This Aint The Holiday Inn

Apparently, from what I heard it was a fairly....... calm day (don't want to use the "Q" word. No.. no.. no. Not even here.), at least until BG and I got to work. Then all hell broke loose. They started locking them up left and right. We had two offenders check in from their cellies (ie- declare them enemies, state they feared for their lives) in ten minutes.

We put one on the C-wing bench and one on the B-wing bench and try to deal with the lockups as they were coming in. And we get this kid in off the bus. Nineteen years old and has five months of prison under his belt. Think he has the system beat. He says he gets bad claustrophobia and he can't be in a cell with anybody. I said "You should have figured that out before you came to prison, kid." Sat him down on the A-wing bench and said "Hope you got alot of padding in your butt, because you are going to be there for awhile."

Of course, that didn't work out as I had planned. Sarge eventually made us move somebody and put him in a cell by himself after about an hour and a half. But I made him sit there as long as I could. But I figure we are going to be dealing with young Mr. Claustrophobia for a good long time. He's going to have to grow up and learn where he is at one of these days.

Well, I'll deal with that when the time comes. In my own way.

This aint the Holiday Inn, kid. And it aint your mommas house, either. This is prison. This is the bigs. This is the Hive and this is my house.

Maybe BG is right. Maybe I do have a few anger management issues I need to address.