by Johnny Sparklechops
I’m going to jail??? Quick, call my stylist! I’ll also be needing a recording contract to document my pain while inside and a sleazy agent to hook me up with Leno when I emerge, self-righteous yet humble after a week or two in the Grey Bar B&B.
Don’t laugh, it’s all the rage. These days the whole prison thing is becoming more popular than cornflakes, with mullets and tattoos the new look for everyone from Gary Glitter to the Queen Mum (she’s not dead, she just got caught). And if you’re a skinny LA celebrity with oversized glasses and a penchant for naughty nosebag, you’ve either got to adopt an African orphan or get a stretch in the clink to keep up with the Beckhams these days. Eat vegetables or be nice to your family and your public will toss you aside like a half sucked orange.
Alright, I’m not going to jail just yet, it’s something my mum said to me over coffee and cake last Sunday morning. I’m pretty sure she meant hell, but knew that I didn’t have an imaginary friend so I wouldn’t be scared if he sent me there in the afterlife. She said ‘jail’ in the hope of shocking me into doing something good with my life, like applying for a job at the bank or, at the very least, thinking about getting a haircut.
But for a minute there it got me thinking. As my mum continued on with her exaggerated scare tactics and the lady opposite shuffled closer to the door, I started to consider how I would fare if a moment of madness led to me sharing a cell with someone I would only usually meet on a Monday night whilst watching Cops.
I’ve heard the ‘two circles drawn on a piece of paper’ argument before (you know, where the small circle is your bottom on the way in and the large one is your now slightly sensitive bottom on the way out), so I guess I’d be spending my time avoiding the showers and being a bit stinky. I’m also pretty sure I would try to give up smoking while doing my time, because whenever you see a dude getting killed/ raped/ beaten etc in the movies, it usually involves someone in the gang hanging out for a dart.
But looking at the way Paris and Co have handled their edgy new lives, I think I may have been harboring a somewhat outdated view of our penal system. Surely it can’t be all that bad, once you take into account all the rest and recuperation you’re treated to by the friendly prison staff. I bet none of the inmates have to take the bins out after dinner or drive to Bunning for materials to build a new carport by the exercise yard. And I’m almost positive they’re not locked into an oppressive 24 month payment plan if they want to work out in the gym every once in a while.
No, it all looks like a piece of cake to me. Sitting around, reading books and designing homemade tattoos can’t be all that bad, can it? I was considering going back to uni next year to study law, but a jury sponsored degree is quicker, costs f*ck all and will probably result in someone making a movie about me starring a ‘misunderstood’ lead man and sexy actress who uses long words. Sweet.
But if I’m going to get in on this lazy scam I’ll have to pull my socks up/down and do some proper crime. They say you can’t make an ommelette without breaking eggs (or was that wind), so I’d better get cracking (excuse the pun). Luckily, as we’re in an election year the battling government is desperate to look tough on criminals and will happily lock you up and throw away the key if you commit the seditious crime of dropping litter or having long hair. Jaywalk in the CBD these days and you’re lucky if you see your family ever again.
But its OK, Phil Spector is dropping over tonight for a pool party so the signs are good. I think he’s bringing Lindsay Lohan and L’il Kim so I’ll send you an update from my cell.
