Originally posted Feb 27, 2014
As I normally do in prison, I was doing something I wasn’t normally supposed to be doing in prison. No, you sick-minded individuals, nothing like THAT.
It was something minor.
I was talking during count.
We’re not supposed to talk during count.
But, I was in the middle of a deep intellectual conversation about the theory and evolution of life and…
Ok. You caught me.
I was not.
I was probably talking about NOTHING of any REAL importance or value.
Still, the conversation ensued.
Until, that is, a correctional officer came over to where I was standing.
“Why are you talking during count?” He fumed.
He appeared to be quite pissed by my blatant disregard for protocol. So I thought it best to take the ‘chicken-shit’ alternative to formulating a response, and do the next best thing.
I said nothing.
Where is your I.D. at? He seethed through clenched teeth.
His face so close to mine that I could feel ‘spittle’ ricocheting off my cheek.
When asked by an officer to produce your state issued Department of Corrections identification card, usually is a clear indication that a disciplinary infraction is imminent.
So, I then began flailing wildly in an attempt to save myself.
“Well, kind sir.” I began. “First allow me to compliment you on your wonderful detective skills. As for my I.D., I do not have that at this present moment. Just as I was doing something I shouldn’t be doing…talking during count…my I.D. is also being used in a manner that could result in a disciplinary infraction, as well.
Now, it was the officer who said nothing.
He just stared blankly at me.
“You see,” I continued. “My I.D. is currently being used as a tag for the phone. I’m sure an inelegant man of your stature can easily well-imagine that if something is not placed on the phones to secure position, then once count is cleared, absolute madness would commence behind who is to use the phones first.”
The officer looked perplexed by my explanation.
Then, a light bulb clicked on inside my head.
Obviously this officer is a complete moron, Joe. I thought to myself.
He didn’t understand conversation of even the remotely intellectual kind.
So, I had to dumb it down a little.
“Oh, you WANT my I.D.?” I said.
“It’s on the phone.” I concluded.
The language barrier had been bridged.
Understanding registered for the first time on his face.
“DON’T TALK DURING COUNT!!” He snapped.
Then hulked off perturbed as I realized I had just learned an important lesson.
Sometimes…you can beat a dumb person just simply by using big words.
So of course, I stretched a few truths in telling this story for entertainment purposes. Had I in fact said most of what I did the way I said it in the story, there is no question that I would be sitting my asinine little self right in the hole bout now.
Still, I hope you enjoyed this little tale. It might not be completely true, but one thing is… Some guards here are dumber dan a mudda fucka.