There was an Academy Award winning documentary in the late 70s called SCARED STRAIGHT. Juvenile delinquents who were “too cool for school” received lectures from prison lifers on what it was really like in the joint. Needless to say, they scared the shit out of these cocky little guttersnipes.
As a public service (and you know me – always a giver) I would like to do an updated version. I know a lot of gang members and assorted bad ass motherfuckers read this blog (they especially like my Tony Award reviews) so it’s the perfect forum.
Please welcome my guest blogger, prison inmate Lindsay Lohan!
Thanks, Ken. So listen you guys, prison is oh-my-God like such a nightmare. Okay. First. You have to wear their clothes. And it’s not like they buy them new for everyone like they should if they had any decency. So you’re wearing overalls worn by God knows who? Hygiene is not a priority among these skanks, let me tell you. And by the way they’re ugly. The clothes, not the skanks… although, yeah, the skanks too. If you’re trailer trash but pretty you can always have a good career in porn but these mutts have nothing left but to rob the people better looking than they are. It’s pathetic!
But everybody wears the same thing. Whoever shops for them they should like add on another twenty years. And it’s one thing to wear a uniform if you’re like “Hi, I work at McDonalds and have no future and am not pretty enough for porn” but what if you’re not? What if you’re planning to get a job as a big executive when you get out of prison? Or even star in a reality show? What does it do to your confidence? I mean, just take a look at those losers in the yard. They’re all just such… downers. And for what? You think any of them would be less sorry they stabbed your mother if they got to wear a cute halter top and khaki shorts? I’m telling you, this is the kind of torture they subject you to 24/7.
Oh, and it’s worse. If someone comes to visit you, you STILL have to wear those clothes. I mean, come on! I didn’t kill anybody. And even if I did, that means I have to wear orange?
Now for the privacy. There isn’t any. None. You can’t do your nails without some bitch asking what star you’ve fucked. If I didn’t know better I’d say that being in jail is like being in a cage. As for your room – okay, picture like a dressing room when you’re on location and it’s small and no one even thinks to get you a variety of Snapple. And they’re all “oh, it’s an indie film and I had to mortgage my house” and you’re like, “yeah but how is that my problem? I didn’t tell you to do it.” Waa waa. So it’s like that. Small. No bedspead. No private shower. That’s a whole other trauma. I mean it’s one thing to be naked in magazines. That’s for money. There’s dignity in that. But washing yourself in front of other women, that’s just dirty.
And here’s the worst. I need a moment here. I get choked up just thinking about it. Okay. Okay. They won’t let you text. I know! It’s inhuman! Can you imagine? It’s like you’re completely cut off from your staff. If they’re going to make us check in our cellphones why not just make us check in our thumbs?
Bottom line is you guys, I’ll be scarred for life. I hope this doesn’t drive me to drink. But if it does it’s all on their head – heads? – no, head – maybe heads – I dunno. All of that rehab for nothing because of them! All I can say is that every day in prison felt like a year, so do the math. I was in there for thirteen long years, people. Bottom bottom line -- don’t let what happened to me happen to you.
Get better lawyers.
Thank you, Lindsay.
What do you think? Was I scary?