It Wasn't Me
Iwas amused by a report of a cell-phone being found in an anus at the Bordelais Correctional Facility, as if that were anything new. During Mr. Herman's tenure, officers were sent, not infrequently, home with full pay after being found in possession of smuggled goods. How else does the stuff get inside the prison compound? FedEx? It was once considered a witticism to describe an “asshole” as being “anal retentive”. Perhaps Bordelais has become the country's only government-run “Anal Retention & Rehabilitation Facility”. An asshole can only take so much abuse before turning to a life of crime.
So how can we combat the scourge of illegal penetration by mobile telecommunication devices at the facility – take “facility” to mean whatever you like, personal or institutional? Maybe, during the daily search – I almost wrote “frisking” but people might misunderstand and think I said officers got “frisky” when subjected to full body searches – upon entering or leaving the prison, their cell-phone numbers should automatically be dialed to discover which part of their bodies start ringing.
Nah, wouldn't work. Secret numbers probably. But can you imagine the scene? Phone starts ringing, maybe playing a few bars from something suitable like the latest romantic rap track all about sh*ving-itup*s*me-m*ther-f*cking-wh*te-tr*sh-c*p'sa*s, and everyone in the room looks around, mouth agape, like at a Shaggy Convention paying homage to his classic "It Wasn't Me". Great song - you know the words – guy gets caught where he doesn't belong, inside the wrong chick, to be precise! Actually, if I may digress just a tad, this paean to Caribbean Copulative Customs is absolutely one of my all-time favorites. It makes me feel like dancing – ah, memories, memories – so I can't resist this:
“(Yo', man!) Yo'! (Open up, man!) What do you want, man? (My girl just caught me.) You let her catch you? (I don't know how I let this happen.) With who? (The girl next door, you know.) Man! (I don't know what to do.) Say it wasn't you. (Alright.)”
Many inmates continue to maintain their innocence due to the vagaries of the justice system.
“Honey came in and she caught me redhanded, Creeping with the girl next door, Picture this, we were both butt-naked, banging on the bathroom floor, How could I forget that I had given her an extra key, All this time she was standing there, She never took her eyes off me.”
The mere thought of inter-anal telephonic communication is pretty mind-boggling but it should, perhaps, be seen as indicative of the technological advances achieved by the Ministry of Home Affairs in its ceaseless quest for excellence in the areas of rehabilitation.
“How you can grant the woman access to your villa, Trespasser and a witness while you cling to your pillow, You better watch your back before she turn into a killer, Best for you and the situation not to call the beaner, To be a true player you have to know how to play, If she say a night, convince her say a day, Never admit to a word when she say, And if she claims and you tell her baby no way.”
Now if I were a psychologist, or at least had that sort of imagination and lived in a fantasy world, I'd suspect that this last stanza was written in prison code. Woman would be cell phone; villa would be anus; clearly “clinging to the pillow” indicates the agony of anal penetration, as does “watch your back”. “Turning into a killer” reflects the ever-present threat of violence. A “beaner” may be yet another “boner”; the use of “she” clearly refers to “prison bitches”.
“But she caught me on the counter (It wasn't me) Saw me kissin' on the sofa (It wasn't me) I even had her in the shower (It wasn't me) She even caught me on camera (It wasn't me) She saw the marks on my shoulder (It wasn't me) Heard the words that I told her (It wasn't me) Heard the scream get louder (It wasn't me) She stayed until it was over, I had tried to keep her, From what she was about to see, Why should she believe me, When I told her it wasn't me.”
This scenario obviously portrays sexual abuse in showers where surveillance cameras, usually inoperative, cannot record events. Signs and screams of physical abuse, so prevalent in prisons, are taken for granted. Voyeurism replaces TV viewing – actually, copulating in private in prison is pretty difficult.
“It must be something I ate,” explains the officer with the musical anal ring. “It wasn't me!”