A S P C – Walker – Charlie – 3C20
Subject: Hiya There!
Tonight I plan to stare up at the stars and enjoy my freedom. Would you like to join me? Ha ha, jk. I am writing this letter in regards to my love of being able to do whatever I want. I want to express to you my sincerest appreciation of man’s god given right to make his own choices and pursue his own happiness. It is my hope that in doing so I may remind you of how splendid it is to have this freedom, just in case you had forgotten during your stay in the penitentiary, or ‘hooskow’ as it were.
If you haven’t had freedom in a while, you sure don’t know what you’re missing. This weekend is going to be so kick-ass. Not because anything special is planned, quite the contrary. This weekend is going to be fun because there is nothing planned, and because I can choose from a variety of activities that I might want to do. These can be anything from fishing on a lake to drinking scotch to watching television to having sex with your wives and/or daughters who you are not able to protect because you are locked in a cage like a filthy stinking animal.
To illustrate how awesome freedom is, let’s contrast my lifestyle with what you are now accustomed to. You have to wake up at a specific time in the morning; I, on the other hand, could sleep through lunch if I were so inclined. You eat cafeteria swill that some burly cholo has most likely spit in; the food I eat I get to choose for myself. You have to wear stupid orange jumpsuits and slippers which make you look like a toddler; I wear clothes that I drove to the store and picked out. At night while you are being kept awake by your own nightmares of being ass-raped or shanked with a toothbrush, I snuggle against a white pillow on a big cushy mattress listening to music. By the way, do you remember what music is?
It must suck to not have freedom. Yup, out here I get to have a ‘people’ name. Mine is K.G. MadMan. Yours is some number assigned to you by a computer, a cold sterile series of digits that make it easier for the guards to pick you out of a crowd when you’re hunkered down for a prison riot because the warden took away “Puddin’ Wednesday”. Why don’t you have a name? Even goldfish have names. Jesus Christ you people suck. You don’t have anything anybody wants.
But then again, you are a “crook”, a “felon”, an “evildoer”, a “yard bird”, a “hooligan”, a “desperado”, a “blotto”, a “slippery eel”, a “jailbird”, an “inside man”, a “culprit”, a “rascal”, a “skedaddler”, a “bad egg”, a “rapscallion”, a “stinker”.
So stick your hands through that bean slot, cuz they’ll be no ‘cho cho’ for you!
(My name isn’t really K.G. MadMan, but just in case Ma Beagle slips a file into your birthday cake I don’t want you tracking me down for a place to sleep. You’ll find no quarter here, bozo)