BY KEITH EVANS
(Composed: 09/08/10)
Let’s just start this off with a fact. There’s only a select few things I’m annoyed by. Hypocrisy, poverty, bad attitudes, animal rights, children with made up diseases, the show Monk, Bears fans, the stigma behind the number 13, girls with no sense of direction, Burger King, Hessville Indiana, gauged piercings without jewelry, Nickelback, men’s softball, anti cigarette commercials, high pitched sneezes, Xbox’s, divorce, midgets, and a host of other things. However, as of late, there’s been this one thing that has really bothered me, almost to the point of murderous contemplations… being in the presence of dope sick individuals. I mean seriously, what the fuck?
Picture this, you’re just to the point, during your incarcerated vay-cay, where it doesn’t take you trading your meals for somebody’s Neurotin prescription to fall asleep. As you start to doze off, suddenly your bunk is in total toss and turn/vibrate mode. What the fuck? A rain of moist, germy particles of the “unknown” start to mist from above after continuous sneezing. What the fuck?!? Some kind of grumbling commentary erupts, pretty much a bunch of whiny complaints, not loud, yet loud and bitchified enough to keep you awake. What the fuck?!? Your “Bunkie” keeps climbing down from above you, gagging as if he’s gonna hurt all over the place, pacing back and forth, wrapped in his blanket, in straight shiver mode, begging to make conversation with you; “Hey, you up?” “Sorry man, I can’t sleep.” “Are you cold?” “Do you have any sweets?” What the fuck?!?
I barely have sympathy and compassion for regular, full functioning human beings, let alone some dope sick scumbag. Do I like drugs, sure, at least the right ones. No crack, no meth, no aspirin, no oxycotins, and especially no heroin. It’s just lame, it involves too much preparation, and the benefits do not cover the consequences at ALL. With all that said, being dope sick doesn’t even register as a condition that necessitates my sympathy or compassion. Fuck’em. Suffer as far as I care, but for God sakes, not above my above my fucking head. Instead of putting all these remitting retarding on the sick/crazy floor where they belong, banished from the rest of the population like successfully contained Dawn of the Dead victims.
Between the last word of the previous paragraph and the first word of this one I took a break to piss. On my way to the county’s finely crafted stainless steel toilet, I almost tripped over 2 of the 3 dope sick cocksuckers who’ve decided to lie on the floor. Let me re-iterate, the cold diseased, public, cemented floor of the Lake County Jail. I go to an officer in Laundry and beg for anew blanket anytime mine has touched the floor for longer than 5 seconds. Any drug that, once taken from me, causes me to spiral downward so pathetically that I CHOOSE to lay my unprotected body against filthy county cement ground, I don’t even want it within a 2 mile radius of me. Bottom line, being is jail is uncomfortable enough let alone being trapped in a cell with 3 or 4 Tom Sizemores. By the way, it’s nice to know that heroin addicts somehow check in and out of jail like celebrities into Dr. Drew’s house, yet us occasional mistake makers receive the serious lesions of life from lady justice. Just saying tho…
Editors Note:
To send Keith “Fan Mail” please write:
Keith Evans, SEC. 1E
Lake County Jail
2293 N. Main St
Crown Point, IN 46307
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