Christmas Issue

In This Issue

From Shirleys Desk    A Christmas Story

Resources                                                           3
Humor                                                                3
State Pays Settle for Hep C lawsuits                 4
San Francisco Preventable deaths                    4
Another Christmas in a prison visiting room          5

From Shirley’s Desk

I want to wish everyone a happy holiday no matter which one you celebrate, or which religion you are. Merry Christmas to all who celebrate Christmas holidays. Christmas is a time for Families, Fun, and Festivities! A time of family gatherings and holiday meals. A time for Santa, stars, and singing carolers. A time for ornaments, gifts, and twinkling lights. Of sleigh rides, hot cocoa, and gingerbread cookies. Since I know you can’t be home for the holidays, I thought you might enjoy this story that I found the other day.

It was Christmas Eve 1881. I was fifteen years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because…Pa never had much compassion for the lazy or those who squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.

It was Christmas Eve 1881. I was fifteen years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn't been enough money to buy me the rifle that I'd wanted for Christmas. We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read in the Bible.

After supper was over, I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the old Bible. I was still feeling sorry for myself and, to be honest, I wasn't in much of a mood to read Scriptures. But Pa didn't get the Bible; instead he bundled up again and went outside. I couldn't figure it out because we had already done all the chores. I didn't worry about it long though; I was too busy wallowing in self-pity.

Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold clear night out and there was ice in his beard. "Come on, Matt," he said. "Bundle up good, it's cold out tonight." I was really upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle for Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly reason that I could see. We'd already done all the chores, and I couldn't think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this. But I knew Pa was not very patient at one dragging one's feet when he'd told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my cap, coat, and mittens. Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn't know what.

Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell. We never hitched up this sled unless we were going to haul a big load. Pa was already up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy.

When I was on the sled, Pa pulled it around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off and I followed. "I think we'll put on the high sideboards," he said. "Here, help me." The high sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on.

After we had exchanged the sideboards, Pa went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood -- the wood I'd spent all summer hauling down from the mountain, and then all Fall sawing into blocks and splitting. What was he doing?
Finally I said something. "Pa," I asked, "What are you doing?"

"You been by the Widow Jensen's lately?" he asked. The Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her husband had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the oldest being eight. Sure, I'd been by, but so what?
"Yeah," I said, "Why?"
"I rode by just today," Pa said. "Little Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips. They're out of wood, Matt."

That was all he said and then he turned and went back into the woodshed for another armload of wood. I followed him. We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able to pull it. Finally, Pa called a halt to our loading, then we went to the smoke house and Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon. He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait. When he returned he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a smaller sack of something in his left hand. "What's in the little sack?" I asked.

"Shoes. They're out of shoes. Little Jakey just had gunny sacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this morning. I got the children a little candy too. It just wouldn't be Christmas without a little candy."

We rode the two miles to the Widow Jensen's pretty much in silence. I tried to think through what Pa was doing. We didn't have much by worldly standards. Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it. We also had meat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoes and candy?

Really, why was he doing any of this? The Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us; it shouldn't have been our concern. We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible. Then we took the meat and flour and shoes to the door. We knocked. The door opened a crack and a timid voice said, "Who is it?"

"Lucas Miles, Ma'am, and my son, Matt. Could we come in for a bit?" The Widow Jensen opened the door to let us in. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The children were wrapped in another and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heat at all. The Widow Jensen fumbled with a match and finally lit the lamp.

"We brought you a few things, Ma'am," Pa said and set down the sack of flour. I put the meat on the table. Then Pa handed her the sack that had the shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at a time. There was a pair for her and one for each of the children -- sturdy shoes, the best, shoes that would last. I watched her carefully. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn't come out.

"We brought a load of wood, too, Ma'am," Pa said. He turned to me and said, "Matt, go bring in enough to last awhile. Let's get that fire up to size and heat this place up." I wasn't the same person when I went back out to bring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat, and as much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes too. In my mind I kept seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there with tears running down her cheeks with so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn't speak. My heart swelled within me and a joy that I'd never known before filled my soul. I had given at Christmas many times before, but never when it had made so much difference. I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people.

I soon had the fire blazing and everyone's spirits soared. The kids started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece of candy and the Widow Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn't crossed her face for a long time. She finally turned to us. "God bless you," she said. "I know the Lord has sent you. The children and I have been praying that he would send one of his angels to spare us."

In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up in my eyes again. I'd never thought of Pa in those exact terms before, but after the Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was probably true. I was sure that a better man than Pa had never walked the earth. I started remembering all the times he had gone out of his way for Ma and me, and many others. The list seemed endless as I thought on it.

Pa insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. I was amazed when they all fit and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get. Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would make sure he got the right sizes. Tears were running down the Widow Jensen's face again when we stood up to leave. Pa took each of the kids in his big arms and gave them a hug. They clung to him and didn't want us to go. I could see that they missed their Pa, and I was glad that I still had mine.

At the door Pa turned to Widow Jensen and said, "The Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner tomorrow. The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get cantankerous if he has to eat turkey for too many meals. We'll be by to get you about eleven. It'll be nice to have some little ones around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little for quite a spell." I was the youngest. My two brothers and two sisters had all married and had moved away. Widow Jensen nodded and said, "Thank you, Brother Miles. I don't have to say, 'May the Lord bless you,' I know for certain that He will."

Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within and I didn't even notice the cold. When we had gone a ways, Pa turned to me and said, "Matt, I want you to know something. Your ma and me have been tucking a little money away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we didn't have quite enough. Then yesterday a man who owed me a little money from years back came by to make things square. Your ma and me were real excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I started into town this morning to do just that. But on the way I saw little Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunnysacks and I knew what I had to do. Son, I spent the money for shoes and a little candy for those children. I hope you understand."

I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again. I understood very well, and I was so glad Pa had done it. Now the rifle seemed very low on my list of priorities. Pa had given me a lot more. He had given me the look on the Widow Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three children.

For the rest of my life, whenever I saw any of the Jensens, or split a block of wood, I remembered. And remembering brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night. Pa had given me much more than a rifle that night, he had given me the best Christmas of my life.

___________________________________

We at the Jeff Dicks Medical Coalition want to wish you all a Merry Christmas and a better New Year. Remember if you can afford to help us, please send stamps to PO Box 342 Beechgrove TN 37018. This will help us to mail out more newsletters for those who do not get them.

We do not get funding of any kind, and the ladies here help all of you by using their own money to mail letters on your behalf. We would like to help more of you, but we need people who will donate their time to join us, we need printer ink, donations and stamps.

So please talk to your friends and family members to check out our website and join us, or give a small donation to help keep us afloat. Our new website address is
www.jeffdicksmedical.com

Resources

Gifts Catalog For Prisoners To send gifts to your loved ones for holidays, send 3 stamps to receive the gifts catalog to Internet Fairgrounds Catalogue PO Box 342, Beechgrove TN 37018

Aids In Prison Project, Osborne Association, 809 Westchester Ave., Bronx, NY 10455

Prisoner Pen Pals Send SASE to James Jones PO Box 342 Beechgrove TN. 37018

BOOKS, FREE TO PRISONERS
Books for prisoners, c/o Left Bank Bookstore, 92 Pike St. Box A, Seattle, WA 98101 (no religion or legal).

Books through Bars, c/o New Society Publications; 4722 Baltimore Ave., Philadelphia, PA 19143 book program, donations appreciated.

HUMOR
What happened when the snow girl fell out with the snow boy ? She gave him the cold shoulder !

What do snowmen wear on their heads ? Ice caps !

What do snowmen eat for lunch ? Icebergers !

Where do snowmen go to dance ? Snowballs !

How do snowmen travel around ? By iceicle

What sort of ball doesn't bounce ? A snowball

How do you know when there is a snowman in your bed ?
You wake up wet

Twas The Night Before Christmas In Jail

 'Twas the night before Christmas  And all through the cells  The convicts were locked up All madder than hell
Except for the lifers   Kicked back in their bunks Heads filled with visions  Of fat little punks
 When suddenly from the roof top There arose such a roar  That the bulls thought it was A riot for sure

The goon squad ran in  And stood ready to hit  A big guard yelled out  Who started this shit
 It came from the roof top   Sniveled a snitch It must be a breakout        Oh, son of a bitch
They climbed to the roof    By way of the stairs  Found a fat little freak      In red underwear
No, No yelled the dude   I bring you good cheer   Damn said the Captain     We found us a queer

Alright mother ____    Get your hands on the wall  They shook him down good       Asshole and all
They beat him and threw him    Into the hole with a kick  Well so much for Christmas       They locked up St. Nick

There were two blondes who went deep into the frozen woods searching for a Christmas tree.  After hours of subzero temperatures and a few close calls with

hungry wolves, one blonde turned to the other and said, "I'm     chopping down the next tree I see. I don't care whether it's decorated or not!"

 It was Christmas and the judge was in a merry mood as he asked the prisoner, "What are you charged with?"        "Doing my Christmas shopping early", replied the defendant.

"That's no offense", said the judge. "How early were you doing this shopping?"      "Before the store opened."

Mexican Bandit

A Mexican bandit made a specialty of crossing the Rio Grande from time to time and robbing banks in Texas. Finally, a reward was offered for his capture, and an enterprising Texas ranger decided to track him down.

After a lengthy search, he traced the bandit to his favorite cantina, snuck up behind him, put his trusty six-shooter to the bandit's head, and said, "You're under arrest. Tell me where you hid the loot or I'll blow your brains out."

But the bandit didn't speak English, and the Ranger didn't speak Spanish. Fortunately, a bilingual lawyer was in the saloon and translated the Ranger's message. The terrified bandit blurted out, in Spanish, that the loot was buried under the oak tree in back of the cantina.

"What did he say?" asked the Ranger. The lawyer answered, "He said 'Get lost, you turkey. You wouldn't dare shoot me.'"

A young cowboy from Texas goes off to college, but half way through the semester, he has foolishly
squandered all his money.   He calls home. "Dad," he says, "You won't believe what modern education is developing! They actually have a program here in Austin that will teach our dog, Ol' Blue how to talk!"

"That's amazing," his Dad says. "How do I get Ol' Blue
in that program?" "Just send him down here with $1,000" the young cowboy says. "I'll get him in the course."
So, his father sends the dog and $1,000.

About two-thirds through the semester, the money again runs out. The boy calls home. "So how's Ol' Blue doing, son," his father asks. "Awesome, Dad, he's talking up a storm," he says, "but you just won't believe this - they've had such good results they have started to teach the animals how to read!"     "Read!" says his father, "No kidding! How do we get     Blue in that program?"     "Just send $2,500, I'll get him in the class."      The money promptly arrives.

But our hero has a problem. At the end of the year, his father will find out the dog can neither talk, nor
read. So he shoots the dog. When he arrives home at the end of the year, his father is all excited. "Where's Ol' Blue? I just can't wait to see him read something and talk!"

"Dad," the boy says, "I have some grim news. Yesterday morning, just before we left to drive home, Ol' Blue
was in the living room, kicked back in the recliner, reading the Wall Street Journal, like he usually does.
Then he turned to me and asked, 'So, is your daddy still messing' around with that little redhead who
lives in town?"

The father exclaimed, "I hope you shot that son of a bitch before he talks to your Mother!"
"I sure did, Dad!"       "That's my boy!" The kid went on to be a successful lawyer ....... And
then he went on to become a Congressman

If you need medical care, then from now on send your letters to a new address. Send all medical help requests to-- Gloria Salazar - 3062 Beacon Field, San Antonio, Tx 78245 If you are subscribing to the newsletter, making a donation of money or stamps, mail that to Shirley Dicks PO box 342, Beechgrove TN 37018

For Native Americans with medical problems, write to our Native American Director, Momfeather P. O. Box 127 Marion, Kentucky 42064

Also our website has changed. The new website is www.jeffdicksmedical.com The memorial site for Jeff is www.jeffdicks.net

SALEM — The state of Oregon paid more than $300,000 to settle claims of five inmates who said they were denied adequate treatment for hepatitis C. Four of the inmates are dead, and a fifth is seriously ill at the Snake River Correctional Institution in Eastern Oregon, his attorney said.

The Salem Statesman Journal said it obtained copies of the settlements, approved in July, through a public records request. Family members or friends of the four received settlements ranging from $12,000 to $150,000. The state agreed to pay $10,000 to inmate Mark Nylund, 49, and to provide him with a television set.

Hepatitis C attacks the liver and can lead to cancer, cirrhosis and liver failure. The disease kills about 10,000 people a year.

SAN FRANCISCO — -- As many as one in six deaths of California prison inmates last year might have been preventable, according to a study of medical care in 32 state lockups that will be used to help rebuild the troubled system. One inmate, who reported extreme chest pains in the middle of the night, died of a heart ailment after waiting eight hours to see a doctor. Another who complained for days of severe abdominal pain died of acute pancreatitis after medical staff did not believe his pleas were credible.

A third died after a two-year delay in diagnosis of his testicular cancer. And an asthma patient died after failing to receive steroid medication for two days following transfer from a county jail. The report, released Wednesday by the court-appointed receiver in charge of healthcare for the state's 173,000 prisoners, revealed a broad pattern of delays in diagnosis, poor inmate access to doctors and tests, botched handling of medical records, and failure of medical staff to recognize and treat dangerous conditions. Officials said some lapses led to disciplinary actions against doctors and nurses. There were 426 deaths in 2006, including 43 suicides, and the study examined 381 of them. Eighteen deaths were found to be preventable, meaning better medical management or a better system of care would have prevented deaths. An additional 48 were found to be "possibly preventable," meaning better medical management of a system of care might have prevented death.

Of the deaths considered preventable, six were from asthma, which receiver Robert Sillen said he intended to make a priority for reforms. "The leading cause of [preventable] death being asthma is unconscionable, and it is evidence of systemic problems and problems with individual clinical judgments," Sillen said in an interview. "Adults in 21st century California should not have asthma as a primary cause of death." Sillen said the report, which concluded that problems such as human error, staffing shortages and poor medical records contributed to unnecessary deaths, provided additional evidence that the state's $1.5-billion-a-year medical care system needed to be rebuilt from the bottom up.

The study said one prisoner died from a perforated duodenal ulcer after doctors and nurses failed to adequately respond to the inmate's repeated complaint about severe stomach pain over five days. But another patient who had recurring stomach pain, vomiting and a history of hernias died of a hernia condition after a five-week delay in a referral to a specialist -- one of the long-standing problems in the system. One inmate complained of severe stomach pains nine times over three days, but the review found that medical staff did not believe him. He died of acute pancreatitis.

Rachel Kagan, a spokeswoman for the receiver, said that in the prison medical culture, the staff sometimes suspects inmates of faking illnesses. "We hear that a lot," she said. "But there should be clinical expertise to make that decision, rather than a bias." Fixing the entire medical system, Sillen said, could take a decade or longer and cost huge sums of money. But will the number of preventable deaths go down next year? "I don't know," he said. "It might be foolishly optimistic to think we are going to have that kind of impact in our first 24 months."

Another Christmas in a prison visiting room

Is there any sight more depressing than a prison visiting room at Christmastime? Limp tinsel garlands snake along cinderblock walls and a crudely drawn cardboard snowman dangles from the ceiling. Over in the corner, the same old plastic Christmas tree guards a collection of gaily wrapped “presents,” which are, of course, only for decoration. Every year at least one inmate’s child unwraps one of the “presents” and bursts into tears upon discovering that the box is empty. Last year, this year, next year, next decade -- it happens every Christmas.

Most prisoners have lost all contact with their families, but of those who do get visits, many get only this one, on the third weekend of December. So ex-wives with strained smiles sit across from the losers they divorced years ago and they try to persuade their children to call the stranger on the other side of the table “Daddy.” No modern, street-smart kid will fall for that. “Daddy” is the dude who is sleeping in Mom’s bed this month, not this guy here in the weird orange jumpsuit.

In some ways it is worse if a little boy bonds with his convict father. Then the child puts on the tough-guy strut as he walks into the visiting room and brags to his hero about the lunch money extortion racket in grade school. The harder mothers object to this negative role modeling, the more irresistible the “gangsta” life becomes to youngsters. And when their “Daddy” tells them in the visiting room to be good and do what Momma says, they know he does not really mean it: “If he did, he would hit me, like Mom does when she really means it.”

In my nearly 18 years of incarceration, I have met quite a few inmates whose sons and occasionally even daughters followed them into “the big house.” Most states will not house close relatives in the same facility for security reasons, which avoids the social awkwardness of family Christmases in prison altogether. At least incarcerated parents and children are allowed to send each other holiday greeting cards from institution to institution -- only with the two wardens’ permission, of course.

Meanwhile, back in the visiting room, the future jailbirds of America are saying goodbye to their fathers until next Christmas. Perhaps the saddest thing of all is how happy everyone is that the visit is finally over: The ex-wives can forget this part of their past for another year, the kids can work off their pent-up energy in the prison parking lot and the convicts can leave behind the powerful mixed emotions of seeing their loved ones for so short a time. Back in the cell house, they have to keep their hearts frozen in order to survive. Allowing their feelings to thaw for an hour or two in the visiting room is profoundly disorienting. So they unwrap the little package of Christmas marijuana that their ex-wives smuggled in and get thoroughly blasted.

Roughly 1.5 million children in this country now have a parent in prison, so the scene I describe here is nowhere near as rare as you might think. And speaking of Christmas presents, prison is the gift that keeps on giving: Eighty-five percent of youths in prison grew up in fatherless homes, including 60 percent of rapists and 72 percent of murderers. “They will undoubtedly father children of teenage mothers, whom they will provide neither financial security nor emotional support, further perpetuating the vicious cycle of the aberrant family system,” wrote juvenile psychologist Mark Holmberg in a 1988 study for the Richmond, Va., judicial system.

Federal Bureau of Justice statistics report that 5.6 million adults in the United States either are now or at one time have been behind bars, and that 11.3 percent of all males born in 2001 will go to prison at some point in their lives. Among black men, that figure already stands at a mind-boggling 22 percent, and no change in these trends is in sight. So we can expect ever-increasing numbers of jailhouse Christmases.

What is really tragic is that incarcerating so many people -- and thus creating the “perfect” conditions for producing the next generation of prisoners -- makes absolutely no sense. Between 1970 and 1995, rates for both violent and property crimes in the United States actually remained at almost exactly the same level, but the prison population quadrupled. The risk of becoming a victim of crime in America is comparable to that in 11 other industrialized nations, roughly 24 percent, but this country locks up seven to eight times as many of its citizens as they do. This costs the United States $40 billion per year, with Departments of Correction being the largest, most expensive government agencies in many states.

The Canadian government recently issued a report that finds that “the American incarceration rate is … the highest in the world, but it has not made the United States a safer place to live.” According to a 1990 British government white paper, prison is simply “an expensive way to make bad people worse” -- and, unfortunately, to make those bad people’s sons and daughters worse, too. As you celebrate Christmas with your family at home this year, perhaps you could remember the 1.5 million children whose fathers are behind bars and consider whether another prison Christmas really is the best thing for them or for you. Jens Söring is a prison inmate in Virginia.

Hopelessness

The message of Christmas is that God intrudes upon the weak and the vulnerable, and this is precisely the message that we so often miss. God does not come to that part of that part of us that swaggers through life, confident in our self sufficiency. God leaves his treasure in the broken fragmented places of our life. God comes to us in those rare moments when we are able to transcend our own selfishness long enough to really care about another human being. On the wall of the museum of the concentration camp at Dachau is a large and moving photograph of a mother and her little girl standing in line of a gas chamber. The child, who is walking in front of her mother, does not know where she is going. The mother, who walks behind, does know, but is helpless to stop the tragedy. In her helplessness she performs the only act of love left to her. She places her hands over he child's eyes so she will at least not see the horror to come. When people come into the museum they do not whisk by this photo hurriedly. They pause. They almost feel the pain. And deep inside I think that they are all saying: "O God, don't let that be all that there is."

God's hears those prayers and it is in just such situations of hopelessness and helplessness that his almighty power is born. It is there that God leaves his treasure. In Mary and in all of us, as Christ is born anew within.

Note: This is the fifth of Paddy Mitchell’s seven final blog entries, written shortly before his death on January 14, 2007, and mailed to Ottawa to be posted on his blog. The series is being published posthumously between January 21 and January 25th.]

My good friend Jimmy Allen also has been an inspiration to me this past year with the success of his book: “This Firefighter’s Life”. What a book! Jimmy and I have been friends forever. He writes to me all the time…keeps me informed by sending newspaper articles, stuff off the internet, and just generally, what’s happening around my home town of Ottawa. My family, mostly in Ottawa, but spread across the entire country are still supportive of me and don’t condemn me for the things I’ve done (but certainly, do not approve of my actions over the years).

On Christmas Day, they served us a pretty good meal: Cornish game hens, sweet potatoe, cornbread, pecan pie and a full plate of fruits and vegetables. And tomorrow, New Year’s Day, they’ll try to do the same with a steak dinner. Most of the 1000 inhabitants here will be contented, me included, they try to treat us right on Christmas and New Years.

One Christmas still stands out to me: it was the most miserable one I can recall from all those I’ve spent in prison. It was the one I spent incarcerated at the Maricopa County Jail in Phoenix, Arizona in 1983. I had robbed a department store in that city in Dec. 1981, and, under false identification, was granted bail on the charges. I skipped bail and wasn’t re-arrested until more than two years later. It was like a slap in the face to the authorities in Arizona. Here they had one of the countries most wanted fugitives in their custody and let him bail on them. When they got me back in the county jail they treated me really bad. They kept me in an all-steel cell, never letting me out – except for 20 minutes every Sunday for a phone call. (I’ll explain what happened to me on one of those forays out in a future letter – suffice to say it wasn’t pleasant). They didn’t feed me properly – I had to shower in cold water – they ignored all my requests and treated me like dirt. Then on Christmas Day (evening actually) my big steel door was unlocked and in stepped a uniformed jail guard – the only one who had treated me decent throughout the months I’d been there – named “Frenchy”.

He said: “How are you doing, Mitchell?”

I answered: “Fine.”

I figured he’d been sent to search my cell or something.

“I just want you to know that I don’t approve of the way you’re being treated around here, and I just wanted to wish you a Merry Xmas. My wife asked me to bring these in for you”, and he handed me two packages wrapped in tinfoil and turned and left my cell. The packages contained about a pound of sliced turkey and a piece of pecan pie!

Christmas Story

'Twas the night before Christmas--Old Santa was pissed.
He cussed out the elves and threw down his list.
Miserable little brats, ungrateful little jerks.
I have a good mind to scrap the whole works!

I've busted my ass for damn near a year,
Instead of "Thanks Santa"--what do I hear?
The old lady bitches cause I work late at night.
The elves want more money--The reindeer all fight.

Rudolph got drunk and goosed all the maids.
Donner is pregnant and Vixen has AIDS.
And just when I thought that things would get better
Those assholes from the IRS sent me a letter,
They say I owe taxes--if that ain't damn funny
Who the hell ever sent Santa Claus any money?

And the kids these days--they all are the pits
They want the impossible--Those mean little shits
I spent a whole year making wagons and sleds
Assembling dolls...Their arms, legs and heads
I made a ton of yo yo's--No request for them,
They want computers and robots...they think - I'm IBM!

Flying through the air...dodging the trees
Falling down chimneys and skinning my knees
I'm quitting this job there's just no enjoyment
I'll sit on my fat ass and draw unemployment.

There's no Christmas this year now you know the reason,
I found me a blonde. I'm going SOUTH for the season!

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