My Prison Nightmare

Life’s unfair. You know it, I know it, every respectable white, middle-aged man in a business suit knows it. If life was fair, I would have been better at converting .pdfs. If life was fair, my perfectly legitimate business in the former Soviet Union wouldn’t be tarred as “shady business dealings” by liberal media scumbags. If life was fair, the federal judge would have seen Mueller’s witch hunt for what it is and dismissed the case against me.

But that’s not the world we live in. Dark forces have turned me into another statistic of America’s carceral system. Like Nelson Mandela, I’m a political prisoner. My suffering is exquisite.

For those of you who have never been on the inside, brace yourself: I’ll describe – in nightmarish detail – the prison hellscape I’m forced to endure.

I’ve been sequestered in a private, self-contained living unit. My captors say it’s bigger than the other cells, but I think they’re strategically lying to make themselves look good in my tell-all book. Guess what, assholes? It won’t work. Not until you remove the bars from my windows.

I have my own bathroom, but the warden refused my request to have a bidet installed. To add insult to injury, the toilet paper they supplied me is one-ply. One ply?! Does man’s inhumanity to man know no bounds?

The water pressure in my personal shower is lackluster at best.

I can come and go as I please between the hours of 8:30 a.m. and 10 p.m., but they won’t let me leave prison grounds. Not even when I offer to have a sizable sum anonymously transferred to their bank accounts via an untraceable third party!

Most painfully of all, they gave me my own telephone, but I’m paranoid Witch Hunter Bob is listening in. I haven’t called any of my Russian oligarch friends in weeks. I have to communicate with them using an encrypted email service instead. Somebody get me out of here!

This is my darkest hour, but I’m certain I’ll overcome adversity and leave the joint more powerful than ever. I’m even thinking about getting a prison tattoo, if the warden will allow Mister Cartoon to bring in his full tat rig. I’m thinking… crying eagle on my chest?