Archive for the “The Chapstick Breaking Point” Category

Chapstick wanted me to share another couple of things from his jail experience. The first is the evidence that no matter what you think, it’s best to keep to yourself as much as possible; to not stir the pot.

Some loud mouth short guy with a long pony tail came in on Saturday and wouldn’t stop bitching and moaning about this and that. How he didn’t agree with politics, and that’s not the way he was used to doing things. After about an hour of him stirring the pot, about 8 guys (2 from each gang) waited for him to lie down in his bunk, then surrounded it and punched the crap out of him. Then the Wood rep explained to him that he was going to follow the rules that were in place whether or not he agreed with them. The douche was shortly there after transferred to prison. Sweet!

The second thing: As Chapstick was finished with his jailed weekend, back in his street clothes, waiting to be returned his possessions and released to the world to stir things up once again, he heard what he deemed to be a notable quote to share with you all.

The other jailed, while also waiting to be released, were talking about how they couldn’t wait to get out and smoke up for the first time after a whole weekend of not. Smoking weed is big out here in California, especially now that you can walk into a dispensary and purchase it legally. From THC oils, to lollipops, to edibles, to live plants for growing your own, to hundreds of different variety including Maui Wowie (I can’t believe it’s actually real). Imagine a doctor writing a perscription for Maui Wowie, or Purple Haze. They don’t actually do that; they just give you a green card which allows you to buy whatever you want. But that’s a whole separate post.

So, Chapstick chimed in when asked about his smoking habits with “I don’t smoke, I think I’m allergic to it. I just get sick.”

The others looked completely confused and disappointed with this response.

After a short contemplative silence one of the others said, “Man, that’s like being allergic to happiness.”

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So I spoke with Chapstick Ferguson the other day, and it looks like he’s got something to share with the readers of Destroyed By Madness. Although it seems like his world is on the up and up, he found himself in a bit of trouble once again. You guessed it, he went back to jail for a pair of weekends to visit his old stomping grounds at the Vista Detention Facility. This time, though, he doesn’t have nearly as much to document in terms of an interesting Blog review. The politics were the same. He arrived to the sounding “WOODS” upon entering the holding cell. This time, instead of sharing a cell with just one inmate connected to a common area, he entered a room with 57 bunks (he counted) piled 3 high. He stuck with his race, ate with his race, read a book called “God’s Prison Gang,” and slept for most of the stay. He recalled the bunks being just as uncomfortable, and the meals being categorized by the same brown gruel, tan gruel, and off white gruel that he remembered.

Although this should be the last time we hear from Chapstick, I did feel compelled to inform you of a prank he witnessed this time around that was pulled at least 3 times over the course of the weekend. It was pulled on the weakest of the bunch, and only to newcomers. Chapstick was wise enough, and strong willed enough to not be the “butt” of the joke (pun completely intended).

Here’s how it works:

A South Sider welcomes the newcomer into the holding cell. He helps him set up his rack (his bunk). And earns quick trust to the nervous rookie. He then explains that everyone there participates in a daily workout.

There are 2 versions of this workout. Version 1 is basically a military push-up: starting from the standing position, squatting down, kick your legs out, do 3 push-ups, back to squatting, and stand up. That counts as 1. The newcomer would be required to do 150 of those.

OR, the newcomer could do 5 “impossible sit-ups.” The impossible sit-up is basically like a normal sit-up, with a partner holding the newcomers ankles to get optimal leverage. The only difference is that another partner holds a towel strategically over the newcomers face, so when said newcomer tries to sit up, he is held back by the tension of the towel pulling back, and being eventually let up to the fully crunched sit up position. This will really give your abs a work out, and will also blind the newcomer for what is to come next.

I bet you can guess where this is going…

So after the South Sider demonstrates this to the newcomer, he asks the newcomer which he would rather do. Of course the newcomer would rather do the 5 “impossible sit-ups” opposed to the 150 military push-ups that would really amount to 450 push-ups. So the newcomer gets in the sit-up position, with a towel over his face, struggles to get the first completed, and once he does, and nothing happens, he gains confidence and trust in the exercise.

The second one, however, happens all to fast and with an ending that is as unexpected as it is unpleasant. Another South Sider squats over the newcomer, facing the partner holding the newcomer’s ankles, pulls down his pants, and prepares for the towel South Sider to let go of the towel as soon as the newcomer is in full struggle to do the sit-up. The newcomer then shots upward, finding his face fully implanted in the mooner’s crack. It’s disturbing to watch, and I can’t even imagine what it’s like for either person, the face-planter, or the crack filler.

Chapstick wanted me to ensure to the readers of my blog that he was not the butt of this joke in any way. Upon entering the holding cell, he was asked if he wanted to work out, and without a missing a stride, he replied, “Not a chance.”

Chapstick’s favorite workout prank was between 2 people that were either homeless, retarded, or a combination of the two.

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Next stop, Descanso Jail, this time in a paddy wagon. It was nearing 11pm, and after a full day of waiting mixed with short bursts of travel, Chapstick was happy to be sitting in a van with air conditioning and a radio tuned to today’s hits. The ride took about an hour and ended up in a place that did not resemble his previous 2 stations in any way. It looked more like a sleep over camp out in the middle of the woods. He soon learned that his interpretation wasn’t far from the truth.

Descanso was a collection of little housing units on a main camp ground. There were not locks on doors, nor bars on windows, in fact, the only security was a couple fenses circling the parimeter full with razor wire. Each housing unit held about 20 or 30 inmates, and was equiped with books, magazines, games and a TV. The politics still existed, but were way more relaxed than the previous jails.

The rest of Chapstick’s time (about a week) was spent playing cards, watching movies (Spiderman 3, Grandma’s Boy, Transformers, The Hulk, and probably 20 others), and feeling the sun on his face during allowed outdoor time. Chapstick read a couple of books, and even watched football all day on Sunday, incuding the Eagles game on Monday night. This place was obviously built to handle the low threat that inmates like Chapstick posed on society and authority.

The funny thing was that this was the place were Chapstick witnessed someone getting his ass kicked. There was an arguement between a wood and a south sider. To keep it from escalating to a group fight between the races, the leaders of both gangs met and decided to let them duke it out, one on one. It took place in the bathroom area, was timed for 1 minute, and started right after a deputy made his rounds. The south sider kicked the wood’s ass. The wood was taken back to the downtown jail to recieve medical attention. That’s the last Chapstick saw of him.

Chapstick was called to the main office at Descanso about a week after arriving. It was finally time to go home, and he couldn’t have been more relieved. His personal items that he started out this adventure wearing and carrying are waiting for him in the San Diego Central Jail, the downtown jail. He was on his way by about 10pm, and similar to arriving, the process of his release from jail took what felt like days. He was finally on the streets of downtown San Diego at about 2am.

Ironically enough, the crime resulting in the sentence served, was again commited mere hours upon his release, only this time from the back seat. Chapstick haggled with a cab driver to drive him the 45 minute route to his home turf. After agreement to an 80 dollar cab fare, and en route, Chapstick tells the driver that he is coming from jail. The cab driver immediately pulls over at a gas station, gives Chapstick one of the 20 dollar bills that had just been exchanged for a cab fair, and told him to go in an buy himself a good six pack of beer. Chapstick fully expects to see the driver pull away once he gets out to buy the beer, but he does not, he waits. So during the trip back to his home, in a cab, Chapstick enjoys the cold taste of beer on his lips. After all, it’s good, it’s good when it hits your lips.

So ends the Chapstick Breaking Point series. I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I have in telling it. It was (hopefully) a once in a lifetime experience, and being able to document it for Chapstick allowed time for reflection on lessons learned, if any. Let me know if you have any direct questions for Chapstick, and I will post his responses promptly.

Peace out hommies.

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It’s time to wrap up Chapstick’s story. Here it goes.

Pizza Hut Steve. He is young and dumb, 23, I think. Oddly enough, he never worked at Pizza Hut. His first stint in court that resulted in a sentence was a few years ago. And it seems like he just can’t get enough. It would be a fairly safe bet to put money on him ending up with a decade or greater sentence by the time he’s 30. This time around he was nabbed for burglary and breaking & entering, he robbed a music store after hours. He got somewhere around 9 months, just enough to get pregnant and have a baby in jail if he had the ability. I think he got a discman and a couple CDs out of the robbery. Sounds like a bargain to me.

Pizza Hut Steve didn’t work at Pizza Hut, he worked at Jiffy Lube. He earned his Chapstick-appointed nickname because his daily routine included finishing a long day of changing oil only to get a 40oz and hang outside the nearby Pizza Hut to drink. He found this to be a great place to drink because he got to hassle the patrons while hitting on a girl that worked inside. There was also a great escape route in case the cops came, which they did often. Some kids just like running from the cops, I guess. Pizza Hut Steve is of this breed.

Along with his sudden outbursts of rap, Pizza Hut Steve likes to talk, and in the evening of Chapstick’s third day in jail PHS was babbling to him like a little school girl. It started because P. H. Steve was pissed that his girlfriend had all but stopped writing to him. His girlfriend. This is a girl (yeah, the one from Pizza Hut) that he went on one date with before he got incarcerated, and it didn’t go very well. But the point of the story is not that Pizza Hut Steve has a pretend girlfriend, it is that he won’t shut up about it. It’s late, Chapstick is trying to sleep, and so are others. The leader of the white boys sleeps in the cell next door and after a few yells and wall poundings, Pizza Hut Steve figures out that he better shut up before he gets a beating the next morning. But it’s too late, and Chapstick is guilty by association.

At some point, late that night, a guard came by to wake up Chapstick to get his DNA for their database. After scraping a cotten swab on the inside of his mouth, Chapstick hands over his lost ability to commit crime anonomously in the future. It’s a shame too, because he was looking forward to being an outlaw on the run upon his release. But now, DNA can place Chapstick at the scene.

So the next morning had come just as the others, and breakfast was way too early once again. But before Chapstick could share the beating that Steve had earned for them the night before, a deputy called Chapstick’s name over the intercom and told him to bring his personals. Although he doesn’t know it at the time, Chap is transferring from the Vista Jail to go somewhere else. He would hope that he was going home, but that was just wishful thinking. At least he wasn’t answering to the Woods. It seems like he is saved by the bell. Zach, Screech, and A.C. would have been proud.

After a few hours of hanging out in a holding cell (haven’t we been here before?), Chapstick is shackled by the hands and feet to a string of 3 inmates. His hands are cuffed to a chain around his waist, and his ankles also sport cuffs, leaving just enough room to take small stutter steps. I’m assuming this is not really meant to deter making a break for freedom, but to stop any kind of shenanigans that might go on between inmates and cops. Or perhaps inmates and inmates. Anyway, after being sufficiently shackled, Chapstick boards a partitioned bus and sits in the back section. The partition is closed, locked, and more inmates are loaded. These are the kinds of inmates that you don’t want to be a part of. There are some that are in for a few years, and some for a few decades. Whatever case, Chapstick thought that the bus partitions started to make a lot of sense. He couldn’t see who was in the very front, right behind the cops, but he imagined that it looked a lot like a scene from Silence of the Lambs, facemask and all.

SD Central Jail

SD Central Jail

Next stop, the downtown San Diego Jail. Chapstick was led into another holding cell. He was offered a shitty meal, which he refused, and sat awaiting his next move. He spent another hour or two watching inmate after inmate get transfered to a cell in the downtown jail, until there was only a couple left, including himself. The deputy then called these last 3, including the Chap, into the hallway to get, you guessed it, shackled once again. Chapstick was being taken to another jail. He was relieved. From what he heard, you don’t want to spend time in the downtown jail.

Yep, it's a holding cell.

Yep, it's a holding cell. Time to leave.

Next stop, Descanso.

Woods!

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So there’s now been a full month of inactivity. I suppose it’s time to continue the saga of Chapstick Ferguson.

Chapstick’s second day in jail looked a lot like his first. It started a little before 4:30 am with a breakfast that looked a lot like it did yesterday. There were only a few substituted ingredients that disguised the meal as being something completely different. But it went down just as quickly as the first, and left the same stale taste in his mouth.* WOODS!

Chapstick fell back asleep after his pre-sunrise breakfast, as his fellow inmates do every morning. It is the regular routine. At the 10:00 AM lunch approached, he again awoke, ate, and retreated to his cell. Upon sitting on his top bunk of the two person cell, he was once again subjected to Pizza Hut Steve’s spontaneous bursts of rapping. Pizza Hut Steve was a skinhead. He was a racist. The idea of a racist skinhead reciting the lyrics of a music style that generally celebrated by the African American community was ironic enough to bring Chapstick to laughter. WOODS!

Today Chapstick accomplished something that he has never done before in his life. Sure, he’s in jail, and that’s a strange accomplishment in itself, but his accomplishment had nothing to do with being locked up. Chapstick did something that he could have done on the outside, but never did. He read a book, cover to cover. All 400 or so pages of it. It was a crime novel, ironically enough, and held his interest for the entire day. It was a shitty book, and a cherished relief. Considering the options, it’s not surprising. Remember, inmates walk laps around the common area for fun. It’s a 30 foot diameter circle for Chist’s sake. WOODS!

So why say woods? Does it mean anything? Is there anything else we should know? I’m glad you asked. It’s called jail politics and there’s a good amount of information you should know concerning the subject.It is especially important if you plan on going to jail any time in the next lifetime of yours. Jail politics just might save your ass. I’m just going to skim off the top layer of the subject.

First of all, in the San Diego County Jail system, inmates fall under four main groups. They are, of course, segregated by race. You can call them gangs if you’d like, but Chapstick made a point to say several times that these were not gangs in the traditional sense. There was never a question of whether or not you were a member of the group, nor any kind of obligation to participate because being part of it. If you were of a race, then you were part of the group. Some groups can get along, as a rule, others can not. The four groups are as follows: Woods, South Siders, Picas, and Brothers & Others.

WOODS: First of all, this is short for Peckerwoods. It’s time that we face the truth that white guys never ever will be considered cool, and their nickname directly reflects this unsettling fact. The group name hammers that in stone even while in jail. This is why the whitey shortened it to Woods. Even though the name does not suggest it, the Peckerwoods are the most powerful and infuential groups that make up San Diego jail politics. They are the first to stick up for their own race, and will not let shit slide when it comes to other races disrespecting us. Some Woods have more energy invested in the group than others. Some are ordinary non-discriminating inmates, and some are all out white supremesist racists. It is easy to distinguish between the two. Woods get more respect from the deputies than other races.**

SOUTH SIDERS: Being so close to the border means that there are a lot of Mexicans in Southern California, and without surprise, there are many in jail. Mexican-Americans are known as South Siders. They are of Mexican decent that are at least second generation American. The South Siders and the Peckerwoods are allies and are expected to get along accordingly on the inside. Together, they make up about 65% of all inmates. If you come to jail and decide to mess with a South Sider, be prepared to have more than half the jail population looking to severely injure you.

PICAS: This one is pronounced pie-sas. The Picas are Mexicans that are originally from South of the border. They generally always speak in Spanish, but most can at least stumble through a broken version of English if they have to. As far as Jail Politics are concerned, they might as well be invisible. They keep to themselves, apologize when necessary, and tip toe around all other races. Usually, this would be a sign of weakness and an open invitation for exploitation, but the Picas are never really bothered in return. They do occasionally associate with South Siders as you might have guessed, but even their interaction is at a minimum.

BROTHERS & OTHERS: I bet you can guess who makes up this collection. Yep, its the African Americans, Asians, and any other oddity that might not belong within the 3 prior groups. Unlike an East Coast jail, this group only makes up about 10% of the population and has little pull when it comes to politics. And although blacks, asians, indians are in the same group, they do not associate. So if you are asian and going to jail in San Diego, get ready to be pretty effin alone.

So what are politics, you ask? Glad you did. It refers to the interaction between races. Everything from assigning showertime by race, to chowtime regulations, to basic interactions. Each race has a representative, kind of like a team captain. If there is ever a problem with a member of a race, the representative is the one to take care of it. If there is ever a problem between two members of two different races, the two reps would be the ones to resolve it. The deputies and staff know about and encourage the practise of jail politics. It is a way for inmates to keep a level of civilized order without outside intervention. Chapstick witnessed only one fight during his stay. The fight wasn’t your normal pushing match, it was full on continuous punches to the face, black eyes, cuts, and blood. Look for details in a future post.

So the night after Chapsticks 2nd full day in jail, upon reading the last page of the shitty book, he realized that Pizza Hut Steve was already a few measures deep in one of his absurd, but seamingly unrepressable, rapping convulsions. Chapstick assumed that this was his way of crying out, Someone, anyone, PLEASE talk to me! Chapstick said something aloud, it doesn’t really matter what it was. The result, however, was like breaking down the flood gates for Pizza Hut Steve and his following story.

* A newfound skill Chapstick attained from going to jail is that he can eat a complete 3 course meal in about 15 seconds flat. Although he usually likes to take his time, it’s nice to know he can house a meal if the need arises.
** The respect is minimal for all inmates, but the deputies will at least communicate with Woods like they are people. Most deps are white. Most deps are racists too. Jail Deputies are cops that didn’t make the cuts to be out on the street.

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Chapstick wanted to let you know what an average day looks like in the San Diego jail system like it would in some way benefit the readers of Detroyed By Madness. I will go into further personal detail in entries to come, but lets first find out what your average day looks like in the slammer. So here it goes.

First of all, Chapstick was fortunate enough to find his cell mate to be a friendly skin-head. We’ll call him Pizza Hut Steve. Pizza Hut Steve liked to talk, and made sure to fill Chapstick in on all the rules of jail that might not be so obvious to the inexperienced. He did so during the course of the day. Chapstick has been uncomfortably asleep for about 2 hours now.

It’s a little before 4:30 and you are awakened by something that sounds like a muffled fire alarm. You wake up easily, though, because you never really got comfortable. You are sleeping on a metal bed with a one inch thick mat that has been beaten and bruised by many inmates before you. If you took them off to sleep, then make sure you remember to put back on your socks and rubber sandals. Forget, and you’ll be risking staff infection, foot fungus, and some angry inmates. Apparently showing your feet while others are eating is a form of disrespect, and you’ll get a beat down for it.

Once you exit your cell into the common area, you are going to want to stand with your own race in line for breakfast. Everything is fully segregated in jail, the officers tolerate it, and the inmates like it that way. Try to mix things up, and the first in line to kick your ass is going to be your own race while the officers look the other way. It doesn’t make much sense, and doesn’t really need to either. It’s called politics, and has nothing to do with the government. Another entry will be dedicated to this subject. Anyway, Chapstick wasn’t looking to make any waves. So stand with the white boys.

The food is terrible, and comes in a plastic wrapped, single serving TV dinner style meal. You stand at your table of the same race until signaled by the head white guy shouting “woods” (I’ll go into that later) and then you sit down and eat your food. Do it fast. ‘Cause once that same white guy shouts “woods” again, you are finished. Definitely do not share your meal with anyone of a different race. Again, a beat down will follow if you do.

Because you eat at a completely absurd hour, all you have left to do after eating breakfast is to go back to bed. That’s what everyone does. Usually people will sleep until about lunch time at 10:30 AM. Again, an oddly early hour for lunch, but when you have no indication of what time it is anyway, it’s as good a time as any. Soup and a sandwich is the standard for lunch. The soup is awful, and the sandwich (Chapstick’s favorite food for the duration of his stay) consists of 2 slices of slightly stale white bread, one slice of bologna, one slice of cheese, a packet of mustard, and a packet of mayo. I comes in a stack, and you have to make it yourself.

After lunch, most inmates will stay awake to participate in a variety of different activities. You can watch TV. The TV is too small and too far away to see, and the blown-out speakers create a muffled version of sound that you can’t really listen to. You can play a variety of board games, the most popular ones being cards, dominoes, checkers, and chess. Again, don’t get caught playing with anyone of a different race. You can walk around in circles in the common area. Yeah, people actually do this a lot. Its about a 30 second round trip of maybe a 20 foot diameter. Or you can read the paper.  Normally you’d opt to read a book, but oddly enough, you can’t bring one in with you and there is no such thing as a jail library. The paper is a reliable way to waste some time on a daily basis. Here’s a look at the common area.

After all the excitement of these activities, it is about time to eat dinner at 4:30 PM. It’s earlier than any self-respecting senior citizen would eat, but since you don’t eat again for 12 hours, you better chow down now.

The officers turn on the showers (or at least the hot water) at about 6:00 PM. It’s a single shower stall located on the upper floor. You are showering solo, which was a relief to Chapstick. Showers are mandatory, too. Forget, or neglect to take a shower and, yep, you guessed it, you get a beat down.

So you’d think that because of the aggresively early eating schedule, lights out would come early too. This is not the case. Lights out is usually not until about 11:00 PM. The flourescent lights are like those in any supermarket, and a jail’s verion of “lights out” means that instead of both bulbs are illuminated, only one is. Most inmates get used to sleeping with a towel or blanket over their face to block out the light. Sleeping is difficult, though. It’s loud, bright, and the accomodations they provide are uncomfortable at best.

Chapstick had a tough time sleeping for his first real night in jail. Maybe it was because Pizza Hut Steve would break out into rap like a man with torrets syndrome. Maybe it was because he napped for most of the day. Maybe it was because the random guard walking by always startled him. Maybe it was because it was light as day in the cell. But mostly, it was just because he was in jail.

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Chapstick turned himself in at 9pm on a Saturday night. The moment of truth was finally upon him, and no matter how he looked at it, he was scared, sad, and unsure of what was to lie in front of him for the next two weeks. The only thing he knew for sure was that he would be required to spend a maximum of 15 days incarcerated, maybe a little less.

If you are of the kind that has never had to deal with the court system, consider yourself fortunate. There is nothing quick about it. It shares many similarities with the DMV, and moves slowly enough to drive any man insane. Chapstick checked in at about 8:45 to meet his 9:00pm deadline. Everything he brought, he did so strategically. He brought a full pack of smokes, a pack of matches, 63 dollars in cash in his wallet, no jewelry or watch, boxers not briefs, flip flops, and his most comfortable yet respectable hipster clothing. He knew that the taxi back to his house upon being released would cost approximately 40 bucks, and that he would most likely be released around the wee hours of the morning. Experience showed him that its difficult to find a train, bus, or even a taxi running at that hour, so he also brought the number of a few local taxi services by the jail.

The police officer that checked him in, he found, was not at all concerned with treating him with an ounce of respect. Chapstick wasn’t surprised by this. Why would he be. Chapstick found himself immediately putting himself in this man’s shoes. What a shitty job that must be. To deal with derrilicks and criminals every day at work. You’d have to be on your guard (pun intended) at all times while on the clock. It’s got to just suck every day. So yeah, this guy was a dick.

Chapstick was then brought through the back door of the jail to the official check in station where they take your mug shot, and make sure you do not have any pressing health issues, the hiv, of any other contractable diseases. He sat on a bench as far away from the only other person in this station, a homeless man who was either high on crack, or more drunk than anyone has ever been in the history of the world. He was speaking constantly, tripping between a normal speaking volume and screaming at the top of his lungs, and you couldn’t understand a single word of it. He couldn’t stand, he couldn’t speak, he smelled like a mixture of urine, shit, body odor, and liquor, and it looked like he was defying all rules of Darwinian survivalism, but somehow he still existed. Chapstick wondered how this extrordinary specimen came to exist, and whether black magic was involved.

After checking in at this station, he was brought to a small holding cell where he spent about 2 hours. There was a “welcome to jail” video playing on a loop in Spanish. He tried watching a minute or two before he realized it was in Spanish. This is a strange strange world he lives in.

After a few hours of sitting and being the OG of a few more delinquents that were arriving battered, bruised, and drunk, he was led out to the next holding cell. Pit stop first, lets change into some sweet new clothes! He exchanged his street clothes with the jail uniform at this point. I know what you’re thinking, but no, it was not a bright orange jumpsuit or something striped. He was issued tighty whiteys, socks, rubber salmon colored sandals, a white tshirt, and a navy blue pair of pants & shirt. The tighty whiteys hung down to mid-thigh, there was no elastic left in the waist of the pants, and sandals were two different sizes. Almost makes sense. So he grabs his waistband so his pants don’t fall down and heads off to the next cell. This one was further into the bowels of jail, but was still just a holding cell.

Chapstick was then required to give another receptionist behind bars & bullet proof glass some emergency contact information and other general info to veryify his identity. He was then told that he would most likely be released on the 11th day, probably sometime very early in the morning. Cool, that’s less than the expected 15. He wasn’t sure if the current day he checked in counted towards the 11 or not, and now would’ve been the time to ask, but he missed the opportunity. He was then fingerprinted and thrown back into the cell. At this point there’s about a baker’s dozen in the cell all going through the same process. Somehow, the rest of them seemed to have a bit more experience than good ol’ Chapstick Ferguson.

It is now about 2am, and the police officer is ready to lead him to his actual cell in jail. Chapstick picks up his S.D. issued property of 1 bed mat, 1 sheet, 1 blanket, hotel sized bar of soap, mini toothbrush, Amerident toothpaste, and comb. He is led down a few hallways, through a few Oz-like cell blocks, discarding other inmates along the way. The last stop is cell block C cell 3. He’s now in jail. The door automatically opens, he throws his shit on the top bunk of the 6′ by 10′ cell waking the sleeping inmate below. The first thing out of his mouth upon waking up is “Hey, are you white?” Chapstick says “yes” as he climbs onto the bunk and for the first time closes his eyes to sleep for the night.

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How now brown cow. That’s a sentence. And a better one than what Chapstick Ferguson was about to hear.

Chapstick has done his time, he has been in jail, and is now willing to share all experiences associated with the readers of Destroyed By Madness. So where should it start? At the begining of course…

Chapstick went to court a month or two ago to ask for an extension to complete his community work service that he was ordered to fullfil for a fairly minor offense he committed more than a year and a half ago. His work schedule has been such that he had fallen behind in completing his service to society. He works long, hard days, and the little time away from his desk he cherishes a bit too much. Too much to hang around a highway wearing a fluorescent vest picking up trash, anyway. So when he went to court to fill out the necessary paperwork to file for an extension, he found that he was denied. Denied? Why was he denied? He had talked to many people that have gotten 4 and 5 extensions without any problem at all for committed offenses that carried much harsher penalties. Even felonies! This was a simple misdemeanor that required a little “rehabilitation” time, a fine that was a little more inflated than it ever should have been, as well as some service aimed toward the community. So the paperwork people, the deny-ees, told him to schedule a time to go before a judge to get this extension. They told him that all he had to do was ask respectfully, and the judge should have no problem approving a little extra time to finish off his community work service program. Ok, so just one more step he didn’t expect, but how bad could it really be?

You know the outcome already, but here it is in short.

Upon coming to the courthouse for his supposed judge-approved extension, he found out that he was no longer asking for an extension to complete his community work service. He was now asking the judge to consider allowing him to serve time in jail for a period of a few weekends instead of taking him right there and then to serve a consecutive sentence amounting to a total of 15 days! How the hell did that work out!? It makes no sense. Perhaps if he had been more experienced with manipulating the court system to work in his favor he would be in a more comfortable position. This was not the case. Pun intended.

So to make a long story-segment short, he was given a sentence of 15 days in the county jail, to be served as consecutive days, instead of finishing the community service he had started nearly a year ago. He stood in disbelief as the public defendant took the order from the judge. He didn’t know that there would be the need for a lawyer here. There was. The only positive outcome, which this can hardly be considered positive in your normal daily life, was that the judge offered Chapstick to choose when he wanted to turn himself in. This choice was in lue of taking him right there and then, not allowing him to pass go, not allowing him to collect $200, but going straight to jail. He chose to turn himself in at 9:00 pm on November 1st. This decision gave him time to submit all necessary PTO forms at work to take a little “vacation.”

He had about a month to anticipate the day that he would turn himself in. The idea of going to jail made him sick to his stomach. His only relief during this time was to ignore the inevitable so that it did not eat away at his soul. I would imagine it would be like knowing that you have just aquired a heaping combination of the Black Plague mixed with the Ebola virus and a little Anthrax thrown into the stew for good measure.

It was the questions that killed him. The unknowns. What was jail like? Who do you turn to, to ask a question like that? No one knows. At least not the people Chapstick Ferguson hangs out with. Should he even tell anyone, or keep it as a very dark and scary skeleton hidden in the back of his closet, never to mention it again? He opted to keep it a secret, deal with the cards as they were exposed to him, and stay as strong as possible during these very strange and unfamiliar times.

At least that’s what he told himself.

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Dave asked me to fill in some kind of interview questionaire for his blog. Not only did I not feel like doing that (his questions sucked), I also thought it was kind of gay. I don’t like participating in gay activities, so instead, here is a little ditty about me.

My name is Chapstick Ferguson, and I’m going to jail.

You want more? Here it is.

I have committed a victimless crime. In most scenarios, this would have given the defendant a slap on the wrists, and an idea that they should walk the straight and narrow for a little while. Not in my case, though. In my case, I got raped by the state on all accounts. Some people lied. Others decided to make an example out of me. People of power took advantage of my lack of experience in law breaking to basically steal thousands of dollars of my hard earned money, loads of my time & energy, and ultimately a year and a half later, my freedom. I feel like I am at a point where I could snap at any moment. That’s why I asked Dave to call these sessions Chapstick’s Breaking Point.

Here’s an example: I was walking out the “in” door of Costco. I just stepped in for a minute to check out their cameras which are located right through the front door. Instead of walking all the way around to the appropriate “out” door, I decided to take the short-cut. There was a girl standing at the in door checking cards that saw and predicted my move of defiance and took a defensive stance to barricade me from exiting incorrectly. She was saying something like, “Sir, you can’t go out this way…” I’m sure there is a reason she needed to do this, I’m sure she was just doing her job. I mumbled something like, “Don’t worry about it, it’s all good…,” and didn’t break my stride. She was about to grab my shirt to stop me with which I probably would have responded by grabbing her by the neck. Luckily she didn’t, or I would be writing today in regret. But over-reacting in that way is when I knew I was at my breaking point.

I am a reasonable man. I work hard and generally don’t break rules. I pick up trash and recycle on a regular basis. I’ll help anyone in need as much as I can. I’d give the shirt off my back to a friend. I’m a nice guy. I’m a reasonable man.

Seriously, enough’s enough. I get the point. I understand what you’re trying to tell me. But I gotta tell you, honestly, go fuck yourself.

I want to cry and scream at the same time. I want to sleep for a month straight. I want to piss on all the people who have screwed me. I want this all to be over so I can laugh at all the people that are so unhappy with their position in life, they feel the need to pick on someone else.

I have no faith in the government. I know that the court system is corrupt. I pray for unfortunate ends to lying police officers. Karma does not exist. I don’t care who the next president is or who is elected to city council. I will continue to cough “bullshit” when I pay my taxes.

So for the next 2 weeks, I will be observing and documenting the life led through the eyes of a criminal, an inmate, so that the loyal readers of Destroyed By Madness don’t have to go to jail to know that they don’t want to be there. Lucky you. Unlucky me.

This should be interesting.

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There is a new chapter that has thrown itself upon the faithful readers of Destroyed BM. It will be called The Chapstick Breaking Point.

There once lived a man named Chapstick Ferguson. Or at least he was thought to have lived. For years he was thought to merely exist in fiction, in stories that parents tell their children to teach them life lessons. He has shown himself to me, very similar to they way people “find Jesus.” It is just as absurd as I had always dreamed it would be. I never found Jesus, but I did find Chapstick Ferguson.

Chapstick had always lived his life in moderation. But there was a moment, a single moment that presented a series of consequences that will forever change his perspective on life, government, authority, economic, and personal values. He has lost faith in many functions most of us take for granted. Instead of going to great lengths to describe Chapstick Ferguson, I am going to let him explain himself and his situation to you in his own words.

Get ready for an interview with the one and only Chapstick Ferguson on Monday. You’re going to want to hear what he has to say. It may not be relevant to anything you ever dreamed of experiencing in your life, or anything you’d ever want to, but I can promise you that it will be interesting.

The Chapstick Breaking Point will be a series of posts exploring the trials of C. Ferguson. So stay tuned.

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