A blind person might think that The Nebraska State Penitentiary is the largest Junior High in the entire state of Nebraska. There are no middle school aged children in attendance, but every childish statement, and every immature action could lead you to think differently.
“Gentlemen, be advised that approximately one minute remains in the allotted time frame in which you will be allowed to enter and/or exit the housing unit. When that time expires, the running of doors will be complete, and you will be required to remain outside, or in your cell with your door secured.”
That statement was not the scripted message we were supposed to use. There was no prescribed verbiage even suggested. But the control station officers at NSP enjoyed contributing to the confusion of the inmates by using language that was foreign to them, or just way above their conception of normal vocabulary. I even heard one of them add, “Follow that line of thinking until you can’t answer why anymore. When you can’t answer why, that is the root cause of the mishap.”
A large officer, named Hejl (pronounced Hell), taters for breakfast large, was patting down a line of inmates passing through his area. His pat downs were thorough, and he greeted each inmate with, “Have a nice day,” upon completion of his pat-down. After hearing this statement about a dozen times, I stepped from hiding and watched the remaining half-dozen pat-downs. When Hejl completed the line, giving one last, “Have a nice day,” I asked him,
“Why are you telling those inmates to have a nice day?”
“Well I can’t hardly tell ‘em to fuck off, now can I?” “Well, I wouldn’t mind, but you’d sure collect a stack
of grievances. What would you do if you found something good?”
“Fuck, I’d just throw it away. I hate doing the write-ups. Besides, they weed each other out all by themselves.”
“How do they do that?”
“Oh, they write snitch kites, plant shanks. That’s all shanks are really used for, most of the time.”
“You mean they are manufactured just so they can be planted on people you want to get rid of? Now why didn’t I think of that in high school?”
“It’s a good way to send chimos to PC. The only thing softer than this is Romper-Room.”
A new co-worker, I will call him Johnson, and I were discussing the fact that Hejl gets upset when I use his control station bathroom to grow a tail because it always seem that the timing is during his meal break.
“When you poop, is there an audio presentation? Do you think the smell is leaking through the door like radio-active waste, or is the impact on Hejl just psychological?” Hejl used to work in the control station on third shift. He had to leave due to embarrassment when he shit down a chair. They had a fartin’ contest and he shit up his back all the way to his shoulder blades. They had to destroy the chair. The stripe was like an ugly tie. Hejl covered it up by trying to clean it, but the new white-bleach stripe only made it more obvious. He wound up covering the entire chair in plastic like it was quarantined.
Many inmates residing at the Nebraska State Penitentiary should be residing at the Reg. That is not because they are schizophrenic, but because they are fucking nut jobs. As usual, we like to fuck with them.
Doug Hirter was a borderline regional-center inmate. In fact, he went there when he left here, because he was a chimo, and he needed to be re-evaluated. To begin with, Hirter was severely retarded. The resident shrink told him to clap when he heard the voices, to distract himself. He would walk laps around the bay area, changing direction on a whim, or special occasion, and when he would pass by the control station, we would clap to help him out. He would giggle and clap at the TV, grin and drool, and go on about his daily routine.
Hirter claps to interrupt the voices in his head. He fights off the demon horde coming in through the window. He tried to fit his head between the bars. He is a great one to vent talk. When in the hospital, the corporal was ordered to document the time and number of claps that Hirter performed. Instead of complying with the order and producing documentation, he spoke to Hirter through the vents.
“Kill yourself…there’s a sheet…you can’t interrupt me…this is the devil…just end it now. Kill yourself…kill yourself! Drown in your toilet…you fuckin’ chimo…do it now…you don’t deserve to live…it’s not worth it anymore. Oh…and tie you shoes.”
A shank discovered in an empty locker. It is made of plexi-glass and electrical tape, so it would not set off the metal detector.
“If it all sounds like a complicated slush of angles and motives, it is.”
“Gentlemen, be advised that approximately one minute remains in the allotted time frame in which you will be allowed to enter and/or exit the housing unit. When that time expires, the running of doors will be complete, and you will be required to remain outside, or in your cell with your door secured.”
That statement was not the scripted message we were supposed to use. There was no prescribed verbiage even suggested. But the control station officers at NSP enjoyed contributing to the confusion of the inmates by using language that was foreign to them, or just way above their conception of normal vocabulary. I even heard one of them add, “Follow that line of thinking until you can’t answer why anymore. When you can’t answer why, that is the root cause of the mishap.”
A large officer, named Hejl (pronounced Hell), taters for breakfast large, was patting down a line of inmates passing through his area. His pat downs were thorough, and he greeted each inmate with, “Have a nice day,” upon completion of his pat-down. After hearing this statement about a dozen times, I stepped from hiding and watched the remaining half-dozen pat-downs. When Hejl completed the line, giving one last, “Have a nice day,” I asked him,
“Why are you telling those inmates to have a nice day?”
“Well I can’t hardly tell ‘em to fuck off, now can I?” “Well, I wouldn’t mind, but you’d sure collect a stack
of grievances. What would you do if you found something good?”
“Fuck, I’d just throw it away. I hate doing the write-ups. Besides, they weed each other out all by themselves.”
“How do they do that?”
“Oh, they write snitch kites, plant shanks. That’s all shanks are really used for, most of the time.”
“You mean they are manufactured just so they can be planted on people you want to get rid of? Now why didn’t I think of that in high school?”
“It’s a good way to send chimos to PC. The only thing softer than this is Romper-Room.”
A new co-worker, I will call him Johnson, and I were discussing the fact that Hejl gets upset when I use his control station bathroom to grow a tail because it always seem that the timing is during his meal break.
“When you poop, is there an audio presentation? Do you think the smell is leaking through the door like radio-active waste, or is the impact on Hejl just psychological?” Hejl used to work in the control station on third shift. He had to leave due to embarrassment when he shit down a chair. They had a fartin’ contest and he shit up his back all the way to his shoulder blades. They had to destroy the chair. The stripe was like an ugly tie. Hejl covered it up by trying to clean it, but the new white-bleach stripe only made it more obvious. He wound up covering the entire chair in plastic like it was quarantined.
Many inmates residing at the Nebraska State Penitentiary should be residing at the Reg. That is not because they are schizophrenic, but because they are fucking nut jobs. As usual, we like to fuck with them.
Doug Hirter was a borderline regional-center inmate. In fact, he went there when he left here, because he was a chimo, and he needed to be re-evaluated. To begin with, Hirter was severely retarded. The resident shrink told him to clap when he heard the voices, to distract himself. He would walk laps around the bay area, changing direction on a whim, or special occasion, and when he would pass by the control station, we would clap to help him out. He would giggle and clap at the TV, grin and drool, and go on about his daily routine.
Hirter claps to interrupt the voices in his head. He fights off the demon horde coming in through the window. He tried to fit his head between the bars. He is a great one to vent talk. When in the hospital, the corporal was ordered to document the time and number of claps that Hirter performed. Instead of complying with the order and producing documentation, he spoke to Hirter through the vents.
“Kill yourself…there’s a sheet…you can’t interrupt me…this is the devil…just end it now. Kill yourself…kill yourself! Drown in your toilet…you fuckin’ chimo…do it now…you don’t deserve to live…it’s not worth it anymore. Oh…and tie you shoes.”
A shank discovered in an empty locker. It is made of plexi-glass and electrical tape, so it would not set off the metal detector.
“If it all sounds like a complicated slush of angles and motives, it is.”
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