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26th December 2013

Being that I'm still in transit at FTC Oklahoma City, I can't go to the chow hall or make my own meals in the microwave like I normally do when I'm on a compound. They bring our meals to us in the housing unit in food carts that they plug into the wall to keep the trays warm (I call it The Dookie Mobile). They also have a cart that keeps things cold and we normally get a cold tray that has bread, a pat of butter, and maybe salad or a desert, and then we get a hot tray with the main course of what they're serving. Today's meal consisted of:

* Turkey and gravy
* A thick slice of what appeared to be bologna
* Sweet Potatoes
* Green beans
* Stuffing
* Cranberry sauce (cold tray item)
* A roll and pat of butter (cold tray item)
* A fat slice of apple pie (cold tray item)

Not too shabby, huh? I am one of the few people in this unit that possesses a much coveted Ziploc bag, so I made a turkey sandwich for later with some bread I had saved, and I stuck my apple pie in there to have after I eat the sandwich tonight.

Christmas dinner in prison. The food is definitely not like mom used to make, but I'm not whining about it. I'm just eating the turkey and filling up on the stuffing and going with the flow. I sure would love a beer though. Someday.

Merry Christmas.

Jeffrey P. Frye
Bank Robber's Blog

25th December 2013

10) A new Scanner
9) A 5-gallon bucket of dye remover
8) Kevlar underwear and T-Shirts
7) The name of a good defense attorney
6) A guidebook on favorable prisons
5) The name of a good appellate attorney
4) A fake beard
3) New hoodies
2) Performance enhancing drugs, preferably heroin
1) A Mask

Jeffrey P. Frye
Bank Robber's Blog

13th December 2013

A few of my friends have asked me about homosexuality back here; and a couple of them asked me if I intend to "Turn gay for the stay"? The answer to that is "No." The judge didn't change my sexual orientation when he gave me a 20 year sentence. I see guys come back here and live as homosexuals and say it's because of the time they got or that they're lonely. I don't judge them for what they want to do, but I also don't buy that justification. If you're gay back here, you were gay out there. No biggie, but don't chalk it up to time or loneliness. I know the abject loneliness and celibacy of a 9x6 prison cell at 3 a.m. doing a 20 year bid. But all of that time and all of that loneliness doesn't make me want to hop on the ass of another man and ride him like a Harley Davidson.

I like girls. I like everything about them. I like the way they smile; the way they laugh; they way they walk and talk; the way they smell; the way they think; the way they spend my money; I even like the way they lie. I like the way they make me feel. It cost my kinfolk a rib to make one way back when but I consider it a good investment.

Everything I needed to learn about girls I learned by the time I was 13 and I learned it from two different girls. The first was a skinny blonde girl with Blue eyes and a pouty nose named Connie Brown. I was in the second grade at Mohawk Elementary and I caught her staring at me. It initially made me feel uncomfortable, but then one day I saw that she'd written my name on her hand and it made me feel pretty good. A few days later she grabbed me by the hand at lunch recess and said, "C'mon" and led me under a tree on the playground where we sat together and held hands and ate lunch. My mom used to pack Chips Ahoy cookies in my lunch box because I absolutely love them. The first day that we had lunch, Connie pointed to the bag of them in my lunchbox and asked, "Are you going to eat those?" and I replied, "No. I hate them. I don't even know why my mom puts them in there" and I handed them over to her without a second thought. I can still remember sitting there watching her eat them and thinking, I wonder if there's anything else in my lunchbox she'd like? Connie Brown taught me that I will give up absolutely anything I have for love and to make my girl happy. Even my Chips Ahoy.

The second lesson came from a girl named Brenda when I was in the seventh grade at Troy Junior High School. She was a chunky red-haired girl with big boobs. There was a janitor's closet down a hall at the school and I used to stand outside of it every day and when Brenda would walk by I'd pull her into it and feel her up and generally use her chunky little body like an amusement park. She always acted like she hated it and made me pull her into the closet. Then one day I didn't show up. She marched up to my table in the lunchroom and yelled at me, "Where were you?!? I was waiting for you!!!"

Those two lessons taught me about girls and pretty much sum up why I love them. So, no, nobody back here is getting my Chips Ahoy. I finally get to eat them myself. I'm kinda enjoying the break.

Jeffrey P. Frye
Bank Robber's Blog

--- US AND THEM ---
6th December 2013

I was sitting in my Green plastic lawn chair that's located under the window out on the tier in front of my house and I had my writing board across my lap and my feet propped up on an upside down empty White five gallon bucket when the officer working my block came walking down the tier. He's in his thirties, is a baseball coach of some kind, and when he's not messing with me and shaking down my cell and taking my contraband he's a pretty nice guy. He walked up and asked, "What are you writing?" I responded, "I'm doing a blog posting about what an incredibly large penis you have." He grinned like a possum and straightened up a little at having been given what apparently was an upgrade.

He looked at me for a minute and said, "I don't get it, Frye. You seem like such a nice guy. What would possess you to rob seven banks?"
"You want the truth?" I respond.
"Getting away with the first six."
He laughed and said, "No, seriously, I could see you being my neighbor or something."
"So you could see us bullshitting, standing around the grill drinking beer at a cookout?" I ask.
"And you think I'm a nice guy who shows no outward signs of being violent or bankrobberlike?"
"But if you were working in the gun tower and I hit the wall you'd shoot me?"
"Like a 12 point buck."
I respond, "Wow. It's been a while since I've been to a cookout but I distinctly remember that at the last one I went to nobody wanted to shoot me."

I've met some nice hacks throughout the years. Guards, cops, hacks, C.O.s, they're called different things in different systems and different joints. I don't have some pathological hate for the cops, whether they be free-world cops or prison guards. A lot of people back here do though and some of their hatred is justified because there's plenty of crooked cops in the world that cut corners and set people up when they can't find something legitimate to charge them with. If that had been my experience, I would probably be angry too. But my experience is that I put myself in prison. And throughout the years, I've met some hacks that were okay. People just trying to go to work every day and feed their families. But no matter how much I liked them, or how much they liked me, there's always a line that can never be crossed. They may be okay, but we will always play for separate teams and I'm never going to hang out in their clubhouse. And they're sure not going to be hanging out in mine. They'd be more likely to raid it. In the end, it's always us and them.

I started thinking about my potential neighbor putting a 30 aught six slug into my chest and it wasn't sitting too well with me. So I said, "On second thought, I think the people who read my blog would love to read about your three inch penis and how you keep slapping me on the ass and asking, "Is that all you?"

The officer's eyes narrowed when I said this and he said, "I sense contraband in your cell Inmate Frye" and then he went into my house and proceeded to rip it apart. He spent 20 minutes in there and when he came out he was carrying an armful of what was formerly my stuff and my cell looked like Hurricane Katrina had been through it. Without saying a word, he walked off with the things he'd taken from my cell. When he was about halfway down the tier he turned around and walked back up to me and said, "I forgot something" and plucked the pen out of my hand that I was writing with and walked off.

So much for that cookout.

Jeffrey P. Frye
Bank Robber's Blog