least, this is where he spreads most of his fear and loathing, from ancient roman times, to the Spanish Inquisition, through the Dark Ages, all the way to the incessant religious wars we suffer today all over the globe.

So, nicknames come from the Devil, at least in prison, because here, they are used to conceal devilry from the mass of common apes who have morality and ethics enough to stamp it out. There are no police in prison, though most people think that the guards are cops. They are not. They stay in their dark, air-conditioned safe habitats near their coffee pots for 8 hours, then leave. Only begrudgingly will they ever come out of their lair, and they will scurry back into its safety at the slightest hint of danger. Nope: no police in prisons, though lately, the prisoncrats have begun a Public Relations (PR) campaign to pretend that there are. This is usually in the form of an easy to remember slogan: “Keeping us safe, the public safe, and the inmates safe!” Sometimes they put the words “proud” or “pride” in there. In the future, as prison slave industries continue to explode, I expect them to set these PR slogans to music, like a jingle that gets stuck in your head. This expertly conceals the fact that, if prison “policing” was practiced outside, the cops would mainly sit in their cop-lairs, watching monitors and slurping coffee instead of cruising around and lurking behind concealment.

In prison, its anarchy. The only police in prisons are the mob of apes themselves who do not hide their identities behind Old Nick‘s names. The nicest thing about prison is that the worst dirt bags point themselves out to you. They have put permanent scribbles all over themselves, it works like a gauge of scuzziness: the more square inches of skin graffiti and the worse its quality, the worse the person. The same goes for nicknames, which act as advertisements. They tell you he‘s a dope fiend, or a scared sissy, or a rat-packer, etc, One of these dirt bags hid behind the name “TeePain.” He was a sneak attacker and had a relatively long career of sucker punching people because of all the cop-cams snooping into every corner. This punk would never go where the cop-eye couldn’t see, and he knew all about how to hide his face and actions from the cop eyes while he was maneuvering his victim for his cowardly sneak attack. In the old days, before cop-eyes were everywhere, the mob would have killed this punk quickly. Thanks to the cop-eyes, this punk’s sucker punch career lasted two years before the ape-mob could get him. He died noisily, squealing for mercy. He wished to god he hadn’t left the safety of the cop-cam. One would think that cop-eyes are like police, and guards are like police. They’re more like cleaners—they take their time, strapping their balls on and waiting for “overwhelming force” to muster and grab their gear. The shit is over before they get there. All they do is clean up the mess. They are not police, and they only keep themselves safe. Their nickname would be the aftermath cops, or the mop up crew, but they want us to call them Goon Squad, Guards like this nickname.


Violent is the label that all the politicians, bureaucrats, cops, lawyers, prosecutors, judges, parole boards and media personalities love to smear onto their targets. This is their key word for attracting attention to themselves. The gullible citizens respond to it like dogs to a whistle. Their ears prick-up, the stop doing everything that they were doing. They turn up the television or radio as if the talking head was saying something important. They freeze to listen intently, like frightened mice, as if this ‘expert’ knows all about violence.

He doesn’t. He thinks that he does, but he’s never seen real violence. He’s only heard stories about violence from others who have. Like me. Like this:

1979: McAlester prison; Oklahoma’s shittiest slow-death camp. A casual friend of mine is Joe. He’s short, but beefy, strong and quiet. He’s from Texas, but got slammed with a four year sentence here for a petty crime that is a misdemeanor everywhere else. The Oklahoma Lawyers’ system and our politicians are like this. They collect people into cages for glory and profit. It is their primary means of obtaining lucrative elective office. They shout “crime!” The taxpayers shit money. Joe likes to work out on the weight pile. He likes to eat, but he’s not yet fat. He’s almost 30, and he works in the kitchen, both for the food and for the ‘good’ time that shortens his sentence. This 7-days/week job is his quickest way out. His closet friend and co-worker, is Ken. They do vegetable preparation: peeling potatoes, chopping lettuce, washing greens. Ken was on death row, but got off in 1975, when top judges admitted how crooked their process was. Ken will never get out, but at least the prosecutors gave up trying to get him killed. Joe and Ken are in the kitchen now.

The doors to the cage stacks all slam open at once. Everyone in the tiny, toilet sized, two-man cages rush out to chow, trying to be first. The chow hall is too small, and they run lines through too quickly. No one gets enough time to eat like civilized men. If you’re first, you can sit down, eat your slop quickly and leave before the prison kop manning the exit door at the end of the hallway gets squirrelly. He likes to pile people up before he lets them out. It’s a power trip that is also a policy statement. If you’re last, you can try eating standing up. Or you can find someone weak and take his seat. There is one kop in this small room stuffed with 200 people fighting over 50 seats. He does nothing nut look tough and ceaselessly bellow at everyone, “Hurry up!” and “Get out!” He spends the rest of his time beating on the kitchen door, trying to get himself locked inside, safe from the madhouse that he and his fellow kops have been trained to create. Everybody hates being there. Everybody wants to kick people out of their way. Everyone would like to see someone take a metal tray and bash it into the kop’s barking teeth. Everybody wishes that they could rip one of the four-seat tables out of the cement and throw it through the cinderblock wall to escape into the sunlight on the other side. The windowless, concrete cave and the constant harassment within is that oppressive.

I was one of the first men in to grab my tray of slop and begin choking it down. While I was choosing what was safe enough to eat and what to throw back at them, an enemy who was still in line leaned over the railing to slam his cup onto my table, snarling, “That’s my seat you’re in!” I sneered back, “Not while I’m sitting here!” Just the noise was intolerable; shouting, cursing, threats, slams and bangs. It all rang off the walls and bounced back to irritate you again.

The main course, a breaded gut-meat, was inedible. I had better things to do. I took my tray with me to the low, one-by-four foot hole in the wall that served as the table into the dish room.  It was dark and humid in there, full of splashing; hoses spraying and the scent of caustic soda. The kops lock two men in there when the lines come through to feed. It’s a way-station for smuggling food out and contraband in. Just as I came up to throw my tray in, the keys jangled and light briefly poured in. the reflection off of the wet floor showed four legs coming in. the door behind them slammed shut and locked. Someone inside there let out a high-pitched scream of terror. I crouched down to look in and see its cause. A narrow slit of light came through the tiny observation port in the door that had just locked. A fist with a meat cleaver held high flashed down on someone’s upraised arm. Again and again, this angry fist chopped down with its cleaver. His victim screamed each time, slipping on the floor as his killer pressed his attack, bending him over backward onto the bed of the dish machine. Others heard the cries signaling impending murder and rushed to crowd their heads into the filthy tray-hole. While this killer was busily hacking at his victim’s defending arms to get at his brains, the guy behind him attacked the other dishwasher with a butcher knife. His target, forewarned, was determined not to die easily. He took a couple of slashes; one across his face another down his arm, before managing to get his hands on the wrist and fist that held the weapon. They struggled briefly but mightily, for control, grunting and wheezing with effort as they pushed, pulled, heaved and twisted for their lives. The tray-man lost the battle for possession of the knife, but succeeded in hooking a leg behind his foe and shoving him backward to the floor. He squatted to launch himself powerfully, aiming to catapult himself through the crowded tray-hole and into the chowhally with us, where there was at least a chance to run a few more feet to the next locked door. His face was white with fear and desperation where it was not dripping or smeared with blood from the gash across his nose and cheek. Gawkers in his path leaped backward as he landed on the table and clawed for the lip to drag himself across and out. The meat cleaver changed onto the tile floor as Joe noticed his second victim’s escape. The bleeding man pulled himself across there table, getting his head out into the light. Strong hands clamped around his ankle and began dragging him back into the dim pit. A wall of despair escaped the guy’s lips as his grip tore loose. I took his arm and pulled. Out of at least twenty gawkers, only one other person had the wherewithal to help. Rodney and I pulled the man back two more feet into the light. Then death row guy got back on his feet a clamped onto the guy’s other ankle, pulling with fero-city. The press of curiosity-seekers gibbered to itself as Rod and I struggled against Joe and Ken for the guy’s life. One of them hissed advice to someone: “Don’t do it, man! They’ll get you next!” Our grip failed in the sweat and blood. He wailed once more in despair as his terrified, pleading face disappeared into the darkness. They hacked him to death while Rod and I ran down the hall to trick our way past the exit-door kop before he learned what had occurred. A knot of about thirty gawkers came to their sense and got out behind us before the kops locked all the doors and gates, trapping everyone else. Rod and I got to our separate cages and scrubbed the blood off before they could rope us in as accomplices. We needn’t have worried. The “investigation” was a total farce: the Lawyers’ system was completely useless except for benefitting itself. Ken took all the blame, copping out to two more meaningless life sentences on top of the one he already was lucky to have gotten. Joe, who had both instigated and performed these murders, walked away, free as a bird, two years later after finishing his original sentence. The judge/prosecutor team was happy to let a double-killer get away just so that they could avoid wasting their time on a trial when they could be making none off of paying clients. Now that’s violence! Violence by the Lawcrats in setting a double murderer loose upon an unsuspecting citizenry, whom they swore, as a condition of their office, to protect. That tray-hole held the faces of twenty or more witnesses. Not a single one was asked to testify. No one asked why the kop locked two armed vegetable preparation workers into the dish room. No one asked what possible business they had in there amongst the slop barrels and soiled trays. No one asked why the cops, prosecutors and judges so eagerly and swiftly accepted the tidy little plea bargain presented to them by the former death row inmate. These are questions that jurors and the kin of the slain victims would like to have had answered.

More violence is the way that the self-called “watchdog” media chose to ignore all of the inmates’ letters to them detailing these murders. After every instance of violence, (McAlester prison averaged a murder every month at this time) the prison kops get stacks of letters full of “intel” that they generally file away and ignore. Since the inmates are more terrified of living amongst soul-less killers than are ordinary citizens, (having no protection from them in prison), When their pleas are ignored by the kops, they appeal to the media. The soul-less media did nothing useful to the captives or the citizens that they purport to serve; not even turn these detailed accounts of the murders over to the next of kin. This violence is called “Destruction of evidence.” The station managers, editors and news-professionals could not care less. They were assured that they would not be prosecuted for this crime. They followed the instructions of the cops and lawcrats: “Throw those eyewitnesses statements away! They would only keep wounds open and festering!” this is very ironic, considering that the media usually leads the mob, bleating demands for “closure”. This victims’ kin got no closure. They got lies instead. The facts must never escape. The victims’ families must be forever separated from these eyewitnesses’ statements. Else they might come to understand the nature of wholesale social violence that hides its snickering face behind mere individual acts of violence. The fact that the citizens are so easily tricked and kept stupid by the super-criminal elite within the Gov/media alliance is by far the worst violence of all.


Famous Mass Murderer Goes Free!

Only a few days ago, our watchdog media slipped this real news in as one quick sentence between debates of which politician said which most ridiculous lie. Ousted Egyptian Dictator Hosin Mubarak is famous for having his uniformed thugs kidnap people into secluded underground, gov’t dungeons for prolonged torture that often resulted in death. I’m pretty sure that he started out as a US/Israeli-installed puppet who gradually turned into such a rabid Islamist that he had to have his military sadists slaughter crowds of protesters just to stay in power one more year.

Where most genocidal politicians in similar jams usually decide to loot their country and fly off to safety elsewhere, this one actually got arrested, though not thrown in any cage like most killers. He was, at over 80 years old, too old and sick to go to prison, so they took him to a hospital. That was about 5 years ago. Now that no one is looking, they’re sneaking him out to a new hiding place, where he can spend all of his billion$ while trying to live to be 100 or more.

Dirt Bag City!

Oklahoma’s shittiest prison, called “Big Crack,” in McAlester, was like a 3rd world back the early 1970’s. Despite all of its 2,200 inhabitants being forced to work at absurdly low wages, ($1.60/month, excluding 20% ‘savings’ for when they got out), there seemed to be an awful lot of money floating around for spending on vice. Bookies were everywhere, selling parley tickets to sports-fanatics who had no idea of the odds against winning. Everyone seemed to love the chased ball. When asked, each of these gamblers would tell me, “Oh, I’m about even, or a little ahead. Slightly less money would go to the food-thieves. I worked in the chow hall, as a cook, then as a baker. Cooks would steal the scrap meat patties and the baloney to make sandwiches which were smuggled to the cage stacks to be sold for cigarettes. I once bought a grilled cheese sandwich from a Negro who ran loose in the cat walks while we were all locked in our cages. It came, unwrapped, in a grease-spotted brown paper bag which I threw in the trash where two other captives who spat snuff and hawked phlegm. The hustler ran off to make another sandwich in the tinfoil and light bulb oven he had made. A few minutes later, he was at my cage again wanting this bag, explaining, ‘People don’t want to buy a sandwich out of my hand.” We bakers were a little more professional. We’d make too much biscuit dough, which would turn into cinnamon rolls or fruit turnovers. My preference was to make brownies, two big slabs, wrapped in clean plastic, and got me a pack of cigarettes or stamps. I’d make them and smuggle them up to the cages by the bag full. I’d give the run man a third to sell them to starving captives trapped in the tiny cages from 6pm to 6am.

Another thing that was big for alleviating the monotony and routine cruelty was dope. The prison kops could sometimes be paid to bring in weed. A good friend of mine had a kop send in a special case of paprika. Inside each of the 24 two-pound cans were two baggies of weed. He’d brag to me that he could get 70-75 toothpicks joint from each bag, and sell them for $2 each. He had a gold, one-carat diamond ring that he used for collateral. He showed me a bank statement showing $10,000. Another of his boasts was of using some of his profits to buy some of the trash speed to shoot. He used a sharpened basketball inflation needle and the bulb of an eyedropper to get the stuff in his vein. A friendly kop came by and interrupted him while he shot up. He and he kop talked for ten minutes as he hid his arm below the level of the bars, dribbling blood down on his side of the floor.

Depriving people of almost everything that are normal about being human makes many of them sick. Even sicker than people who rape their minds with dope are the prostitutes. These weak-minded and often lazy, ignorant people spread more of them too. While dopies give each other colds, cold sores, influenza and hepatitis or other curable diseases, the prostitutes and perverts spread warts, herpes, chlamydia and AIDS; diseases that have no cure, and some of which you can die from.

One of these sick perverts introduced himself to me as soon as the kops tossed me off into their slow death camp. His name was, appropriately, Dick. He and his friend, Kelly, seemed normal at first. Then it turned out that Dick was the worst type of psychopath. He described to me how he had decided to kill somebody, “Just to see what it felt like.” He tried to diminish his murder by adding, “he didn’t have any family: no one would miss him or even notice he was gone.” Someone did notice the mess that Dick left behind. They didn’t kill him for it, but only made everyone else in prison suffer him.

As to Dick being a pervert, this became clear when the Kops ran out of cages to cram people into. So they took a floor, tore out all the cages, then stuffed in four times as many sleeping racks. To trick the inmates into wanting to exist inside that cement sardine can, the kops called it an “Honor dorm.” Dick and his crew of sex maniacs were some of the first ones to move in. At night, we could see them surreptitiously adjust their sheets and blankets to make a hideout to crawl under. The nightly sodomy lasted more than six months, and then came to a thrilling conclusion during the coldest part of winter. It was freezing in that deathtrap due to an undeclared war between people who wanted to be warm and people who wanted to breathe. The cigarette smoke was thick as smog, but cracking a window caused howls of protest from the Blacks. Dick and his swap out partners had gotten away with their sexcapades for so long that they were crawling under their racks together even before the kops turned out the lights. A hobo-looking alcoholic called “Crop-ear” (A Negro had bitten it off in a fight) came over to berate me for wearing a jacket and cracking my window. He was cold, and smoking a giant, hand-rolled cigarette which mostly just smoldered in his hand. My friends cowered away from him. I took off my coat both to get ready for his attack and to offer it to him while I berated him for giving us all cancer. He hadn’t brought any friends, but he got braver as he noticed all of my friends looking away at nothing. He demanded that I shut my window. I told him to put out his cigarette. He took a menacing step forward. I reached my hand out of his sight beneath the dog pad on my rack as if I had a weapon. He stopped, but demanded I close my window again. “Close it yourself!” I sneered trying to give us both a way out. He was too scared to turn his back on me to do this; afraid I would attack with my non-existent weapon.


While we menaced each other, a loud smack and a grunt of pain erupted to our right. Dirt bag Dick catapulted out from under his rack, crawling on his Belly into the tile path under his rack, crawling on his belly into the tile path between the rows of lockers. He bled from his nose as he pulled up his pants to run past us, almost knocking crop-ear flat. Right behind him was Johnny Valentine, who nowhere else to run. Dick tried to fight, and everyone guessed from their fear of him that he’d be good at it. He wasn’t: Valentine punched, kicked and threw him around like a rag doll. One of the guts who hated Dick the most shouted, “A pack of Pall mall if you bust out his teeth, Valentine!” Another bellowed encouragement: “Beat his ass!”

The fight didn’t seem to last three minutes. They both ran out of gas, wheezing like asthmatic whales, Valentine on top of a thoroughly thrashed and bleeding enemy. Somebody sneaked over and shut my window while the rest of us watched the fight. The kops never came by to mass-punish everyone. It seemed that no one told the kops, this time. People calmed down as they realized how badly you could get stomped. Valentine told Dick to move out or get killed the next time. He caught “out” two hours later. The kops never even asked about his battered face. Then it was just another night in Dirt bag city.

Prison Menu Scams

Every once in a while our self-described media watchdogs are given a case where some prisoner legally begs a judge to make the prison food-kops serve something that seems trivial, like peanut butter or not-cold meals. These stories are always good for a laugh as the news personalities deride them to fill air time. I’ve been watching them pull up these “Inmate sues for trivial nonsense!” stories for 50 years, and to hear the talking heads tell it; it’s never for any good reason. So, perceptive people may ask, “Why did the Judge take it seriously?”

One must always realize about the media that their purpose is simplification, then manipulation. Accuracy in journalism is less important than entertainment value. When their “news” is entertaining enough, someone will sit through one of their sponsors’ commercials and maybe buy some laundry detergent. Accuracy doesn’t sell anything. So, every story must be manipulated for entertainment value, or it’s liable to be tossed for something else.

Prison food lawsuit stories are only entertaining when they are made ridiculous, so that tree people can at least amuse themselves by sneering at how entitled that these hated criminals seem to act.

Amusement, however, can come in many forms. One form is in how many different, delicious sounding names that prison food kops can concoct for the same type of ground-gut Pattie that the food kops serve to their victims daily. The same ground-up, stuck together, scrap meat Pattie is, on different days, shown on the menu to be “Salisbury steak”, “chicken fried steak”, “Beef cutlet”, “Steak Pattie” and “Beef Pattie”. When it’s not stuck together into a Pattie, this same ground up scrap “meat” is called “Sloppy joe”, “Beef stew”, “Chili mac”, “Cheeseburger mac”, “Chili”, “Taco”, “Spaghetti”, “Enchilada”, “Nachos” and “yakosobe”.

Prison food profilers do the same thing with ground-up, stuck-together “Chicken” patties. The really amusing ones occur when they began naming the primary “food” that their prison slave industries run on. These are all balonies, and they are so common that they make the goat meat patties seem like delicacies by comparison. These every day balonies are “healthy” because they have turkey in them. They’re amusing because none of it looks like turkey, but the food-namers call this baloney “Turkey ‘ham’”! (There hasn’t been any pork in prison for decades because the pork-o-phobic religions took over the menu. Now these religions have their own, special prison diets trucked in just for them, and we ordinary slaves still can’t get pork!) but we can pretend, with turkey ham (baloney)! These same turkey scraps are also molded into cylindrical baloney and awarded the name “Turkey hot dogs”. And we get “Turkey a la king”, “Turkey noodle casserole”, “Turkey with gravy” and finally, “Turkey baloney on a sub roll”! Except for the turkey dogs, all of these many fine varieties of Turkey are sliced off of the same, huge “super-hot dog” of finely ground, pressed together turkey scraps.

These prison food kops especially amuse their victims by leaving a thing on their menu that tantalizes: “Baked BBQ chicken on the bone”. This is on the monthly rotation, but only occurs one day/year: July fourth. Other than this one day, nothing that is recognizable as having come from an actual, live animal gets served in prison. It’s all baloney or other ground-up, pressed-together scrap “meat” in various shapes.

As if making us survive of offal isn’t cruel enough, try to find “exotic” food in the prison diet, like cauliflower, broccoli, non-plastic “cheese” or fruit that didn’t come out of a can full of thick, nasty corn syrup! Captives do get trace amounts of onion occasionally; enough to see that it is onion, but not enough to derive any health benefit from it. I’ve seen trace amounts of fish-scraps, smashed between slabs of cornstarch-glued breading. This is solely to keep us Catholics quiet, every Friday. If you want an apple or a tiny, 21/2 inch diameter orange, you have to turn into a Muslim or a Jew, because nobody else gets these fruits. Thousands of U.S. captives have feigned these religions just to get something fit to eat! The prison food kops have gotten the wink to call bags of flavored chemicals “fruit”, as long as they have vitamin ‘C’ mixed  in with the artificial sweeteners and font ask for condiments; they’re all soy! Soy mayo, soy butter, soy salad dressing; just tweak the chemicals and soy can be anything! We’ve got fewer than 20 basic foodstuffs on a monthly rotation that only barely changes on 3 holidays per year, all of it the cheapest offal that the kops can get away with, and, when somebody finally gets off their knees to sue for real food, Perkie Coiffure and Dan Dashing take offense at it and get sarcastic about it on channel six. Hilarious!

Geo Corp Prison: An Asshole Factory

A few weeks ago, during their latest mass-punishment operation, I met a little Negro girl who was busily pawing through my possessions, looking for something to find. She couldn’t find anything, but one of the teachers that they had subverted to be kops did. He found a pile of my math and chemistry books, and one science fiction novel. He brought it out, instead of the educational texts, to tell me, “You should put your name on these books, or they’ll take them.” The little black girl’s ears perked up at this, as it gave her a chance to practice her asshole skills. She ran out of the cage that she was ransacking to try to psychologically molest a real person. She started with questioning the teacher, snatching up the book, then sending her abuse to me after doing her crime-lab routine of trying to find some way to call my book “Property of the GEO prison ‘Library’”. It seems to have galled her to have searched it so thoroughly and failed to find any library stamp or torn-out pages that could have held a library stamp. Finally, she attacked me with her rapid-fire, scripted demands, rudeness and threats: “Is this your book! Did you get it from the Library! Why isn’t your name in this book! I can take this book!” etc.

Seeing that this was an asshole contest, I countered loudly enough for every one of both of our audiences to hear: “Do you have a receipt for that book? We all know that you didn’t bring it with you. It doesn’t become your book just because you can steal it out of that cage.”

The fact is that these cunning, arrogant, professional prison employees have developed a system where they can steal and plausibly feign righteousness while doing so, at least to themselves. Their scam begins when they intercept our books from the mail. In secret, they remove all packaging and nay slips of paper that may be inside the pages of these books. Days or even weeks after “cleaning” these books, or stealing them for containing upsetting material such as anti-gov’t opinions or porn, the kop will eventually call you up to their property-theft lair to allow you to take what they have approved or vandalized. (They used to steal all hard cover books until, years later, we were able to make a judge make the kops rip off the scary covers.) if you are stupid and docile enough to just be glad that the stinking kop let you have some of the books you bought, and hurry back to the cage with them, you  may hear the kops snickering joyfully as you make your getaway. This is because the kops have screwed you out of your packing list, if one was in there. You never get a receipt, but sometimes a judge will let a packing list substitute for one. Most captives are not even experienced enough with the kops’ tricks to make them tell you where the books came from.

Kops despise having their own tactics turned back upon them: “You know it’s my book; you just took it from my possessions! You know it’s not a library book because you just finished wasting ten minutes flipping through every page, trying to find a stamp. You do not own my book just because I let you thieve-off with it.”

This last sentence made me the winner of this asshole contest. Prison kop assholes pride themselves on how helpless their victims are to any and every type of abuse, molestation, thievery or other type of attack that they can think of. When you take this away from them, they sometimes lose control. This one actually gave herself away by letting everyone hear her say, “I’m going to teach you a lesson…” instead of the proper, “You don’t have a receipt, so I’m taking your book.” The key to getting rid of sadistic, abusive or power-addicted kops is to expose their sick ways. I got rid of this one’s predecessor, a “Lieutenant” Johns, by making her do her job correctly, and by deriding her while she focused maniacally on something stupid: laboriously peeling the transparent tape off of the picture identification card that the kops made me buy. This one went so nuts that the warden had her ejected from prison halfway through her shift.

Employee Dawson will go the same way, because kopwork is debilitating. It attracts arrogant, power-mad dip wads and gives them endless opportunity to indulge their sickness. The kops become ever-worse atrocities toward their helpless victims. The kops’ helpless, defenseless victims cannot fight back. To do so is suicide. So the kops have no feedback loops to gently push them toward less viciousness. Their victims can easily make these kops more vicious with gentle verbal protests, (sarcasm and contemptuous laughter work best). Doing so helps speed their journey to irrationality and termination as they compete to be the best assholes that they can be.

Fake News and the Gov-Media Alliance (It’s not just for governments anymore)

In order to escape mounting heat from the discovery of Trump’s minions being in bed with the Russians, Trump merely tweeted one sentence: “Obama tapped my phone!” This minuscule effort was, is still, sufficient to send the media howling after this nonsense for days, like a pack of hungry greyhounds chasing a mechanical rabbit. Now the media couldn’t care less about Trump cabal’s shaking down the Russians for relief from US sanctions, or Trump’s not too subtle moves toward expanding US merchant access to Russian markets. Apparently, to the media, the best fill for broadcast time is the yakking of ‘experts’, politicians and other reporters on how this could not, and thus did not, occur. Right now, CNN has had several experts tell us. “The President cannot order a wiretap on anyone’s phone! He asks the special FISA judge to let his cops do it. This only happens when the President’s cops prove that they have ‘probably cause’ to believe that national security is threatened.” This crap straight out of the mouth of famous former Federal Prosecutor Jeffrey Toobin, who seems to have either suffered a concussion or is simply taking us all for fools. My research into political psychopathy indicates that bureaucrats, (like Toobin) and politicians alike think that the rest of us are idiots, unable to remember further than one president ago (Trump doesn’t count) when Sonny Bush dodged the FISA judges hundreds or thousands of times to pull his crimes against humanity while flailing about in terror and rage after the Arab counterattack on 9-11-01. When caught at it, his excuse was that he was going to get them all rubberstamped approved later. Somehow, there was no time to call the judge and obtain blanket approval over the phone.

So, Trump’s “news” was fake, and the media’s speculation and debate about it is another layer of fake, since all of us know of, or can check history, and easily find that our gov’t is lawless. Nixon used the FBI and the IRS to attack people on his enemies list. Sonny Bush had his lawyer scalawags secretly twist the constitution to allow torture and other cruelty. Trump is probably in secret confabs with Dershowitz-type lawyers to make torture legal again.

Fake news goes back to Ronnie Reagan too, who wanted to establish an above the table pentagon department of lying bullshit to plant fake news in the media worldwide. He was quick to pull it all back underground after the voting public voiced our outrage. Long before this, the CIA had been planting fake news stories all over the world. Before the CIA existed, its predecessor, the OSS, was doing the same.

Everywhere that there is gov’t, there exists some sort of gov’t control over the media, whether by force, bribery or cajoling. This is an obvious fact seen throughout history, not the least illustrated by the Gov/media alliance turning an accidental boiler explosion into the so-called “Spanish-American war.” This fake news from 1898, still uncorrected, claims that a famous newspaper King started this war, all by himself. This is only true in the shallowest sense, much like claiming that the US media’s yellow journalism about the Arab counterattack on New York’s “World” Trade center caused Sonny Bush to “Pre-Emptively” attack IRAQ and Afghanistan instead of Saudi Arabia.

Fake news is found everywhere in the media in every moment of history. We don’t need any of these Presidential and corporate fake news professionals to throw their noses in the air, sneer and point to the public’s peer-to-peer media to tell us that we are the origin of fake news, we know better. We know exactly who has the biggest and busiest stable of fake news-artists working full time around the clock, to fool most of the public most of the time. Only Gov-media alliance fake news has the fine grained, polished look of reality. All the fake news from us amateurs look like pac-man vidiot-games by comparison. We don’t have silk-suited Harvard schooled slick-talkers like Jeffrey Toobin or Alan Dershowitz to spread lies-by-omission for us. We are just the primary prey species; public plankton, trying to figure out what is really going on before the whale sharks of gov’t eat us. If we manage to use out outrage to make a tiny speedbump that slows the Gov/media eating machine one Iota, we can say we accomplished a great deal!