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Jim’s Journal

Leap of Faith?

This concept is foreign to me. It seems to mean a lack of appreciation for statistics. For example, the math of statistical analysis says that I have a zero chance of flapping my arms and flying away to where the sadists do not make up an appreciable proportion of the local population.

Reality obeys physical rules. We can wish all we want, but wishing has no effect on the outcome. Unless someone notices your desire and chooses to supply some motive force–that’s called karma. Many people who don’t understand reality will attribute random, chance positive outcomes as intervention by mythical beings. To create something out of nothing, which has not the slightest evidence of existence, is probably the maximum leap of faith. It seems to have been built by people who are determined to avoid the indisputable facts.

Facing Fear

I don’t have a lot of fear. A long time ago, I figured out that these people were never going to get off of me because of their fear that I would never stop suing them for false conviction. Soon as I figured this out, I had no fear. I stopped kissing the boot that kicked me, grew some teeth, and started gnawing on the state’s ass ever since. I chase those sonza-bitches under the porch, down the street, and through the woods. There’s no place that they can hide from me, and they can’t get away. I lam-bast their stupid ideas, I shame their greed, I uncover their tricks, and I even get some of them fired. I make them stop harassing us. I make them provide conveniences like chair, trash baskets, and shelves. I make them lower their prices. I made them sell us antiseptic mouthwash. I made them quit screwing us out of aspirin and making us accept that liver toxin, Tylenol, instead. I made them quit price-gouging us so much on salt and envelopes. I made them stop selling us defective pens. You might say that I make them face their fear, which is me.

 

The “Doctor”

They tricked me into going to medical. I avoid this place because it’s an easy way to get sick, being locked in a 12’ X 12’ concrete coffin with up to 30 other captives, coughing, sneezing and slinging snot onto every surface. Respiratory diseases are always rampant in these cave-like pest-holes. The young punks act like Day-care toddlers; snot dribbling down their chins after every juicy sneeze. Their moms never taught them to cover their mouths, and their Step Daddies never slapped them for machine-gun sneezing right over the table. Also, the prison Kops have some kind of horror of any captive possessing a rag to sneeze into or wipe our hands on: the Kop sees you with a rag they steal it from you, right then and there, even if they have to call their maggot-squad to take it away from you. Nobody knows why it is the most important thing in the world for them to get that rag away from you. They wouldn’t explain even if they knew why. Some synonymous nobody wrote it in a policy book long ago, and all of them just do it, by reflex, the same way a horse goes nutz with any quick wave of your arm. Only about half of these scary-bad criminals have sense enough to merely turn their heads when they go into a fit of coughing or sneezing. It’s like they have this culture of deliberate disrespect, thinking secretly “I got sick of you guys, so now you’re going to get sick of me!” When they first threw me into this GEO-corp slow-death camp, I almost died. They had a particularly vicious strain of pneumonia passing back and forth between the inmates. Medical assisted its spread by refusing to Rx cough syrup, so its germs were always on snot gobbets floating in the air and every knob, handrail, push plate, table and chair.

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.

Mouse Matters

Not long ago, I wrote about letting a mouse in to be a pet. It dug out a hole in the corner of the cage, under the sleeping rack. I’d set out blobs of bread and smears of peanut butter for it in two feeding stations. It also would eat elbow macaroni, and small pieces of the scrap meats that the kops feed us. Two other mice showed up and dug out a hole in the opposite corner of the cage, through concrete, somehow, this time. These two were smaller and a slightly lighter shade of grey, but they quickly got bigger and identical to the original. We would mostly see them at night, racing in and out of the shadows, or chasing each other around. We originally thought that the two latecomers were unrelated to the first mouse, and that the first mouse was a male by the way it chased and seemed to bully the other two. This seems to have been wrong. More likely is that the first mouse was a female and that the other two were her pups.

The inmates next door, and probably others, complained about the influx of other mice, causing maintenance to stuff paper under the outside door, cutting off entrance. Our three mice, being well fed and afraid of the light, rarely ventured out into the big cage, and quickly returned when they did. There is always light out there, and usually a mop-inmate moving around or the kops.

I never saw more than 3 mice at a time until I was able to definitely count 4. The deaf guy I live with insisted he counted six, but he is unreliable and fairly ignorant. Even so, they were eating more, though not much more particularly telling was the disappearance of the water. I did experiments on the rate of evaporation to make accurate account of the rate of water consumption. More turds were being swept up every day too. Also, the deaf guy complained of finding mouse turds under his sleeping pad, and of finding mice in his rack as he slept. The turds were a minor annoyance to me, as I have to sweep and mop the floor every day anyway so I can do pushups without getting too filthy. The deaf guy would not follow my suggestion that he put his laundry bag off the floor or away from his rack so that it would not severe as a ladder to board his rack. Instead, he insisted that they climbed the slippery steel to get onto and in his blankets. This was clearly impossible for them. Also, I had caught the very first mouse and found that it had to be well rested to just barely be able to jump out of the waste basket, which was lower than the bottom sleeping rack. He did alert me to watch for these mice climbing the blade-shaped leg of a plastic chair by pinching it between its paws. They were always confounded in getting onto the seat of the chair because there were two inches of impassible vertical, flat plastic in the path to the seat. The sleeping racks had this same type of barrier even if the mice could climb a blade of the Angle iron leg.

The deaf guy got cold, to, and put up a sheet, as a curtain, to block the cold air that descended from the slit window. This provided the mice with a ladder with a ladder up to my rack. One found its way up to me despite my already sealing the space between the rack and the wall so that nothing could fall down this 7-foot long crack to the floor, such as pen, pencil, remote or books. First I found turds, then a mouse, twice. I did finally seal it well enough that they could no longer get in the rack at night, but it was time to get rid of them. I would catch them, and the deaf guy would empty them out of a peanut butter jar outside as he went to work at his mop-job in the morning.

Preparation and planning took quite some time. Mostly because we were having to fight the prison kops for both materials and the privacy with which to use them. The kops could not know what we were doing because all of our necessary tools and materials were stolen from the kops, or otherwise prohibited. The other inmates couldn’t know either, having the mentality of pitchforks and torches. The mob of them, I have noticed more than once, is quick to howl “Disease! Pestilence!” etc, at the sight of a mere rodent, yet may themselves be often observed to reach into the toilet water, or defecate, then eat, without washing their hands. (The one next door is afraid that they have rabies. More likely, they would carry the hanta virus.) My own objection was that I would smear their feces inside my boots, which were black. The mice liked to climb in, gnaw on a pebble of bread it had brought in privacy, and probably defecate. I began hanging my boots on the wall. They would climb up clothes to get in these boots, if possible, and leave turds as proof that they’d been up there. One time, I was banging my rubber shoes for food pellets and a mouse fell out. Finally I made a plan and began working. First, I glued two-loops onto the ceiling, then unthreaded some thick nylon line from my sleeping pad. One end was tied to a trash bag stolen from the kops. The bag was flattened out on the floor beside the toilet where the kops couldn’t see it. I’d already moved the feeding station, a ½ pint milk carton, to that spot. Now it was on top of the bag. The string fed up to the ceiling, then over to the next loop above my top rack. I could sit up there, writing, reading or watching television, dark or light, until the hungriest mouse chose to snag the bread pellet out of the milk carton and run for safety with it. I’d see movement, wait til the mouse ducked inside the box, then yank the bag, mouse and feeding station off the floor. The first mouse was able to climb out because I was unwilling to break my neck getting down wrangle it into the jar. Also, I had to adjust my technique two ways: I had to continually jangle the string while I got down from the top rack to keep the mouse from creating a fold and climbing out on it, and; I had to attach the bag to the string I two places to keep the lips higher to climb. After these adjustments, I caught the mice. Each time I caught one of the two or three that would v=cavort across the cage at one time, another would come out to play. I had to stay up all night, filling jars and milk cartons with mice, one after another. At the end of the first night, I had caught nine mice to throw outside, and there remained at least one more which had been scared off by the deaf guy’s thrashing about before waking to go to work. I crammed them all into one peanut butter jar to set loose, and then slept.

The next night, I stayed up all night again, just to catch four more, which were very wary of the trap. They didn’t want to cross the flattened bag to get to the feeding station. They would sneak up to it from every angle. Finally, one would cross, climb onto the box, look in, and then finally go in and get caught. Others would sneak up and test the trap by suddenly leaping into the air, bouncing off the wall, landing on top of the milk carton, tipping it onto its other side, then scampering away to judge any reaction. Finally, hunger would over-ride their fear. They would have to go inside to eat. Then I would catch them.

After finally catching number 13 of the seemingly identical mice, we waited two more days and nights to find out if any more would come out to forage. None did, so the deaf guy said he would plug up their holes. He has wanted to just plug up their holes and let them die in there. He had some crap that he thought would even trap the stink of rotting corpses. It was nothing but a fiber supplement that he was supposed to be eating. He mixed some up, mashed it into both mouse holes and let it dry. A few hours later, while he was sleeping I saw movement: it was a tiny mouse acting like a vacuum; slowly searching the floor for tiny particles of food. It had finally gotten hungry enough to chew its way out and try to find its own food for the first time. It didn’t even have sense enough to run until I had already sneaked up on it. I caught it in my Styrofoam cup. It was slow and too small to jump out of the waste basket. Before the deaf guy woke up, another one showed up. It was a sibling, tiny and naïve. The deaf guy woke up and scared it with his hollering, fast movements and by chasing it around. Number 15 took half an hour to catch even though I had the deaf guy plug its hole to prevent escape.

That was weeks ago. We decided to keep this pair. They are very shy, having spent the weekend in the trash basket before we decided to let them return to their nest. The deaf guy seems to have been able to keep these mice a secret, since the inmates haven’t erupted, yet. It’s amazing that closely related mice can incest for generations and show no deformity. The paper blocking the outside door is gone. More mice will come foraging in here this spring. There was only a few token days of winter. If they gnaw out the blockage in the big hole, I’ll know that its, time to start catching mice again.

It turns out that their constant chasing each other around is the males after the females. More than 3 times, I’ve heard yelping that could only be a mouse losing a fight. Otherwise, they are completely unheard, except for gnawing and scratching. The first 13 would take the margarine cup under the rack and gnaw noisily on it, for the drop of peanut butter that I’d smear in there. The last two mice have shown no interest in it. One or the other will now occasionally come out to forage during the day, but not often. In the waste basket, they would huddle under cover and sleep, barely eating. I rarely see one at night. The balls of bread disappear. These two don’t like pasta, either, but have taken small cubes of the scrap meat. Cheese is not eaten either. I can’t see how they get enough protein for growth from just refined wheat. The 13 mice before them wouldn’t eat sunflower seeds, making me wonder what’s wrong with them and shouldn’t I eat them.

2-15-2017: I saw some more prison-cage wildlife. It looked like it had drowned in the white margarine cup. That I have stuck to the floor for a water dish. A tiny, 12-millimeter-spread wolf spider was floating in it. When I jiggled the cup, (it’s got a stick in it that is taped to a table leg so the mice cant tip it over or run with it under the rack) he ran halfway up the edge, like a water strider. I left him there, ambush-hunting for whatever would come to drink, even though a mouse may ambush him.

That was 1 day ago. Last night, I left 2 pieces of “chicken fried steak (breaded gutmeat)” in the feeding station milk box, along with 2 tiny balls of bread. One bread ball was in my rubber shoe this morning, half eaten. One was still in the box. A blob of crap was under the table. I fished it out with my shower shoe. It was one of the missing gut meat balls. This tiny wolf spider was feeding on it after one of the mice dragged it out and left it behind. We almost never see these animals, unless we look closely, and it’s amazing that they survive in winter on, apparently, nothing but the crumbs we leave behind. I left it there for him to snack on. The next day, I saw that a mosquito had found its way deep inside these concrete coffins to try and get out through the bullet proof slit window. It’s February 16th, for god’s sake! Winter is supposed to kill these insects off in October and keep them dead until they can repopulate from the south in April! Now they apparently breed all year round, thanks to global warming being good for business.

2-21-17: One of the mice somehow levitated up to the top rack with me last night while I was watching television in the dark. Something made a scrabbling noise. I looked behind my writing materials leaning up against the wall. There it was. We stared at each other for a long time then it decided to find a better hiding place when I blew on it a few times. It ran to the foot of the rack and hid amongst a pile of socks. I should have left it alone, but I didn’t want its turds up here I pulled away the socks. After another staring match and more blowing, it finally panicked and dove over the side. It fell almost five feet and ran away as if uninjured. This should have taught it to stay down for a while. Only a couple of hours later, it, or its sibling, appeared in the crack that I’d lined with paper between the rack and the wall. I was almost asleep when this paper next to my head rattled. I lifted up my envelope box. The mouse lay in the cracked as if hiding before it made the dash to the window slit hiding place. It stared at me for three seconds, then flipped around and dove back down the way it had come. I checked, it had to have climbed up bare metal to snag that paper and crawl under my envelope box. I plugged this hole. Now I wait for the mice to figure a new way to get up here.

This morning, I noticed that one of them was out foraging in the other cages, too. The kops racked all the doors at 4am so we could stumble blindly into the big cage to get our food tray from the bean-hole. Other zombies missed this, but this panicked little mouse ran right under their noses from three cages away to run back into mine and dive down its hole to safety. Also, at least one of them has begun eating the peanut butter, now that it’s an adult. And, thanks to global warming, it’s as good as spring time. I expect a whole herd of mice to come in under the outside door to vacuum-up all the inmates’ Raman noodles crumbs. I’ll be unplugging our second rodent condo soon!

The Birth of Corrections: fifty years of progress

Back in the 60s, the state’s politicians began to consolidate their prisons and reformatories, renaming them “corrections” facilities. This change was to illustrate their move from pure punishment to a philosophy of ‘rehabilitation’. The difference was subtle, and largely cosmetic, unless you lived through it. The prison kops had to endure slightly more education and bit higher-quality training. Some punishments were taken away. Kops could no longer lock our heads in two-foot tall wire baskets. Later, they could no longer shackle us to dangle from posts in the blazing sun until the farm crews returned. Chain gangs were slowly phased out, but they could still shoot us with teargas in the tiny, 6 by 7 foot cages. They parked their big, red pepper gas fogger where we could see it from all 6 tiers of the cell block, but stopped turning it on us. When they riled us enough to rattle our cups on the bars and curse them in unison, they would spray us with fire hoses instead. The constitution guaranteed us minimal civil rights, but none of them were ever put into law. We still have to sue for each one, over and over, time and again. When we ‘win’ in court, some judge will reluctantly order the kops to give us things like, one shower per week, food that is not dirty, spoiled, tainted, adulterated, diseased or poison, or hats when they force us to work in the sun, or minimal medical care, such as a bandaid, chigger-rid or wound ointments. All this was very basic stuff that merely slowed the rate at which we died of infection or disease from being abused. The kops were still trained to hate us for being convicted of something, and we hated them every time that they cheated us out of edible food, showers, clean clothes, sleep, gloves, hats, sunglasses and other necessities required by some judge in “settled” case-“law”.

Prison conditions were slowly, painfully getting better. Then the Vietnam war wound down and was ended. Hordes of war vets were brought back and given cop jobs as reward for killing the politicians’ enemies. There were so many of them that the gov’t had to start a drug war to employ them all. The last ones back had to settle for prison kop jobs. They treated us like Viet cong, using all kinds of military methods that they were taught for the war. The street cops went on a 20 year reign of terror, getting caught with hundreds of corpses in the back seats of their copcars. For years, these mysterious deaths were lamely explained away as ‘accidental positional asphixiation’. They somehow ‘laid the wrong way’ after being hogtied by the cops and suffocated themselves. After many years of lawsuits, the truth was finally ripped from their throats: death by repeated strangulation/revival as interrogation for the location of drug stockpiles and drug money caches. In the secrecy of “correctional facilities”, it was even worse. Captives, beaten black and blue, with broken jaws, smashed testicles, etc, were found hanging, dead in their cages, every day. With no police in prison, or lawyers, prosecutors or judges, murder is easily gotten away with. The surviving victims had no choice but to riot. This is the only way to force gov’t-gone-wild to acknowledge the problem. Oklahoma’s main slow death camp in McAlester was the first to blow, followed closely by Attica in New York, then prisons in California, New Mexico and Oklahoma again. The federal politicians finally decided to make the states get right after their investigation of the Attica riot uncovered the fact that Roachefeller’s cops, guards and National Guard had killed all ten hostages and 29 inmates. Without the feds to slap them down, the states would have let their cops and guards go berserk with revenge.

The states did retaliate for their prisons getting burned down. At the emptied Hominy, OK prison, the National Guard vandalized the place worse than the prisoners had, spraying their m-16s everywhere like drunken teenagers. Their bullet holes, gouges and chip marks in the glass, steel and concrete can still be seen today, 33 years later. But the riots did force some progress too.

The kops don’t use fire hoses on us anymore. They don’t use poison gases much, either, except in corporate prisons. The cages are twice as big. Instead of making us rot, staring at the walls, they now make some pretense at occupying our minds with TV, radio, games, even a tiny bit of education, though it is still very difficult to get textbooks past their censors. They prohibit us from access to computers. They despise us for making them supply typewriters in the law library for two hours of legal-work-only per week. We still can only get scrap ‘meat’ and junk-food to eat, but it is much less poison than it used to be, and much cleaner.

Though small, subtle and feeble, these changes still represent fifty years of progress in ‘corrections’!

Panic Button

In each of the tiny, 2-man cages is a call button. The inmates and kops call it a panic button. They think it’s for making the Kops show up to pull that dirt bag off of you when he wants to attack you for refusing to give him more of your coffee, food, or anything else he can mooch off with to use or sell. What this button is really for is to save the Kops from having to explain their negligence after their inmate dies of stroke, heart attack, choking on food, appendicitis or other simple cause that normally would not result in death if you had adequate medical care like everyone else. You are the Kops unpaid babysitter for when these young punks save up their nut medication, then gobble a hand full of it at once, hoping to get “high.” Most times, you can push this button until you finger breaks off, and nothing happens. Up in the Kops’ soundproof habitat, pushing this button makes a modest little ding-noise and causes a small lamp to light up next to the switch that could open your door. The Kop reaches over and switches off the light; or not. Sometimes when he is cheating many people out of our big cage time, many people will ding him. It must be a little bit annoying for him, because, twice in 9 years, I’ve heard him bellow at us through his 2 megaphones “You’re wasting your time pushing your panic buttons!” Then he would punish us with his own noise blasts, usually the shrieker and the clanger used together. He leaved it on automatic for several minutes. The din is painful. The last time they tortured us with it, I told all the inmates how to double the effectiveness of our ding-light buttons. Just get a staple. Bend it into a hook shape, stitch it between the inmate-proof housing and the plastic button. Twist and pull the button out. Underneath the button is the plunger. Get a wad of toilet paper. Wet it down. Stick it in the hole over the plunger and pack it down. Now the Kops can’t turn off the dinger or the light. You don’t have to stand there constantly pushing the button or holding it down. This drives the Kops nutz, because they think you’re serious to be this persistent, someone must be dying, so they get off their dead ass and go see what’s wrong. Soon as you hear the day-cage door pop, jump up, jerk out the wet toilet paper and push the button back in the hole, or they’ll squirt you with mace and toss you in the hole.

Everyone can Contribute

In the 11-26-16 issue of Science News, p. 14, there’s an article titled “Cigarettes cause telltale DNA damage.” By Rachel Ehrenberg. She writes about an article in the 11-4-16 issue of Science where researchers study how smoking causes carcinogenic mutations to various tissues. They sampled 5,000 tissues from 17 cancers known to be caused by smoking. Half of the tissue samples were from non-smokers. They were not able to determine why smoking causes bladder and kidney cancers, and had to leave this a mystery. They did catalog the mutations caused in cells that are exposed to tobacco smoke and found that they could be distinguished from cancers of the same type in non-smokers. These smoke mutations showed up most heavily in the lungs and larynx (150 and 97) yet much less so in the mouth and pharynx (39 and 23). Researchers and Ms Ehrenberg mentioned that it is a bit of a mystery why the mouth and pharynx, which get the hottest, most irritating smoke, would get fewer mutations and cancers than the lungs and larynx.

A probable answer here struck me immediately, since I used to be a smoker, where the younger researchers and Ms Ehrenberg probably were non-smokers. One thing not generally known except to heavy smokers is how the stuff paints your tongue, teeth, throat and elsewhere with tar and nicotine, etc. this tells you to slow down, and give it a rest. More importantly, however, is the fact that most smokers also drink. Alcohol, unlike mere water, dissolves these tars and hydrocarbons, washing them off these tissues and carrying them to the stomach, where they get digested into less harmful substances.

So I told them this, and now these new data can be added to their research, contributing to the benefit of everyone.

Situations such as this occur every day. Someone has a blind spot. Someone with specialised knowledge or experience can see this and help. Not everyone can win a Nobel prize, but everyone can contribute.

 

Found!

I found out why no one has an opinion about anything important. It’s because having an opinion makes you the unknowing target of people who keep their opinions secret.

For example: I’m an innocent man, yet I cannot win an appeal despite overwhelming proof, or get a commutation. Why? Because, as a result of their false conviction of me, I study cops, lawcrats, bureaucrats, politicians, parolecrats and the media, and I publicize my research so that others may learn how to avoid false conviction by the high and mighty. I’m the guy who puts the big, orange cones around the open manhole that drops down into the sewer, so that no one else falls in.

The false conviction rate is very high; 16% and climbing every time that new data is wrung out of the govcrats. My steady revelations and complaints about this unconscionable dereliction are a constant finger in the eye of all who are knee-jerk convictee-haters, which, thanks to the character assassination media, includes about every person who has not yet been forced through the hysterical anti-crime grinder, and certainly all of the horde of elite, Gluttons of Privilege who are immune to jail and prison. The first group thinks I’m exaggerating, until it happens to them. Then they write me frantically, asking, “How do I get them off me?” The second group regards my research and ‘findings of fact’ as personal attacks. They despise me for exposing them and their methods. They think that I should be like all of their other victims and kiss the boot that kicks me, pretending that, somehow, the lying cops, harmful lawyers, corrupt prosecutors, gullible witnesses and blind, deaf judges all simply made ‘mistakes’ to orchestrate their conviction of me and murder-by-caging.

If I had pretended to be guilty; pretended that their lies were true, they would have paroled me in 1997 or so, when they paroled their drug snitch, who is a real murderer, and who they glued onto me to get 12 gullible fools to convict me. But I didn’t pretend to be guilty, and they think that I’m crazy or stupid for standing up to them for all of these years.

They mistake my altruism for the type of insane revenge fantasies that each of them have blaring through their heads night and day. They can’t be blamed: if I spent my entire life screwing dirty, rotten criminals out of their lives by the thousands, my poor, fear filled mind would hallucinate, a gun in every hand I saw, and I’d become a total coward, waiting for my comeuppance to nail me every minute of the day. The more richly deserving the man is of his chickens coming home to roost, the more cowardly he acts. The more cowardly the cops, the more people that they suddenly gun down in their terror of getting what they have so often dished out. It is no surprise that they had to have their media lackies sell this flaw in their character as a virtue: “I was scared to death, so I killed that guy! It’s okay, though, because I followed all of our secret police policies and procedures before murdering him. He really did it to himself, for scaring me. At least, this is what the grand jury, prosecutor, media and my fellow cops will say. Every one of the public will believe this too, or appear to believe it. People who don’t believe this line will keep their opinions to themselves, and perception is reality, especially when it is the media’s portrayal of public perception.”

Another thing that I found is that Russia, just today, entered the World (guerrilla) War that has been raging for so many decades. It started in 1946, when France, Britain and US politicians said, “We’ll give you Jews this land in Palestine; right in the middle of all these Arabs with which you are genetically identical. We’ll even pay you $4 billion plus per year to invade the place. We’ve been screwing them out of their oil since we found it on their land in the 1920s. We need them to have a distraction from our greed. This will make a festering military sore that will be great for testing and selling new weapons!” Russian and US politicians helped both sides in the Iran-Iraq war, but Russia seems to have gotten away with it. For unknown reasons, Russia decided to bomb Alleppo for the Syrian dictator. This morning, (12-19-16) a Turkish cop hopped up on stage behind the Russian ambassador and blew him away. Russia finally found that you just can’t go around joy bombing people and countries for years and years and no one will go insane and retaliate in some small way. Even worse, Trump appointed a super-fascist Jew to be his ambassador to Israel. He’s determined to intensify their invasion of Palestine the same way that Trump’s Okie, Scott Pruitt, plans to strangle the EPA. We are in for one hell of a ride! The next four years are going to be very violent and polluting, with all the hatred, cowardice, weapons and industry flying around uncontrolled. At least, this is what my research has found.