2010-02-04T19:41:30Z

2010-02-04

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plato1.jpg

172604

2010-02-04T19:41:29Z

Louisville's fine Alternative Weekly newspaper, the LEO, conducted an interview with me today. Keep an eye peeled, it should be published in a few weeks. At one point during the interview I think I called Plato a dick. I'm sure that'll look great in print. My mom will be so proud.

LEO interview

2010-02-04T19:41:31Z

2010-01-25T19:13:14Z

2010-01-25

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grundishandaskew2.jpg

6328

2010-01-25T19:13:14Z

My pal Lance Carbuncle recently published his second novel, "Grundish and Askew" and it's a great read. If you are looking for a book full of lewd hilarity, take some motion sickness pills and check it out. I read this on a plane and was concerned about getting sent to a windowless room if the TSA confiscated this book. It was just that sick and excellent! Discover what Dr. Lance has to offer <a title="The man, the myth, the Carbuncle" href="http://www.lancecarbuncle.com" target="_blank">here</a>.

Grundish and Askew

2010-02-07T00:59:49Z

2009-12-18T14:19:50Z

2009-12-18

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kate_paone.jpg

29907

2010-02-05T00:10:07Z

Congratulations to Kate from Chicago. Winner of the <a href="../../fiction">Sex Dungeon for Sale! </a>coloring contest and the autographed books. Kate went old-school and stayed mostly between the lines with a lovely red and blue marker motif. She fended off some great competition and won the contest with an impressive 32% of the vote. The other Kate, Kate from Bowie, MD, finished second with 19% of the vote. Third place was a tie between Richard and Jennifer with 16% each. Congratulations, also, to Brian Kopala who answered the question: How much would I pay for a sex dungeon for sale? with "I would have to say roughly half of everything I own once my wife found out." That made me laugh pretty hard. You win the collection of 1950s paperbacks. Thank you to all the contestants and voters for making this such a fun contest. Also, don't forget Sex Dungeon for Sale! makes a great stocking stuffer for grandmothers and impressionable children.

Sex Dungeon for Sale! contest Winner

2010-02-05T00:21:45Z

2009-12-15T02:10:45Z

2009-12-15

Due to an overwhelmingly awesome response, Patrick couldn’t choose just one picture to be his favorite. So, he narrowed the entries down to a Top 13 List. Who should be the winner? Send in your vote to <a href="mailto:patrickwensink@gmail.com" target="_blank">patrickwensink@gmail.com</a> by December 17. Winner will be announced here on December 18. *Added bonus prize: The voter who answers this question will receive a stack of <a title="brilliant books like "The Creeping Shadow"" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/patrickwensink/4185822578/" target="_blank">1950s pulp novels</a> from Patrick’s personal collection. QUESTION: How much would you pay for a sex dungeon for sale?  Happy voting! Contestant #1 . Ryan from Ashburn, VA. <a class="group" rel="group" href="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/ryan_manning.jpg"><img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/th_ryan_manning.jpg" alt="" /></a> Contestant #2. Richard from Chattanooga, TN. <a class="group" href="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/richard_chapman.jpg"><img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/th_richard_chapman.jpg" alt="" /></a> Contestant #3. Nihil from Antarctica. <a class="group" rel="group" href="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/nihil.jpg"><img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/th_nihil.jpg" alt="" /></a> Contestant #4. Loran from Pittsburgh, PA. <a class="group" rel="group" href="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/loran_skinkis.jpg"><img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/th_loran_skinkis.jpg" alt="" /></a> Contestant #5. Kate from Bowie, MD. <a class="group" rel="group" href="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/kate.jpg"><img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/th_kate.jpg" alt="" /></a> Contestant #6. Jennifer from Merrill, WI. <a class="group" rel="group" href="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/jennifergeiss.jpg"><img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/th_jennifergeiss.jpg" alt="" /></a> Contestant #7. George from Bayside, NY. <a class="group" rel="group" href="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/george_mann.png"><img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/th_george_mann.png" alt="" /></a> Contestant #8. Jake from Secane, PA. <a class="group" rel="group" href="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/jake_toogood.jpg"><img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/th_jake_toogood.jpg" alt="" /></a> Contestant #9. Shane from Secane, PA. <a class="group" rel="group" href="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/shane_toogood.jpg"><img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/th_shane_toogood.jpg" alt="" /></a> Contestant #10. Christy from Manteca, CA. <a href="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/christy_stewart.jpg"><img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/th_christy_stewart.jpg" alt="" /></a> Contestant #11. Andy from Morgantown, WV. <a class="group" rel="group" href="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/andy_smith.jpg"><img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/th_andy_smith.jpg" alt="" /></a> Contestant #12. Kate from Chicago, IL. <a class="group" rel="group" href="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/kate_paone.jpg"><img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/th_kate_paone.jpg" alt="" /></a> Contestant #13. Elle from Houston, TX. <a class="group" rel="group" href="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/elva_garcia.jpg"><img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/th_elva_garcia.jpg" alt="" /></a>

Coloring Contest Voting

2009-12-15T16:15:40Z

2009-11-28T16:38:19Z

2009-11-28

Do you enjoy free stuff? Are you handy with crayons? What is your opinion of Sex Dungeons on the real estate market? If you answered, “Yes,” “Yes,” and “Surprisingly favorable,” does Patrick Wensink have a contest for you. To celebrate the release of his new book, Sex Dungeon for Sale!, he had a series of illustrations created based on some of these comedic stories, including a Kindergartener who thinks he’s French, a puddle of ketchup shaped like Elvis and something called, Chicken Soup for the Kidnapper’s Soul. [Curious? <a title="This book will make you smarter" href="../fiction" target="_blank">Read a sample from the book</a>.] While the coloring contest alone sounded like fun, Wensink wasn’t satisfied. He decided to raise the stakes by offering the winner an autographed stack of his favorite books from 2009. <img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/Shotofbooksforcoloringcontest-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /> Now it’s up to you to color your little heart out. Here’s how to play: <ol> <li>Check out these excellent scenes from the book below.</li> <li>Print off your favorite. [it doesn’t matter which you choose]</li> <li>Color that baby in. [You are also allowed to digitally color it in, if you like]</li> <li>Scan it [or not if you digitally colored the pic] and send it to patrickwensink@gmail.com with your name, address and phone number. [No entries will be accepted after December 14.]</li> <li>Wait patiently for December 18, when the winner will be announced right here.</li> <li>Sniff your new autographed books, winner. It’s a scientific fact that signed novels smell better than normal ones. Look it up!</li> </ol> The Winner will receive: Fool- By Christopher Moore (<a title="Christopher Moore's Autograph" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/patrickwensink/4131603534/" target="_blank">Autographed</a>) Tales Designed to Thrizzle – by Michael Kupperman (<a title="Kupperman Autograph" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/patrickwensink/4140878912/" target="_blank">Autographed</a>) AM/PM – By Amelia Gray (<a title="Amelia Gray's Autograph" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/patrickwensink/4131594786/" target="_blank">Autographed</a>) Help! A Bear is Eating Me! – By Mykle Hansen (<a title="Mykle Hansen's Autograph" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/patrickwensink/4131600608/" target="_blank">Autographed</a>) First and second runner up will also receive a special mystery prize pack from Patrick. ++The contest is open to all ages and global locations. However, astronauts are not eligible to win. Seriously, you guys get to float around in space, give us Earth-dwelling folks a little bit of fun. ++ My Son Thinks He’s French <img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/Pierre-1.jpg" alt="" /> <a title="My Son Thinks He's French" href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/22902064/My-Son-Thinks-He-s-French" target="_blank">Download Me!</a> (Just Click "Print" you don't have to sign up and download) Jesus Toast <img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/elvisketchip-1.jpg" alt="" /> <a title="The King of Ketchup" href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/22849154/Jesus-Toast" target="_blank">Download Me!</a> (Just Click "Print" you don't have to sign up and download) Chicken Soup for the Kidnapper’s Soul <img src="http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll187/TRMW/chickensoup-1.jpg" alt="" /> <a title="Mmmmmmmm....Soup." href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/22901261/Chicken-Soup-for-the-Kidnapper-s-Soul" target="_blank">Download Me!</a> (Just Click "Print" you don't have to sign up and download) Thanks for playing! Good luck, artist! While you’re here, learn more about <a title="Nine out of Ten Dentists Approve" href="http://www.amazon.com/Sex-Dungeon-Sale-Patrick-Wensink/dp/1933929863/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1255197849&sr=1-1" target="_self">Sex Dungeon for Sale</a>!. The holiday season is coming up and it makes a great stocking stuffer for grandmas and impressionable children. [But definitely NOT astronauts]

Free Books?!? Free Coloring Contest?!? Hooray for Freedom!!!

2009-12-03T00:22:14Z

2009-11-20T21:25:55Z

2009-11-20

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tiger.jpg

152165

2009-11-20T21:25:55Z

Thanks again to all the participants in last week's Facebook Imaginary Movie Challenge. The Question:  What happens when a hungry tiger on the run from the FBI meets a butcher shop owner looking for a new pet? Find out in this fall's heartwarming tale of cold cuts and claws: [INSERT MOVIE TITLE]! My personal favorites include: "Runaway Pride" by Joey Hodson "Crouching Tiger Hidden Pastrami" by Michael Webber "Seigfried and Raw" by Jenn Wensink [full disclosure, that's my sister]

Imaginary Movie 2

2009-11-23T19:04:20Z

2009-11-20T21:17:53Z

2009-11-20

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candy.jpg

3117

2009-11-20T21:17:53Z

Your safety is everyone's business but your own. In America we are allowed to let our common sense take a nap and have Big Brother do all the hard work. Before, say, 1970, we were left to fend for ourselves, chain smoking Marlboros because there were ads on television led us to believe they made you thinner. I assume at this time coal mines and steel mills were also presented as health spas. Of course, somewhere down the line it became known that, yes indeed, ingesting smoke might be harmful to your body. So, of course, after some delay the government decided to do our logical thinking for us and put a warning label on every pack of smokes. Somewhere around the same time, some pencil-necked accountant in Washington started noticing something strange happening at construction sites. There were a lot more heavy-machinery related accidents near breweries and whiskey distilleries throughout our wonderful land. So finally it comes to light that alcohol impairs your ability to operate machinery. Apparently, most cement truck bloopers and back-hoe mishaps can be avoided if the room isn't spinning while you're behind the controls. So, of course, our wise friends in DC decide it's high-time we warn our citizens of this phenomenon. Before you knew it, every bottle of booze, can of beer and box of wine was slapped with a highly informative label letting us know the dangers of drinking and doing pretty much anything productive. The common sense part of millions of brains across America breathed a sigh of relief, their lives just got easier. Flash forward to this morning at my desk. The next logical step in human safety. It's been a long week and I decided to reward myself with a Payday candy bar. I’m ready for peanuts and nougat and lots of fun. But, when I peel open the wrapper my common sense rattles out of its coma. In faint red type: Candy is a treat. Please enjoy in moderation. Huh? There is no room for subtlety in warning labels. My entire life, a little black and white sticker has told me when I'm about to consume DANGER. There are labels to warn parents that Guns and Roses albums might have questionable content. There are labels warning against sticking my fingers under a lawnmower blade. But what are my friends at Hershey trying to tell me? Is it possible that eating chocolate and nougat and Carmel and peanuts can impare my ability to run a forklift? Should I not consume Kit-Kats while pregnant? Is crisp rice and chocolate as addictive as nicotine? Will eating half my day's saturated fats in one sugary lump cause obesity? Black and white label, I wait for your answer.

Candy Safety

2009-11-20T21:18:32Z

2009-11-12T00:11:49Z

2009-11-12

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self_defense.jpg

2673

2009-11-12T00:11:49Z

Thanks to everyone who contributed to my Facebook question:  Help me name this Non-Existent movie— She was a vibrant lawyer taking a self-defense class. He was a single dad working as the attacker in women’s self-defense courses. Their romance began when her knee met his groin. Don’t miss this season’s romantic smash hit: (Insert Title Here) Some of my favorite answers were- "Groin Pains" by Terri Plewa "Private Defender" by Mykle Hansen "Pro Boner" by Kyle Pullem <a title="Facebook awesomeness" href="http://www.facebook.com/patrickwensink" target="_blank">join the fun</a>

Imaginary Movie

2009-11-14T23:09:56Z

2009-10-15T17:55:19Z

2009-10-15

Not only is <a title="ZomBicurious" href="http://zombicurious.blogspot.com/2009/10/stories-in-sex-dungeon.html" target="_self">ZomBicurious</a> the best blog name ever, but they also wrote a great review of the book. They had this to say about "Sex Dungeon for Sale!": "I blew Coke (not coke) out of my nose reading 'Sex Dungeon for Sale"' "If you like humor, dark humor, and savvy wit, pick up a copy of this book." "...get a copy, keep it in the bathroom, and chuckle your ass off!" Check out the full review <a href="http://zombicurious.blogspot.com/2009/10/stories-in-sex-dungeon.html" target="_self">HERE</a>.

ZomBicurious Loves Sex Dungeon

2009-11-14T23:07:55Z

2009-10-12T14:08:16Z

2009-10-12

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34922

2009-10-12T14:12:09Z

The great site <a title="fanzine" href="http://www.thefanzine.com" target="_blank">the Fanzine</a> wrote a fantastic review of "Sex Dungeon for Sale!". Coincidentally, the book is for sale now on <a title="Sex Dungeons in Book Form, hooray!" href="http://www.amazon.com/Sex-Dungeon-Sale-Patrick-Wensink/dp/1933929863/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1255197849&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Amazon</a>. What a fantastic coincidence. "This came in the mail - Patrick Wensink's collection of short stories Sex Dungeon for Sale! is one of those rare gifts we (or rather, I) get every now and again. Wensink's title story concerns a quick-lipped real estate agent selling unusual real estate with specialized features. His stories are darkly humorous, peppered with pop culture references for people who were children in the '90s watching MTV after school. In fact, I think all of these stories have a special affinity for people who watched MTV after school in the 90s. That and maybe stoned old episodes of Saved by the Bell and Alf. And they actually love you back, with stories of killer home appliances, new occupations for Broadway dance choreographers, cures for a kidnapper's ennui, recurrent death-humor, and a suddenly Francophile son. Oui oui, indeed. Sex Dungeon for Sale comes out early October." -Michael Louie

Fanzine Love

2009-10-12T22:16:57Z

2009-09-16T20:23:34Z

2009-09-16

From 2007              Gold medal gymnast and 80s icon Mary Lou Retton tells a crowd she has to take a piss every minute of the day and it smashes me in the face: The State Fair is the saddest place on earth.             The State Fair has, for <script src="../../javascripts/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js?1252387886" type="text/javascript"></script> years, been a symbol of all things American. It’s where your state comes together and salutes its flag, rides tilt-a-whirls and judges beauty pageants for teenage girls and Holstein cows alike. On a good day, it’s where everyone learns something new about home and eats something fried. It’s a place where hard-working carnies, in my opinion, the V-8 engine that drives America, hold your life in their scabby hands. It’s not the place we come to see how American culture is stepping on its own neck. It’s definitely not the place we come to hear a midget with a gold medal talk about her bladder.             The Oregon State Fair held a lot of promise for me. This state is weird and I assumed this would be some sort of Bizarro State of the Union. Hell, the commercial for the fair involved Donald Duck (The University of Oregon’s mascot), a Sasquatch and Art Alexakis (The blonde dude who sang in 90s alt rock stars Everclear.) cruising down the highway in a convertible. This was a big freak flag and it looked to me like it was flying high over our state capitol, Salem.             It wasn’t until we were in the parking lot when my wife reminded me that Portland is the only bizarre place in Oregon, the rest of the state is very rural and very redneck. She had a great point, but I didn’t let it slow down my lust for one-eyed carnival workers, pie eating contests and America’s sweetheart, Mary Lou Retton.             In a one-two punch that seemed like proof to its wackiness, Friday’s big draw was American redneck supreme Ted Nugent and this afternoon offered everyone’s aforementioned favorite gymnastic legend. I assumed Mary Lou would perform some floor routines and maybe even a number on the uneven bars, tell us to stay in school and cartwheel out the door. In the meantime, I planned on having a love-in with our delicious state fish, the salmon, and poke the Ferris wheel operator with a stick to hear him growl about how, “This town ain’t no Sacramento.”             Man, was I wrong.             By now, everyone’s heard endless liberal white noise about how capitalism and the American way of life are, well, killing the American way of life. While I agree with a lot of that, I’m not going to preach. I will however sermonize about how capitalism and the American way of life are killing my beloved State Fair.             Things start off fairly promising as we walk through a maze of old rides clanking and screeching and causing vomit. Further down the path, we’re boxed in by the usual array of shooting/tossing carnival games. But we didn’t come for the rides and games, we are adults now and damn it, we’ve come for things like the bearded lady.             The first fair-like thing we see is a lonely trailer that claims to have a 13-foot alligator inside. Somehow even the one dollar asking price seems a little much, so we pass. Bigger fish to fry, I tell myself. Next was an elaborate booth provided by the Highway Patrol about crystal meth. While it was meant to scare kids, it more or less gives step-by-step directions how to make it in their basement. Oddly, right next to this, the Highway Patrol offers a game which boils down to, “Guess which dead animal’s fur is which!” I don’t see the connection, which must mean I’ll never cut it as a radar gun jockey.             Things pick up steam with, “The Great American Spam Championship.” Here a representative from the canned meat king accepts recipes; the winner gets theirs on a can of Spam. While the judging takes place he and his assistant play twenty-questions of Spam. This consists of, “Can anyone tell me how many cans of Spam it would take to equal the weight of the Statue of Liberty?” A man in the front row has the highest guess with one-billion, while I have the lowest at seven. The truth is somewhere around seventy-million. The winner gets a t-shirt.             We also learn on your thirtieth anniversary working at Spam you don’t get a gold watch, but your likeness carved in gooey pink meat. Wow. “This,” I start to think, “is what America is all about.”               I look at the rest of the schedule and see our little gymnastics dynamo is sandwiched between the Home Depot Tool Contest and the Hermiston Watermelon Seed Spitting Championship.             I start to feel embarrassed. This woman was the first athlete on the front of a Wheaties Box and now she’s second banana to seed-spitters? Where’s the justice?             To add salt to my rapidly opening wound, she’s here to talk about taking charge of your health. I’m disappointed there will be no pommel horse, but decide it’s probably a good topic since everyone is eating elephant ears and deep fried Snickers bars. Sadly, I didn’t read the fine print under her picture.             I’m starting to suspect that the wife is right, the Oregon State Fair isn’t a haven for the beaver state’s weirdest. The remainder of the pavilion is filled with the 4-H baking competition, and it’s safe to assume the brownies here aren’t “Special.” There’s a cake decorating contest, some kid’s pocket knife collection (At 77, while impressive, I fail to see how this warrants it’s own booth.), a quilting bee, a dress making contest (I actually get a little hope when one of the entries is made of Duct Tape!) and possibly the world’s most boring exhibit: The Oregon Table Setting Competition. Yep, you guessed it, a contest to see who can put the salad fork in the right place.             We leave the pavilion kind of wondering why we spent nine dollars each to see this. Though, I now have a new goal in life: to be an official 2007 Oregon State Blueberry Pie Judge.             The rest of the fair goes nowhere but downhill and in a tilt-a-whirl-type hurry. As the wife describes in another dose of common sense, “The fair is a place you pay to get in so you can pay for more shit.” Everyone is selling stuff, from chickens to dairy cows to cheap t-shirts to farm equipment to gourmet wine. This is starting to look like Oregon’s Largest Swap Meet…with a fried food court.             If the food court at the State Fair doesn’t make you seasick, I don’t know what will. It’s exactly what I expect: lots of overweight Americans eating things that shouldn’t be fried. “This”, I start to think, “is what America is all about.” I’m always interested to see how far the carnival pushes the culinary envelope every year. Corndogs and elephant ears are old news, they’re your grandma’s fair food. A few years ago stomachs ached across this country when an industrious redneck deep fried a Twinkie and sold it for four dollars. I’m psyched to see what’s new.             What catches me this year, aside from the Ketchup Udder—a ketchup and mustard dispenser that works like a cow udder, is the MONSTER Fry Brick. For five bucks some dirty carny chef fills an entire deep fry basket full of French fries. By this I mean they pack it full of potatoes until it’s a solid brick. Then they dunk it in scalding oil. What comes out is a giant fried lump the size of a bread loaf.             The family next to us sat down with one brick. The wife and I quietly eat the only healthy thing available, a chicken skewer with rice (Surprisingly, not fried rice) and a coconut shaved ice. Normally I wouldn’t be embarrassed about this, but at the state fair eating healthy is like admitting you were a communist in the 50s. I assume at any moment the Carny CIA will take us away and force feed me chilidogs. Before we leave, the patriotic family next to us orders another MONSTER Fry Brick.             After lunch I start to chip away at the carny illusion at the Oregon State Fair. And, if we’re shooting for a sociology project, what’s happening to this country in general. Yes, it’s becoming fat, but America’s also being ruined by efficiency and capitalism. The proof, you ask? Funtastic Traveling Shows.             I practically have a seizure when I realize all the carny booths are painted the same. None of the workers have facial scars or tattoos or prosthetic limbs. Every ticket taker is well-groomed and clean…and worst of all, wearing uniforms.                Now I’m fine with a Starbucks on every corner and TIME/Warner owning pretty much everything else. Every consumable product in America can be traced back to five or six parent corporations. Whatever, that’s fine…at least it was before this mentality crept into my beloved STATE FAIR.             Funtastic’s slogan, “Quite Possibly…the World’s Finest Carnival,” is their corporate rally cry. It says, “No more independent carnies. No more bearded ladies. No more grizzly, smoking pedophiles behind the controls of the Tilt-A-Whirl.”             The noble carny is the last pioneer, the last nomad of this quickly shrinking nation. They go from town to town, don’t give a damn about anything and feed your fried foods. They’re heroes, they are what’s great about America. And like every other brilliant aspect of this country, someone figured out how to turn a profit by draining all the character out. Funtastic has its fingers around the carnies’ throats and it’s not afraid to squeeze.             My mouth is sour from noticing this. These are the same kids that work at the mall, now they encourage you to shoot water at a clown’s mouth. I’m in a horribly sweaty place and only one person can save my day—1984 Women’s Gymnastics All-Around Gold Medallist…you know who.              Sadly, the Oregon State Fair, already staggering around like a drunken one-legged carny, comes crashing down back in the pavilion. On the same stage where I dreamed about having my face carved out of salty, canned meat, Ms. Retton stands.             She’s tiny. I could easily squish her into a French fry basket and make a MONSTER Lou Retton. She still has the growth-stunted voice of an 11-year-old. And she’s not here to stress the importance of an education or how staying away from drugs is cool. In fact, she’s here selling drugs.             She’s now a representative for corporatized, All-American, pharmaceutical behemoth Pfizer. If Funtastic Traveling Shows sold drugs, it would be called Pfizer.             Little Mary Lou talks into the mic wearing a business suit, she doesn’t even have the courtesy to slip into a leotard. She never jumps or spins or flips. She just wraps her life story into a well-rehearsed drug commercial. Looks like Mary suffers from an overactive bladder. Her whole life, even when she was whipping Russian ass at the Olympics, she’s had to piss really bad. It caused a lot of anxiety and suffering in her life. But now, thanks to her friends (and sugar daddies) at Pfizer, she is no longer a victim. She’s working on a campaign called, “Life Beyond the Bathroom” and is encouraging people to come out of the water closet to admit that they, too, need to pee.             Pissed off and sad, Leah and I leave before she’s done. Mary Lou has thrown the last shovelful of dirt on the State Fair’s grave. The annual celebration of Oregon’s awesomeness is ruined.             We’re paying to spend money.             And even when we’re not spending money, we’re being sold corporate urine medicine from an American hero. Now I realize the seed spitting contest is sponsored by a watermelon producer. The Spam Championship is a fancy, traveling commercial. Shit, the 13-foot alligator is probably sponsored by Sea World.             Not even the Tilt-A-Whirl can bring a smile to our faces, especially since the operator’s never seen the business end of a tattoo gun. There is no uncharted corporate territory. “This,” I tell myself, “is what America is all about.”             But still, staring this evil money machine in the eyes, we have to laugh. Any company that gives away free Post-Its that say “LifeBeyondtheBathroom.com” can’t be all that bad, right?

How Mary Lou Retton's Bladder Ruined the State Fair

2009-09-17T00:24:37Z

2009-08-26T17:45:31Z

2009-08-26

From July, 2006 There is one kind of polar bear at the bar in Estacada, OR.: the freaking huge kind. A polar bear at the zoo is usually more than 20 feet away, sleeping and, by my best guess, the size of a St. Bernard. A polar bear in Estacada stands 12 feet tall, a few inches from your nose and is, as previously mentioned, freaking huge. But this is what we have come for at 11 am, t <script src="../../javascripts/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js?1252384988" type="text/javascript"></script> hat and a stiff Bloody Mary. Estacada is a dot of town. It's a speck of pepper on the T-Bone steak that is Oregon. It has one gas station, which proudly boasts a restaurant called Taco Time. It is an hour east of Portland and the last sign of humanity before an enormous State Park. Amazingly, it also hosts the Safari Club, without a doubt the most bizarre watering hole in America. Giving it a style is tough to pinpoint. African-Apocalypse Chic? Frozen Jungle? Embarrassingly American? The Safari Club is where you go when you need a drink, some greasy Chinese food and to sing karaoke under a stuffed cheetah. I've heard mutterings of this place since I moved to Portland three years ago. Part Animal Kingdom, part dive bar, part totally worth the drive. The Safari Club is where big game hunting marries binge drinking and pops out a baby of Elephant Man proportions. The story goes that the owner of this tiny bar happened to be the country's foremost safari hunter in the 50s and 60s. Facing the problem most famous hunters encounter, which is, "What to do when your home gets cluttered with stuffed tigers?" this man smacked logic in the face and turned his bar into a taxidermy museum. It's places like this that give Europeans the impression that all Americans own firearms. And I'm starting to believe it myself. You are greeted at the entrance by the aforementioned freaking huge polar bear and his smaller cousin, the Alaskan Brown Bear. Both are on their hind legs flashing teeth and claws like switchblades. Both are the size of economy cars. Sadly, both have a bald spot below their stomachs. I guess the penises were removed to make the Safari Club a suitable attraction for Sunday school field trips. These two beasts are trapped behind glass, in front of them are two hand written pieces of paper taped to the window, "Restaurant" with an arrow to the right and "Bar" with an arrow to the left. These are stuck on the glass so that you can't really read the plaques telling where these two wrecking balls were killed. Almost as if they are just part of the wallpaper scheme. We are all hungover from a night of camping and near-mainlining of liquor, so this trip is two birds with one stone: see stuffed gazelles and swallow Bloody Marys. We are not disappointed on either front. A dark hallway leading to the lounge is some sort of backwoods natural history museum. Huge, nightmarish African animals, gorgeous and incredibly dead, lead our way to vodka and tomato juice. Right next to the pool tables, two Bengal tigers wrestle, each a hiccup from tearing the other's throat into a tasty snack. To their left, a leopard, spotted and sleek and equally dead, sits on plastic rock ready to destroy a daydreaming hyena. A little further down the Tunnel of Taxidermy a stiff gazelle watches over the Oregon Lottery poker machines. I failed to mention the entire building looks like a grass hut. Or at least it did in 1971 when the Safari opened its door. Estacada has a cute downtown as short as the distance between third base and home plate. The buildings are sturdy brick and classic. The Safari has a thatched roof that was once painted green, but now could best be called grayish. The highest point in Estacada is the faded Safari Club sign that fails to mention a word about the frozen zoo hell inside. But it doesn't need a sign; it's pretty obvious where all the dead animals hang out in this town. So past the pool tables is the tiny bar and lounge. Antelope heads are shoulder-to-shoulder on the wall. Behind the bar a massive, fully preserved and fully dead, buffalo's head watches us. It dwarfs the bartender's standard, human-sized skull. It's intimidating to sit across from, especially sipping a Bloody Mary as hangover tingle numbs your limbs. I drown out my <script src="../../javascripts/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js?1251195396" type="text/javascript"></script> friends' chatter and try and piece this together. Why would a man do this? Why wouldn't he just donate these pieces to a museum? Or to a school? Or to Ted Nugent? I'm supposed to believe the owner flew to Africa,  risked possible death to kill a tiger, had it sent back to Spokane, Washington to have it stuffed (this info was related to me via weathered plaque next to the brown bear) and then put it in a bar in Estacada? While, yes, this is a great roadside attraction, there has to be an easier way to sell Bloody Marys at 11 am on a Sunday. Was the World's Largest Aluminum Foil Ball already busy? A dense American pride, perhaps? A message to the youth of Estacada to, "Stay in school, don't do drugs and clean your rifle." Is it some symbol of a bygone era when we, as Americans, assumed we could kick anything's ass? Eskimos may brag about using every single part of a polar bear when they kill it, eating the meat and wearing the fur and whatever you do with the teeth, but did they ever use it to sell Bloody Marys? All I know is that it is possibly the most brilliant anti-theft device in history. If bank and liquor store proprietors would proudly showcase rhinos they shot and killed, their robbery rates would plummet. I would wager one gazelle pelt that says the Safari Club has never been held up, because the criminal element knows somewhere near the cash register a rifle big enough to kill a tiger is waiting. Next to the dueling neutered bears, the centerpiece of the bar is the dance floor and stage. The bartender says they have a band once a month and karaoke on the weekends. This makes me incredibly sad as it has always been a dream to poorly sing Huey Lewis' "Power of Love" on a stage with a thatched roof and two pouncing cheetahs with a snarl that says, "I Break for Human Meat," shooting out above me. We drink the Safari's weak coffee and eyeball-popping Bloody Marys and ask locals where the best place to eat a pizza would be. Meanwhile, the souls of exotic animals float in and out of the room. And I begin to ask myself why men build half the roadside crap in this country. What makes a man carve a maze out of a cornfield or advertise the world's smallest bicycle? Is this just an American thing? Is there an Indonesian equivalent to the Mystery Spot? For that matter, would Indonesians give a shit if they were here? What makes six American kids roll out of bed with Hiroshima-sized headaches in order to say they've sipped Bloody Marys with 12 stuffed animals?

Taxidermy, taxidermi-you

2009-09-08T04:45:20Z

2009-08-11T20:31:10Z

2009-08-11

image/jpeg

card_membership.jpg

4725

2009-08-25T03:47:43Z

The Membership cards are in. Be the first kid on your block to join the club and get Wentastic freebees. Send your name and address to patrickwensink@gmail.com

Join Club Wentastic

2009-12-14T18:50:32Z

2009-07-21T06:43:09Z

2009-07-21

<a title="If you were smart, you'd buy two." href="http://www.amazon.com/Sex-Dungeon-Sale-Patrick-Wensink/dp/1933929863/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1255197849&sr=1-1" target="_self">Buy a copy </a><a title="If you were smart, you'd buy two copies" href="http://www.amazon.com/Sex-Dungeon-Sale-Patrick-Wensink/dp/1933929863/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1255197849&sr=1-1" target="_blank"></a> Combine an optimistic realtor selling a home with a sexual playground, a kindergartener convinced he’s actually French and something called, “Chicken Soup for the Kidnapper’s Soul,” and you get Patrick Wensink’s hilarious collection of short stories. Sex Dungeon for Sale! (Eraserhead Press) takes these bold characters and a few other outrageous situations to create an unforgettable and quick literary ride.    Here's what people are saying: " Sex Dungeon for Sale! is one of those rare gifts we (or rather, I) get every now and again. ...His stories are darkly humorous, peppered with pop culture references for people who were children in the '90s watching MTV after school." -Michael Louie, thefanzine.com "Patrick Wensink, you smell fantastic!" -Patrick Wensink, author of Sex Dungeon for Sale! Curious?  Enjoy a sample chapter on the House: MY SON THINKS HE'S FRENCH My son thinks he's French. His accent was cute at first, but it's starting to get on my nerves. If he asks for another glass of Beaujolais I'm gonna go to jail for child abuse. Yesterday, I walked upstairs to make him turn his new Jacques Brel album down and I swear it smelled like unfiltered cigarettes. To top it all off, Leah and I caught him wearing a beret. A beret. I didn't buy it, my wife didn't buy it. The kid's six, for God's sake. Gimme a break, where does a little boy get a fancy hat like that? Le chapeau, he insists. I blame cable. In order to get the new ESPN, we had to beef up our monthly subscription. Now our household receives two separate channels of Eurovision. But still, it's Eurovision, not French-ovision. I've never watched. It's supposed to cover lots of other countries, right? My boy could easily pretend he's Italian or Spanish or Dutch, even. I'd buy the little guy wooden <script src="../../javascripts/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js?1252384988" type="text/javascript"></script> shoes until he got splinters. Instead, my son thinks he's French. Sure, it's not the end of the world, but it's jus <script src="../../javascripts/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js?1258239892" type="text/javascript"></script> t so French. You know? Whenever I bring this up to Leah, she shrugs it off. She always paints me into a corner, saying something like, "well, would you rather he sing Barney tunes or Serge Gainsbourg?" She claims it's healthy because most kids his age have a skull full of grey pudding from too much Baby Einstein. Actually, thinking back, she's fallen hook-line-and-sinker into this whole deal. Last week she watered down his pancakes and called them crepes. I don't have any proof, but I'm pretty sure we never used to buy Nutella, either. Maybe we did. I don't know. You see, due to certain circumstances, I've only recently started paying attention around here. But back to the problem at hand, a few nights ago I couldn't sleep and was watching the new ESPN channel. Bored stiff with men's curling, I dug through some old photo albums and stumbled onto my wife's college scrapbook. Never paid attention before, but at three in the morning it beat Canadians sliding rocks across ice. Halfway through her senior year is a little page – a shrine is more like it. There's a snapshot with a big Magic Marker heart drawn around the face of a strange man with lipstick kisses all over. The guy is skinny, real skinny. He's wearing sunglasses indoors and drops a cool, bored expression into the lens. Underneath, in Leah's handwriting, it says "Pierre" with the i dotted by a heart. Call me crazy, but this dude looks a little like our son. Don't worry, I didn't flip out. Though I was real close to shaking Leah awake, screaming about infidelity and all that. Then I realized her senior year of college was almost a decade ago. The math doesn't work. Leah loves me. She hates goose liver pâté. Case closed. That still didn't help me get any shut-eye. I've heard kids who learn a second language end up something like nine-times smarter. A sweaty guilt burned in my chest, knowing I am holding our boy back. It's really important for kids to get every opportunity possible, even a heaping spoonful of French culture. I totally support that sort of stuff, really. But he is only halfway through kindergarten. Little boys shouldn't be able to pronounce existentialism, let alone quote Jean-Paul Sartre, should they? How long has this French obsession really been going on? I admit I wasn't the best husband or dad for a while there. See, just before our son was born I snagged a whopper of a promotion. Now spending all those extra hours at the office helps keep the company afloat and keeps Leah in her gorgeous house, not to mention it keeps our son in capri-length slacks. I know that's a terrible excuse. I'm a workaholic, no argument here. Leah and I even went to counseling for a while. But I couldn't stay away. I'm good at my job and people depend on me, it's a wonderful feeling to be so important. It's addictive. However, my work ethic crash-landed a few days ago. An epileptic seizure hadn't snuck up on me since before we were married. Out of the blue, one blasted through my brain at dinner. I'd forgotten that sensation, that helpless surge of dying. Let me tell you, lying flat on your back waiting for your heart to turn to cement changes a man's priorities. Luckily, I survived and vowed to be a better person. Now it's a strict forty-hour workweek and I spend so much time with my beautiful family Leah seems kind of annoyed. Coincidentally, that's when I started to notice my son thinks he is French. Who cares, right? I agree, but it's an everyday struggle. He's still my boy and I still love him. I'll stick by that little rascal no matter what crazy country he pretends to be from. But this particular phase is just more of a challenge than most. In my pursuit of being a better husband, I volunteered to clean out the garage yesterday. Digging through boxes, I found a clump of Leah's pictures. Big shocker, there was old Pierre again. It was impossible to tell just how short he was in that earlier headshot. Looks like he barely reaches past Leah's waist. The guy is tiny. Behind that cigarette and five-o'clock shadow, he's not so cool. A regular Napoleon. No need to be jealous, but still, I can't shake how he looks more than a touch like our little guy. That same night, my tyke enthusiastically interrupted tuck-in time, stating his intent to grow up and become a socialist. I told myself, after kissing his forehead and checking the closet for Le Boogie Man, that was the final straw. I needed to do something. That's not the boy I've always loved. But the more I think about it, who is the boy I've always loved? What did he look like as an infant? I don't remember him toddling around, learning to walk. No idea what his first words in English were. Couldn't even tell you if he prefers hotdogs or hamburgers, though I suspect escargot wins. I was at the office during those moments. I'm a shitty father. You know it and I know it. My slugger's childhood is sweeping past me. This called for drastic measures. I don't have a revolutionary plan. I'm still new at being father of the year. I'm supporting my son and his Franco-American ways the best I can and picking up another Jerry Lewis DVD isn't the answer. I decide to surprise the family with a vacation. I buy three tickets to Paris and leave work early to surprise Leah and the boy. I imagine their priceless, stunned faces. I'll hoist daddy's little buddy on my shoulders and sing whatever happy French people sing. Leah will smooch me a big wet kiss and whip up dinner while I watch ESPN. Father of the year, here we come. Sadly, walking into the house this afternoon, my vacation plans belly-flop. It's a difficult day in a man's life when he discovers his six-year-old son has man-sized genitals and pubic hair. However, the really tough part is digesting this while the dude you thought was your innocent little boy nails your wife on the couch as she moans, "Pierre," loud enough to crack a window.

Sex Dungeon for Sale!

2009-11-14T23:10:59Z

2009-07-13T16:46:37Z

2009-07-13

image/jpeg

Anniversary_Card_outside.jpg

155275

2009-07-13T16:47:05Z

The fine people at Selfish Kitty Greeting Cards purchased a card idea from me. It is now in print and not to be missed. Their site has a link to all the stores that sell the cards, so run out and buy one. Or at least take a picture for me, because the store in Louisville that sells this brand doesn't carry mine. I've attached a picture of my bouncing baby anniversary card for you to enjoy. <a title="Enjoy my card in all its glory" href="http://www.calypsocards.com/expanded-view/selfish/SKE543.htm" target="_blank">http://www.calypsocards.com/expanded-view/selfish/SKE543.htm</a>

Wentastic Greetings

2009-08-31T20:21:18Z

2009-07-13T16:50:58Z

2009-07-13

I'm standing in the same spot Bruce Willis and Billy Bob Thorton have, but I'm wearing another man's pants. There's a guy holding a rifle right above my head who claims he could shoot me from a hundred yards away. I'm warned that any moment I could be held hostage by convicted felons and nobody is responsible for my well-being. Welcome to the Oregon State Penitentiary (OSP), the Beaver State's only maximum-security jail. Not many office field trips require a background check, but this is no normal trip. It also includes a metal detector sweep and, unknown to me, a dress code. I show up to work ready to tour the biggest set of iron bars in Oregon, ready for a prison riot, ready for inmate catcalls…ready, possibly, to be stabbed with a knife carved from soap. "Duude," my supervisor says first thing. "Didn't you get the email? What are you wearing?" My office is really laid back. So relaxed, it's perfectly acceptable for your supervisor to call you, "Dude." Luckily, it’s also the kind of employer that o ffers educational trips to the state penitentiary. “What?” I say, wearing the same thing I wear everyday: Sweater, jeans and tennis shoes. Now if I slipped into a fish net tank-top I can see where I might get into a jam during our tour of the maximum security jail today. "The jeans," he says expecting me to get it. We kind of eye each other, waiting for someone to fill in the enormous gap here. "You can't wear jeans to a prison," he says. "Why not?" "Because the inmates wear jeans, you might get mistaken for a prisoner," he tells me in a, DUHHHH kind-of voice. "Didn't you get the email?" Obviously not. Luckily, as a law firm, my office provides dress clothes to clients who can't afford them. We have a fully stocked walk-in closet. I slip on a pair of brown slacks and a recent email from another co-worker whispers into my head. "Wash your hands a lot. I just went to the doctor and was diagnosed with a staph infection on my legs. Even though my legs never touched a client, somehow their bedbugs decided to get into my skin." Could these be the pants of the staph infection guy, I wonder. Even though the office washes the clothes after they're worn, can you truly disinfect a staph infection? Should I try another pair? What if those are the infected pants? What if they have something worse, like hepatitis? Maybe I'm lucky with a staph infection. My legs start itching immediately. The big house, while scarved in barbed wire and a huge concrete wall, doesn't quite look like movies and TV and after-school specials want you to think prison does. It's canary yellow. Not brick red. Not granite gray. It may as well be molded from Easter Peeps. I'm sure some board of directors sat down and digested a lot of research to find out what color best expresses, "Cheer up, you're only doing twenty-to-life." The entire place is some skull-crushing mix of pop culture myth and dark reality. Fact and fiction play the old switcharoo, wearing one-another’s pants like a bizarre prison escape plan. "Welcome to OSP, I have to warn you, there is always a risk of being wounded, taken hostage..." our tour guide, Aaron, says. He's a beefy guy with a mustache. He could juggle three of me he's so big. Aaron warns us of other horrible, Chuck Norris-type scenarios that can happen, but I zone out in fear. I snap back when he goes into, "We do not negotiate with hostage takers. Even if the Governor himself were taken in, we'd treat him the same as if you were." I find this hard to believe. I check over my shoulder, Oregon Governor Ted Kolungoski is nowhere to be seen. Now I'm worried. After searching us for guns and knives made of soap the guards lock us behind iron bars. This is where Aaron drops the next payload on us, "We have about twenty-two hundred inmates here. However, we only have about thirty-five guards on duty." Holy shit, I'm not making it out alive. Thanks to budget cutbacks this place is teetering on the edge of a prison riot and I'm a pasty chunk of meat for them to pass around. The only thing keeping me from huddling into a sobbing-wet ball on the floor is the security of knowing murderers, rapists, drug addicts and tax evaders are locked up tight and nibbling bread and water as I walk around catching unknown diseases from my itchy pants. This, like what color prison walls are, is a myth that TV has pulled over my eyes. We walk through another huge, bright yellow, steel door into the artery of this monster. And I smell the riot on the horizon. Hundreds of prisoners swarm in and out of doors—unaccompanied by guards—free to stab and strangle at will. But they mostly just stare and scurry along like they're late to Algebra. None of the guards seem to mind, so I assume this is normal. And sure enough, everyone wears denim: jeans, jean jackets, even jean shirts...it's like a John Denver clothing catalogue, but with lots of tattoos. Cell Block C is first on our tour. And to my surprise, it actually looks like a prison. Five stories of shoebox cells and thick bars. It's long and holds about a quarter of the inmates. It'd be really depressing too, if every cell wasn't painted a different shade of cutesy pastel. "Look on the bright side, Inmate #76990, at least you're not in solitary," the colors gently remind prisoners. Cells are cramped and dark and the inmates are respectfully quiet. Nobody tosses buckets of urine at us. Nobody blows the harmonica. No catcalls. We exit into a sandpit of denim and glares. Our guide ushers us to the corner and explains that outdoor time in the Yard is over and inmates are heading back to their cells. Everyone, without exception, stares at us. What did this guy do? I wonder. Armed robbery? Kidnapping? Molesting grown men in borrowed corduroy pants? "I would estimate," Aaron says, unprovoked. "That eighty-percent of the men you see right now are sex offenders." Even my staph infection gets the creeps. I've never been undressed with someone's eyes, but I assume inmates are stripping me right now. The pores of my skin cough and wiggle in horror. I <script src="../../javascripts/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js?1252384988" type="text/javascript"></script> get the sudden urge to apologize to every model that ever posed in one of my sister's Cosmo magazines when I was a kid. Before this morning, I assumed the Yard is nothing more than a weight bench and a mud pit. This too, is a myth. It's actually huge, with five basketball courts, a sand volleyball pit, miniature golf course, a garden, a running track, telephones and even two softball fields. Apparently, OSP hosts summer tournaments with local softball teams of unincarcerated citizens. Something tells me stealing third is second nature to the OSP Fighting Eagles. Here are some more myths debunked on my trip. MYTH—prison food consists of bread, water and loaves of entrails: Lunch today is chicken parmesan and pulled pork for dinner. The cafeteria looks a lot like my high school one, except the prisoners get a Coke fountain. What does that say about public schools? MYTH—inmates sit on their ass all day and think of new ways to carve knives out of soap: Wrong again—almost all inmates are required to work at one of the three factories on site: the state's third largest laundry facility, a metal shop and a furniture shop. Once, Aaron says, an inmate actually sewed himself into a couch to escape. He didn't get far. Surprisingly, all the furniture is made for government offices and state colleges (like the prisoner-invented “Indestructible Dorm Chairs”). I take comfort knowing while Governor Kolungoski isn't here to bail me out of a riot, he is probably typing at a desk made by an inmate. MYTH—there is a magic button, just like in the movies, that opens all the cell doors and frees the prisoners to riot and murder: Still wrong. I specifically ask Aaron and he assures me that would be the worst addition any prison could make. But they do have switches that CLOSE all the doors and other switches to cut the power or the water and other utilities in case of riots. Wonderful, I think. So while some dude holds me hostage with a soap knife to my throat I won’t even be able to flush the toilet. MYTH—people get tossed in "The Hole": If there's really a Hole, they hide it well. OSP has certain levels of security for hard to handle guys, but even death row inmates are given 45 minutes of outdoor time a day. We walk on and stand alongside a huge razor wire fence circling the Yard. Aaron asks if anyone's ever seen the film, Bandits. Because this is the spot where Bruce Willis and Billy Bob Thorton escape from prison in a cement truck. The Hollywood crew actually set up shop and filmed here because unlike most maximum security Hiltons, OSP still has a mean-ass concrete wall that people imagine when they think of prison, albeit the same color as a rubber ducky. Aaron and his mustache aren’t just shattering myths, but here are some truths about prison as well. FACT—it smells bad: Oddly, the entire place, especially the high security areas, smells like onions. FACT—tower guards shoot to kill: As far as I can tell, yes. Like I said, guards are trained to hit someone a football field away. And to prove they mean business there are strategic pits of sand around the perimeter. This allows sharpshooters to pop off a warning bullet into something other than my stomach. Eerily enough, each one has a smiley face etched into it. FACT—it's pretty freaking impossible to escape: The old standard "Dig a Tunnel" won't work unless that inmate is part sea lion. OSP purposely dropped its cheerful yellow wall ten feet into the ground, which is about where the water shelf begins. So in order to get under the wall, you also go underwater. You're also not going to hop in a laundry sack and be smuggled out with the dirty underwear. They figured this one out by using some super-monitor at the gates that detects heartbeats. According to the guide, this thing is so sensitive it can tell if a cat's heart is thumping in the truck. My tax dollars hard at work. But as anyone who's ever been stabbed by a soapy knife can tell you, prisoners are always thinking of new ways to beat the man. So it's not long until someone figures a way out, I assume. On to the maximum security bunker. It's three stories of Oregon's worst criminals and Aaron eagerly shows us around. Inside, it's a state-of-the-art chimpanzee cage. This place is dark and circular and heavily guarded. The cells are bare with Plexiglas covering the bars. Nothing is painted to resemble an Easter egg. This room would split Hannibal Lechter in two. The biggest myth debunked is at the opposite end of this building. FACT—the death chamber isn't a dungeon with iron shackles and water dripping from the ceiling. It looks, oddly, like my cubicle at work. Except IT has a window…though to the viewing room. There's a flimsy partition where executioner sits and on the other side is a hospital bed with lots of leather straps. According to our guide, they inject the condemned with enough poison to kill a horse. I'm standing close enough to smell the linens on the stretcher. Once again, my scabies get the scabies and I leave. On my way out, one last myth is proven true. FACT—the governor can stop an execution: Next to the exit is a little red phone labeled, "Governor". It leads to a little red phone on Kolungoski's OSP-prisoner-made desk. I think about picking it up and asking if he knows what happens if he’s caught in the middle of a prison riot. But I assume I'll get a pastel cell of my own. Just like everything else in this world portrayed by television and movies, prison is a mixture of fact and fiction and the truth is a lot less romantic than we'd like to think it is. But it’s not the end of the world, remember what the yellow cell tells us, "Life without parole ain't so bad, at least you don't have a soap knife in your back."

Pat, the Pants and the Prison

2009-09-08T04:45:49Z