The Prisoner Who Learned Bad Vocabulary

I think having a good vocabulary is very important. That's the way I was brought up. So it shocks me to hear people cussing a blue streak. It was just in the news today, some lady calling another lady a bitch.* How terrible! I'd never vote for her, not just for that, but because she's a Republican. Much worse.

Anyway, to me good vocabulary is essential, making me different, overall, from most criminal types.

OK, there was this one criminal, who was pretty well governed when it came to good language. He hadn't forgotten what his Mother taught him, that you're known by your character. He kept her teaching as it concerned vocabulary, although he didn't keep it when it came to crime. His argument was crime was what he did to keep his mouth well-fed, then a well-fed mouth can keep itself in check.

But, even though crime sometimes pays for a while, keeping your mouth well-fed, in the end, many times, maybe 7 out of 10 times, it ultimately doesn't pay. And even if you get away with every crime in your life you've left behind so much damage for others that overall it doesn't really pay.

Long story short, he was guilty and went to prison. It was one of those deals where you're in there for three consecutive life sentences. A very optimistic outlook, I admit, except it turns out to be nothing but a legal fiction.

There in prison, this guy, who for the shame of it shall remain nameless, met every species of lowlife and scum that the human experience has engendered. Big burly hairy guys with a lower jaw coming up like a bulldog. Skinny guys with that creepy paranoid, schizo look. Even basically nice guys who can suddenly turn evil and knife you. There were others, what you might call sexual animals, always on the prowl, be it the prison library or even the chapel. It's the kind of life that toughens you up, no matter your background.

Right there, if we go no farther, I am personally scared straight. I mean, sexual animals, give me a break! Regardless of him being scared straight or not, however, there he was for three consecutive life sentences, a very long time no matter how legally fictional it is.

The pattern, then, as I understand it, is that a tough crowd does tough things, extending of course to vocabulary. His went to pot. All the usual stuff that we've all heard, and some have perhaps said. "Shit, fuck, goddammit, you cockbite, bastard, turd," etc. That's what he fell into, and I'm sure it only got worse from then on out, with three consecutive life sentences (a lot of time) to perfect his delivery and even intensify the negative feelings behind the words.

It's sad -- to me it's sad -- what crime can do. Not only to society, but to the life of a person -- whether it's three consecutive life sentences or only one. You don't say something like this very often, but fortunately his mother was dead. She never had to know all the crap he did, let alone what it did to his vocabulary.

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*Gov. Susana Martinez of New Mexico

Cursing Your Cup Of Coffee

Just like 50 is the new 30, coffee is the new nectar of the gods, that which we archetypically need in the course of the day to maintain our divinity. Hence, every threat to our cup is a slap in the face or, worse, the possible destruction of our manhood or maidenhead.

I've been fairly well immune to this so I'm qualified to speak on the subject with some detachment. I've always been averse to spending more money on coffee than I need to, so you're not likely to see me walking out of Starbuck's with a $5 drink. This is the honest to God truth: I have yet to spend my first dollar in a Starbuck's! But we see them all the time, the same dolts who'd buy their kids $10 worth of snacks in a convenience store every time they stop for gas, walking around with their precious coffee! It's like lifeblood!

So, as to what I've said thus far, obviously I'm not too far off base. With the same thing applying for what I've still yet to say. Thanks to my perspective, and the detachment of my observations, everything I say has to be the absolute truth. Or better.

And here's what I have to say: If you want to curse someone where it hurts, don't wish them bodily harm; we have doctors for that. Attack their coffee! Curse their cup!

That's the way I'm doing it from now on. I used to carry generic voodoo dolls and big darning needles. Then when someone insulted me, I'd take one out in the full view of everyone and make silent gestures as to my intentions: This doll represents this particular bastard. These needles represent my wish for violence and misery for him. I hereby curse you, first, and now I attack you physically, albeit without any obvious cause and effect that would hold up in a court of law.

Be all that as it may, frankly, people don't feel all that threatened anymore by that. Again, they've got doctors if they find themselves physically dying. Aha! But attack a man's coffee or a woman's coffee! Do that, then stand back and watch the sparks fly! You simply say it! And make gestures toward the cup! They've seen enough Harry Potter movies, they believe it, and I'm not saying it's not true!

You could come right out and say it: "You've insulted me for the last time. I curse your cup of coffee. Drink it to bad health. May it bring forth vermin and maggots. Or just vermin if maggots are also considered vermin. I hate to be redundant." Or you could shorten it to simply: "I curse your cup of coffee," leaving them not knowing whether it's safe to drink. Or you could just mentally curse their coffee, then walk away, leaving them behind. Then next time you pass by a few minutes later, you see them writhing on the sidewalk outside the coffee place. With vermin and/or maggots making the most of things.

The basic message here is, Don't insult me. Because see that cup of coffee in your hand? It'll be crawling, and it won't take long!

Note: In case my picture isn't clear, that's maggots in the cup. I always thought maggots were white but these look like brown maggots, possibly healthier for you, or it could be the coffee discolored them in the transubstantiation process.

Comfort To The Stranger

Here I go, across the great lawn, with a tray of sweetmeats for the stranger.

"How are you?" I say, tempering my smile while keeping it genuine. "How about a cinnamon roll?" It's important to keep body and soul together, it's good for the marrow.

He looks at my arm for the Red Cross emblem, but seeing none, realizes I'm just a kind person given to instant solidarity, at least admiration from afar.

The leaders are gathered like Civil War generals around their battle plans, a couple scratching their chest-length beards pensively. One uses the nasty phrase "goddammit" a lot. I'm thinking, "Cinnamon rolls for the leaders," but I hate to interrupt their plans -- and the goddammit guy might have other plans for my head, involving a pike!

An underling sees me -- possibly I'm a spy, or an autograph hound, but my confidence says otherwise. He sees the cinnamon rolls and realizes I'm an angel of mercy, while perhaps also being an attention-seeker. He moves closer to prevent any disturbance of the generals at their work. "Goddammit!" I hear the one bluster, so I leave the rolls in the hands of the lieutenant.

I cut across the concourse. A few bandaged hands are raised. So many worthy brothers and sisters, but I'm just a man, with only two hands and no super powers. I cast down a look of mercy, seeing dry, hungry mouths everywhere. The poor souls. They have but moments to live, in some cases, and a morsel of a warm cinnamon roll would do them such good.

Must hurry on...

Partial dream interlude: At the periphery, I come across an old friend, a former classmate. She's virtually naked, maybe entirely -- I don't look -- except at the six-inch scar she's showing me on the right side of her abdomen. She's been through a lot. I must not stay. I'm out of cinnamon rolls.

I look down and I'm barely dressed either. I need to cross a gravel alley to make a call back to the kitchen van. Even in my near nudity (waist down), I'm thinking I need to go for it; these people are hungry.

Off to the left a building gives way, imploding but more or less silently, leaving an open space in which I see the family owners of the place discussing how their place will be remembered. (There's no talk of cinnamon rolls.)

In here somewhere, there's a railroad station. The track seems to narrow and is blocked. I'm with the stationmaster. He's waiting for a train that might take some time arriving. I'm asking his business. Then the train shows up from the east. It brings the generals, the very ones, to their duties.

A stern "Goddammit" pierces the air and brings me to my senses. I run for more cinnamon rolls. I think, this is a small job -- but to give comfort to those at the front lines is very much a big deal.