Jail was not as bad as I thought. I didn't say it was good. It wasn't AS bad. I served 3-1/2 hours of a 4-6 hour sentence recently, after answering to, and bonding out with a signature (thank you, sincerely, taxpayers) on the charge of illegally listening to two fellas shout conversation to each other in a public place. Or, as my arrest papers said, "Unlawful Ease Droppings." This wet willie to the ear of civility should be resolved to society's satisfaction by decade's end.
One thing is still certain. The key to a consistent and predictable life is preparation. If the Boy Scouts had any brains, they'd organize prison camp-outs for the youngsters in addition to the traditional programs of outings to the woods, farms, and local senior crossings. A man needs to prepare oneself to navigate all sorts of unexpected alien cultures, human and not.
Herewith are some valuable tips culled from my forthcoming book, "Jailed and Lovin' It!" The Incarceration Guide for Middle Whites.
1. Expect to raped. When you aren't, you'll think what a great day it turned out to be.
Let's face it. At this point, you must change your daily agenda for the short term. Now, in your new life as a case number, your goal is to string together a series of micro-victories. A good day now means sleeping in your own bed that evening. This is a comedown from the standard of a nice round of golf and a steak, but one that must be reconciled and understood nonetheless in order to have more golf and steaks sooner rather than later. Rome was not re-built in a day, friends. In fact, it never really was rebuilt at all. It just settled into an acceptable groove of wrecked buildings, great food, and pouty, hot chicks.
2. Prison guards don't care if you stay, go, live, or die.
These incredibly under-qualified people get the same amount of pay whether they preserve or fuck up your life, wittingly or un. The more you try to engage them in spirited debate about the best way we as a society should treat the incarcerated, the closer you get to a good rogering.
If you must say anything to a prison guard other than "Yes, sir/ma'am, no sir/ma'am,please, thank you," make sure you are always positive and pleasant. Think "What would Hugh Grant do?" at all times. Fortunately for you, an increasing number of prison workers are single females w/ children who crave positive attention from a polished white male. They want to be seen as nurturers who just happen to have a gruff male exterior. Allow them that dignity.
A few do actually take pride in their work and can be helpful toward achieving your micro-victories. I liked the way Sgt. Diggs' yellow lipstick co-ordinated with the gold and brown uniform of the Fulton Co. Jail. That's pride, folks, and I told her. It sure didn't hurt me. It earned me snack privileges from the vending machine, and a chance to go outside to place my phone in my car. Micro-victories.
3. Your opinions are welcome never and nowhere.
Sure, you're no different in the eyes of the law than the 15-20 irritable and unbathed African-American fatherless males who share the sealed and airless cell with you, but in their eyes, you represent as much political capital as a ceiling tile or a bench. Even when you agree with your cell-mates, they will find a way to see something disagreeable with you. Their state-issued baloney sandwich means more to them than you. Some will even be talking to it, comforting it, wooing it.
Always yield to Demetrius.
"I ain't seen nutin' but mu'fukin' niggas running this mu'fuka. Chunky ass hoes with mu'fukin keys and mu'fukin clipboards takin' twennyfieminute coffee breaks every mu'fukin hour while niggas sit in this smelly ass cave, waiting to get out and git a beer, a blunt, an' a bitch. We need some mufukin' white dudes running this mu'fuka, and we be outta this mu'fuka in 30 mu'fukin minutes. Belee dat, my nigga."
And while that is a remarkably insightful statement, one that was greeted with unanimous "true dat" despite running counter to the mainstream of post-sensitive political attitudes in and surrounding our nation's urban cores, and certainly not something a neophyte to the incarceration scene would expect; and while this man, Demetrius, may be a Solzhenitsyn in Sean John's clothing, the Bard of Simple Batterers, your job is not to assist him with more pro-white humor no matter the urge to do so. He's not talking to you. He's not talking about you. You are ceiling tile. You are a bench. No high fives, no "you go." Just soak it in. Consider this another micro-victory. Think "What would the spotlight guy at a Def Jam comedy show do?" Laugh, accidentally jiggle the spotlight, and draw attention to himself? No. He'd sit there quietly and translucently, and wait for time to deliver him.
There's more, including how to properly deal with the Rick James-looking tranny in the cell across, but I want you to buy my book even though, ironically, you'll get more out of it if you steal it.