My Prison Diaries
By John Saliby
Every now and then when I need to remind myself how much better off I am these days I’ll take out my old prison diaries and read a couple of entries.
October 6, 1988 - Vasques still insists Chaplin was superior to Keaton. Spic son of a bitch. We’ll see if he still thinks "The Gold Rush" is a superior film to "The General" once I sharpen this spoon enough to cut his Little Tramp worshipping face off.
October 7, 1988 - I may need to save my spoon for bigger fish than Vasquez. Some new punk looking to make a name for himself has heard I say Jackie Gleason kick’s Sid Caesar’s ass and now he’s going to get me in the showers. Ha! What he doesn’t know is if there’s one thing we hate in here even more than Nichols And May it’s Sid Stinking Caesar. That dope keeps shooting his mouth off and he’ll wind up just like that damn fool who was always running down Bob Newhart.
October 8, 1988 - Vasquez is all I have to worry about after all. That new punk started talking about The Second City in front of The Three Stooges Crew from Cell Block D and now it would take less time to pick up each little bit of dirt in the yard than it would to pick up each little bit of his dead ass in the yard. If I could project my psychic powers beyond the walls of this hell hole Jay Leno would drive one of his motorcycles into McDonalds and stick his head into the french fryer until his brain explodes and they sell it to people as Chicken McNuggets.
October 9, 1988 - I was a fool to divert my attention from Vasquez and his crap. If there is just one damn thing that is law in this Place it is that "Don’t Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me The Pliers" by The Firesign Theater is the funniest comedy album of all time and anybody dumb enough to say otherwise is Cold Meat. I’ve lost track of all the ass I’ve had to kick around here until even the goddam guards go "Yo, Don’t Crush That Dwarf!" or "Hand Me The Pliers, my man!" every time they see me coming and they’ll have to send my nuts home in a jar of pickle juice before you ever hear Cheech And Chong or that stupid Monty Python around here again. But what do I hear coming out of Vasquez’s cell as soon as I open my eyes this morning but that goddam Two Thousand Year Old Man carrying on like a goddam old fool and that goddam telling Vasquez everybody in the place "Yo! The Two Thousand Year Old Man freakin’ RULES! You hear dat!? The Two Thousand Year Old Man KICKS ASS!! Don’t Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me The Pliers is The Two Thousand Year Old Man’s BITCH!!" All eyes are on me now. If I don’t put an end to this right now my ass won’t be worth last month’s issue of CRACKED.
Oct 10, 1988 - Not much time to write, they’ll be in here to throw me into solitary any second now. Let’s just say that Vasquez is in Hell being passed around like a joint between Lenny Bruce, Freddie Prinze, and John Belushi right now and The Firesign Theater is blastin’ out of every ghetto box in the place. At this moment my Powers are so strong there’s no telling what you’ll get stuck between your teeth if you order the McNuggets at McDonalds tonight - Whoopie Goldberg’s butt, Martin Short’s -
Yeah, those were bad times and maybe you’ll never understand why I am compelled to reread these diaries day after day year after year. Wouldn’t it be better to just forget? Even if I took these notebooks and set fire to them in the gutter I’ll never be able to forget those years. Not for as long as I go through this life with BILL MURRAY IS THE MAN tattooed across my back. Not for as long as I’ve got ROBIN WILLIAMS EATS SHIT emblazoned across my chest. Not for as long as I live and breathe, you bastards. Not for as long as I live and breathe.
John Saleeby wrote for The National Lampoon while he was in high school, was a stand up comic in New York, and has contributed to the net humor zines Schmuck.com, Campaign Central, and the legendary American Jerk. He's on medication now so he's probably a little nicer now than he was when you met him earlier. Email - jacksaleeby1@hotmail.com