Since my most recent arrest, every time I see a cop I think, “pig.”  Not their fault I guess but it does suit them.  My old man was a pig.  My little brother wants to be a pig, but he’s just a jailer now.  I suppose that makes him a piglet. He’s really quite an unpleasant human being, but I still love him.

     Half my family represents humorless law enforcement, the stoner half is with me.  Makes family gatherings quite interesting.  My older brother and I are such potheads that no meaningful communication is possible with our father.  Which is good, ’cause who wants a more in-depth explanation of “You look like a maggot”? 

     Twenty-five years of that kind of talk can affect one’s psyche.  Last time I spoke to, uhm, my father I told him, “Come see the tortilla factory I’m wiring.”  Best job I’ve ever done in my life.  My proudest electrical accomplishment.  He told me, “There’s tortilla factories all over town.” 

     Went back to my parent’s house the day I energized the place.  Everything worked perfectly.  Five different voltages.  My mom asks me, “Were you there when they turned on the power?”

     Speaking of pigs, I’ve always felt a little sympathy for Charles Manson.  Who wouldn’t appear a little crazy sitting in a room with Geraldo Rivera?  Have you really listened to “Helter Skelter”?  Music can be a dangerous thing.  There’s about two hundred CD’s that are off limits to me because of the subliminal effect they have on my actions.  Charlie didn’t kill Sharon Tate, or the LaBianca’s.  Probably he was just jamming at the time back at the bus.

     Here’s one to raise an eyebrow.  I like all kinds of music, except cop-killing rap.  And the only thing I don’t like about cop-killing rap is the rap.

     But I am glad I didn’t kill that motorcycle cop when I was loaded with speed.  Because who wants to go to jail for little shit like that?  I mean, he was a city pig in the county.  If I had hit him, I should have gotten an award.

     I was admonished by a cop once, “Tell the truth and I’ll let you go.”  So I told him, “There’s a half-ounce under the seat.” He said, “Put your hands behind your back.”

     Languished squallidly in jail for twenty-three hours as a result.  I asked the jailers, “Who is going to feed my cat?”  Nobody cared.  I did make good friends with a cockroach while I was there.  I called him, “Mr. Cockroach.”  Quite loudly.  No one fucked with me.

     ‘Corrections officers’  don’t let you comb your hair or brush your teeth or do anything cosmetic before they take your mugshot.  After you’ve been up all night talking to your insect friend.  No wonder our perception of criminals is so low.  Nobody looks good under those circumstances.  Nobody exudes dashing style in the joint.  Where is George Clooney when you need him? 

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