I was looking at seven years, but I snitched it down to nine months.
I made a deal with the prosecutor to testify against my ex-wife for a reduced sentence of twelve months with time served. As soon as I left the courtroom, I went to work, talking to inmates, learning back stories, looking for dirt and snitching on everybody.
What separates me from your average snitch is that I don’t actually need a confession. Shit, I don’t even need for them to talk to me, because I’m a great writer.
I can write a better confession than they could ever give and the justice system recognizes my genius.
Last Friday, I met my new parole officer and that fucker’s creepy as hell! He literally stared at my junk while I was forced to piss in a cup.
Then after he explained all his gay ass rules, he swiveled his seat around and put his hands on my knees and whispered “I know you’re only human, so if you accidentally do any of these things, call me and we can work something out.”
Why the fuck does everyone always assume that I’m selling ass!
Ugh…
I mean, I know it’s good to have options for when the shit hits the fan, but fucking hell! Even the guys in jail were more tactful than that.
Well… Except for that time when I woke up to my cellmate repeatedly checking my oil and then sniffing his finger, but he was young and from a broken home, so you know how that is.
Anyways…
Y'all wouldn’t believe how many writers are in prison. At first it was nice, I told them all about steemit and how I was the best writer on the platform. We began swapping toilet-roll-stories and even had contests for commissary, but then I slipped up.
I accidentally lent out a roll of toilet paper that was meant for the guards, How The Crips Shanked Flyboy.
It was beautifully crafted, a modern day masterpiece, full of intrigue, love, sex, betrayal and violence, but did my cell block appreciate my genius?
No!
Like every great writer, I suffered dearly for my craft and had to spend months in the Infirmary and later in Protective Custody, but, like any great writer, I still managed to snitch from there.
So now that I’m finally out, I have to pick up the pieces and it’s tough. I can’t even find my current wife, her phone’s been disconnected, her favorite Irish pub was towed out of the trailer park and even Rusty hasn’t seen her and he is usually guy that she cheats on me with.
God, life sucks!
Being the best writer on Steemit is literally the only thing I have going for me, so you bastards better not get jealous of my genius and snub me.