Early Writing (@ 10 years old)
Reg's warped twisted sense of humor started early, as seen in this newsletter dedicated to me.
Poems (written ~ Nov. 28, 1998)
Woe is me
Here I am
Confess your sins
Mortal man
Been in treatment
Spudcatraz (written ~ Dec. 29, 1998)
Once upon a time in a far away land of trees and potato fields, high upon a hill stood a prison. It was a mysterious place, a place where many bad men were locked away from the fair citizens of this land.
Rumoured to be escape proof, they called it Spudcatraz. Anyone trying to flee would first encounter a moat filled with hungry starving alligators. Beyond this moat was another filled with man eating sharks. And beyond this moat was another filled with vicious piranha fish. And then there was yet another moat, this last one filled with rubber duckies. These little duckies were harmless, as they had no teeth, but no one was ever able to get past the alligators, sharks and piranha to play with them. Just in case someone did get this far there was a fence, it was about … let’s see … a mile high. Lurking behind this fence were hundreds of humongous grizzly bears and then another fence, it was about … oh, let’s see … two miles high. Behind this fence was scores of savage tigers. And then another fence, even higher, too high to ever be measured. It was behind this fence that the elephants roamed. The elephants were pretty much harmless but you weren’t allowed to feed them. And if anyone got past the elephants there was another fence, only about two feet high. Behind this was a field of puppy dogs. Well, there used to be puppy dogs but because the fence was only two feet high, the elephants stepped over it and squashed all the puppy dogs. How sad.
Not lets go inside the prison...
At the far end of the long dark corridor was a small cell with three bunks. In this cell lived the three prisoners in this story, Captain Moe, Pandreas, and Buggie, and a little rat they called Timmy.
Captain Moe was a pirate. But not a very successful pirate. With no interest in gold or silver, he sailed the seven seas pillaging and plundering ships for their stores of crossword puzzles and pens. All of these puzzling treasures he would bury in a pit in a forest not far from a small village in this land. One day he made a voyage to the hiding spot only to find that someone had dug up his treasure and in a vain search for riches, torn and scattered his puzzles all over the forest. With rage boiling within him he stormed into the village. There he saw a large white building. He stomped up to the door and politely rang the doorbell and then he said to himself, “ahr! I’m a pirate. I’ll not wait for ye scallywags to open the door!” and he kicked the door down. Unfortunately for Captain Moe, this was the door to the police station and he was promptly arrested and taken to prison.
Pandreas was a poor boy from a destitute village in a far away colony. All his life he heard about the bountiful potato fields in the motherland. One day he set out on a journey to this land. Carrying only a few stamps for some letters he hoped to send to his kinfolk via the fine postal system. All he wanted to do was please his poor mother by bringing back sacks and sacks of this bountiful vegetable, the potato. Upon his arrival, he set out for the fields but soon found the potatoes to be heavy and the work to be hard. Exasperated, he asked the locals for help. They told him tales of potatoes cut into small wedges called French fries and the great profits to be made from the sale of these fries. With dollar signs in his eyes, again he set out for the fields. In his coat he carried a Proctor Silex deep fryer and a gas powered generator. He lugged this equipment into the field and set to work peeling and cooking fries. Meanwhile the farmers wife was arriving home from a game of bingo. She stood there on her step, hearing the racket coming from the field. And then she ran to the phone, first to call all her neighbors, and then to call the police. Poor Pandreas was so absorbed in his activity he didn’t even see the flashing lights or hear the sirens. Now he’s in prison, pacing back and forth, ranting and raving about his misfortune.
Buggie was a powerful man, leader of a tribe of fair haired, large breasted women (all of whom he trusted). Buggie led a pleasant life hunting and fishing and drinking beer, while the women kept the village neat and tidy. All was going well until the morning he left the toilet seat up. All hell broke lose and Buggie was forced to flee for safety. “I’ve got a plan”, he said, and he ran to the prison. Now he sits in exile with Pandreas and Captain Moe.
One day they returned from lunch, French fries, and found, to their horror, that the rat, Timmy had eaten Captain Moe’s one last chocolate bar.
“Ahr! Ye scallywag. Ye’ll walk the plank for this!”, screamed Captain Moe.
“Infidel! I will kill you twice!”, yelled Pandreas.
“Wait, I have a plan!” interrupted Buggy. “First, I’ll go get my medication, and then I’ll tell you my plan. May the power of paxil be with you all.”
Buggie outlined his plan. They would send Timmy out to talk to the alligators to ask for safe passage.
Little Timmy scurried out to the moat. “Please Mr. Gator listen to me. The men need your help - CHOMP! The gators were hungry and so ended their plan. The prisoners looked out in despair. What would they do now? Perhaps if they had offered food to the gators things would have been better. So they smuggled potatoes back from the kitchen day after day. They searched through the prison and found another rat, a fine noble rat they called Reggie. Soon they had gathered a sack of potatoes. Reggie set out with confidence to talk to the gators. He pushed the sack with his beautiful nose. Soon he stopped to rest. “Come on Reggie, you can do it. You’re the best rat we’ve ever known”, shouted the prisoners. Reggie looked back and smiled. He was on a mission. “I think I can, I think I can”, said Reggie and he pushed the sack of potatoes to the edge of the moat.
“Please Mr. Gator listen to me. I need your help. I have potatoes and more if you’ll listen to me.”
“Potatoes are good, but not without ketchup. Bring us ketchup and we’ll talk”, replied the gator.
So off Reggie ran back to the prison, through to the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of ketchup and dragged it outside, all the way staying out of sight of the guards, for Reggie was a clever little rat.
“Here is your ketchup. Now I’ll tell you my plan”. The gator listened with interest. A deal was made.
Later that evening there was heard yelling and screaming outside. All the guards ran outside to investigate. The source of the commotion was a hill just outside the last fence. There, laughing and giggling all of [Buggies] tribe were gathered. They jumped up and down and took off their clothes. The guards began to drool and ran toward them. On a signal from the gators the tigers and bears burst through the fence.
Inside the prison, the men shouted with glee. They ran out the back door and lived happily ever after. The end.
Story submitted to Readers Digest – A typical day in Jail
Well, it’s almost noon. I’m sitting here waiting for the guard to unlock my door, after which we’ll be herded up to the kitchen, like cattle, for our noon-time meal. I’ve no doubt that we’ll be served some sort of potato - mashed or baked, or scalloped, or cut into wedges. Here on P.E.I, there’s no escape from potatoes; every day they’re on the plate. Along with the potatoes, there’ll be some canned vegetables (if their can opener ever broke, we’d be in serious trouble … or would we?), and some low grade meat (is there a Grade C? … Grade E? …) oozing with grease. Around here, grease is one of the main food groups, it seems. Hopefully, there won’t be any hair in the food today. Around here, you almost have to shave the food before you eat it (the health inspector doesn’t wander into these parts too often).
After we eat, the guard will come around with a basket to collect the silverware. I’ve been in here so long (13 months) that this almost seems normal to me. I think I may be getting institutionalized, God help me! If the numbers add up (the silverware) we’re going back to the unit where we’ll be locked in ‘till our next meal (and if they don’t add up, out come the rubber gloves).
Not much to do here except watch Jerry Springer, or Jenny Jones, or one of the other trashy talk shows that are so popular amongst the inmates. Either that or wait for the daily newspaper. But theres eighteen guys and only one paper. If you get it first you’re ok, otherwise, it comes in bits and fragments … oh, ‘scuse me, I have to go get some clean clothes (we get these three times a week). Everyone wears the same outfit, different numbers (I’m #93), sweatpants and tee-shirts. But you can’t have any more than two sets of clothes in your cell. Otherwise, they’ll take them and charge you in their ‘kangaroo court’, where the inmate is invariably found guilty and sent to ‘the hole’. Why they fear us having too much clothes is something I don’t understand, it is just the way it is.
I received some mail this morning, a calendar from a college in Ontario. I am taking some correspondence courses. It’s the only way you’re permitted to educate yourself in this incubator of crime. We’re not even allowed to have books, magazines, newspapers (except the local paper which is provided to us), or even crossword puzzles brought in. They call that contraband. That’s something else I don’t understand. But that’s just the way it is…
We have a small library here, but most of the books are smaller than I am (I’m 33). If we’re lucky one of the guards will bring in a newspaper, maybe the Halifax Chronicle-Herald or the National Post, and leave it behind when he goes home (that’s the only way to get ‘em). You see, there’s some good guards and some …. well, you understand. Same as any other profession, I suppose. I spend most of my time reading anything I can get my hands on… or sleeping.
I spend most of my time reading anything I can get my hands on … or sleeping. If there’s nothing else to do (and often there isn’t), you can always sleep. You see, there’s not much focus on rehabilitation, whatever that is, in here. They just want us to watch television and stay out of the way (like children).
It’s evening now and we’re on our way to the kitchen, again, for potatoes, again, and some kind of … slop. Everyone in here, it seems, is fat; too much greasy food and not enough exercise. No point complaining though, that’s just the way it is…
After supper, there’s nothing for us to do, ’cept watch t.v. or sleep. Some nights they have an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, but I’m in max (maximum security) and the max inmates aren’t allowed to go to AA because … well, I don’t know why and that ‘s just the way it is … Nobody has the answers around here, so we’ll pass the evening hours watching Seinfeld reruns and other sitcoms, maybe a movie, if we all can agree on one. Nothing to look forward to tonight but lock-up at eleven and the end of another day. I think I’ll read for a while and then wait, maybe an hour or two, for the guard to come in and turn out my light. You see we don’t have light switches in our cells. The guards have to do it for us. Why that is, is something I don’t understand. That’s just the way it is ….