No More Part-Time Jobs

A new department policy came out stating that correctional employees could not work part-time as bouncers, strippers, or bar-tenders. The actual piece of paper probably did not state it in quite that way, but our supervision interpreted it to us in that fashion. Management’s reasoning was that those professions put us in situations that were not conducive to looking professional in our primary employment. All that meant was that the title of our additional work had to be changed. I can think of nobody who actually reported to their other employers that they had to quit because of the policy. If somebody took a survey regarding what part-time work was performed by departmental employees, they would find that a large percentage of us worked in those previously mentioned fields. Much in the same way that corrections attracted prior service military members, bar scenes attracted correctional employees.

My part-time job at a Bingo Parlor really had no title. I did everything including, but not limited to; running the cash register, pulling the balls and calling the numbers, hawking the extra games, selling the pickle cards, and working the concession stand. I loved the job because of the great tips and the free booze. In fact, I loved it so much I went to work after out-patient surgery with a catheter strapped to my leg. I used a Captain Morgan-like pose to drain the bladder strapped above the inside of my right ankle into the urinal. Once, it sloshed loud enough to attract the attention of the closest blue-hair, so I showed it to her. She slipped me her phone number hoping I would show her something else later. As fortune would have it, she won a few hundred dollars before the night was over. After we cleaned things up, I rang her phone.

“Hey, this is Charlie, from Bingo.” “Hi, are you going to stop by?” “I can’t take out my catheter.”

“Oh, we’ll work around that. Just get those cute little buns over here.”
She managed to give me an erection, which was not easy with a catheter. The oozing of the internal wound sort of super-glued itself to the head of my dick. It might have turned my dick inside out, had she not been ready with the triple-antibiotic ointment. She gave a great asshole-massage. I wound up licking on her, and she wound up licking on me. She tasted a little like menopause, but she was talented enough that I promised to finish the job, once the catheter was removed.

I don’t know why, but this very real dream began in the control unit at NSP. A very old caseworker, Ron Oestermeier, was found dead. I don’t know how he died, and it did not come out in the dream. I speculated that he either died of a heart attack, or some inmate murdered him. When the State Patrol arrived, they did not want the entire body. They intended to send portions of it to a lab for some form of autopsy. For some reason, they only wanted his head, penis, and one of his feet.

Damnedest thing

“I took apart my watch and dissected mice. Neither worked afterward.”