Letter from Cell Block FBJ

 

Day 17,

Still holed up in my cell. 

The Facebook screws won't even listen to my case. Stuck me in this rotten hole for 30 days of Solitary Refinement, for posting shit other dogs are out there still posting.

Sure, I told some Trump-humper to "drink his bleach." So what. Hell, the president of the United States suggested the same, "...kills the covid virus in a minute, a minute. What if we get this on the inside of the body...for a cleaning. Like a cleaning."

He's at his country club, signing hats and giving wedding reception speeches and I'm still in the can. 

With no First Amendment rights.

Hell, you can do a Facebook search of Drink Your Bleach and you'll find some garage band in Indiana using that as their name. There's a community page about drinking bleach. I wouldn't be surprised if some enterprising hillbillies in the backwoods of West Virginia hadn't opened a saloon named Drink Your Bleach, "Don't forget to try our Tide Pod Potato Skins."

The good news is, the chow isn't bad. 

And I probably could've used the month off to cool my jets and slowly excrete the Trump toxins that have taken over my body for the last 5 years.

They say jail has little or no rehabilitative powers. But I'm slowly discovering it does. 

Nevertheless, I'll probably get out and go back to my old ways. I'll find the biggest, stupidest, braindead Trumpster -- a triple redundancy -- and foot stomp his or her head to the curb with a relentless list of verifiable facts and well aged Shakesperean insults. 

And I'll be back in the hole writing more letters from Facebook jail.

But until then, Serenity Now.