The Poultry of Life

Brief exchange with Moore on the phone this evening:

“I walked seven miles tonight. Terrible blister on the back of my right foot. Anyway, that’s enough of that. Based on your emails, you had a good food day.”

“Yeah. Those were great peas. Although lunch was just white rice. Well, I gave my chicken away. Speaking of chicken… Pete smuggled some back to the cells the other day. It was scalding hot. You should see the scar on his shin. Looks exactly like a chicken femur. Huge and purple, pus coming out of it.”

“All I can think of is men showing off scars to impress chicks and there’s Pete telling a girl, ‘I was smuggling a baked chicken through a prison.’”

“Dude! Drew, this six-foot-four, three-hundred-and-thirty-pound guy in here, smuggled eight of them at once! Put them around his waist. Didn’t get burned either.”

“I’m picturing them strapped to his belt like dynamite. Imagine there’s a lone feather by his buckle and someone goes to pull it out. ‘Noooooo! It’s a bom—!’”

“Drew managed to get caught with thirteen apples though. Three in one sock, two in another, and the rest tucked into his fat rolls. He had on a mask and the C.O. asked him to lift it. The last apple was in his mouth. C.O. told him he’d earned the apples and said to get the fuck back to his cell!”

“It’s like you’re living in a cartoon.”

And we wonder why recidivism is a problem. America’s got talent, folks.