I have no new news to report and I’m still researching a few things. This is a Dickwad Duo-free post. I was going through some old photos in my Google Drive just now and could not resist posting this picture. I had forgotten it existed.
Today was two years to the day that Ed & Joel turned themselves in for their jail sentence. I did not go out and buy a cake for this nor did I buy the cake for the anniversary. This is a not a Ponzi cake.
No, this cake has another, somewhat humorous story, so let’s lighten up the end of 2017 and hear a few tales. Names have been changed to protect the terminally stupid.
My brother-in-law, let’s call him Jim, is not exactly a model citizen. I heard he once got pulled over for riding a child’s dirt-bike to the bar, while drunk. He had his license pulled at some point, either for child support or drunk driving. If it wasn’t for one thing, it would have been for the other. He wore an ankle bracelet once…no, two times while I knew him. I will probably never know which strikes truly landed him in jail, but the following are fairly safe bets. I’m not inclined to investigate further.
Allegedly, and I say that because I saw very little provable information to back up these details, one of the strikes involved a forged bill of sale. A friend of his parked a car on his property with permission. At some point, Jim decided that the vehicle was his to sell. Now, in my state, vehicles older than a certain year do not need a title for it to be a legal sale. You just need a bill of sale. Well, the genius sold the vehicle and wrote up a bill of sale for it with his name as the legal owner. The real owner still had the title so…that did not end well for someone. Doom on you, Jim.
Another strike was the combination of racism and stupidity, and probably no small amount of alcohol. It’s a small town and kind of rural. On the road where Jim lived, there were two guys named Bill: a white guy and a black guy. So, people over there called one “Bill” and the other “Black Bill.” I don’t know anything about White Bill, but Black Bill had recently been released from prison where he may have actually murdered someone. Well, Jim in his infinite wisdom called Black Bill a, uh…well it began with an “n.” I’m not sure the circumstances that led to this insult, but it’s possible that it didn’t even stem from a verbal altercation.
That’s not the end of the story. Later, Jim was joyriding on his four-wheeler, a vehicle he should not have been driving since he didn’t have a license. He was probably also drunk. You can assume he’s always drunk, like at his daughter’s third birthday party when he grabbed my butt. Drunk. It’s a theme! So anyway, he’s still riding around at dusk, a time when his vision is bad. Then Black Bill jumps him from out of nowhere and just wails on him. I don’t know if Bill showed restraint or if Jim managed to get away but at the end, the four-wheeler was damaged and Jim looked like he was in a fight. Jim reported the incident to the cops and in giving his statement, admited that he was driving his four-wheeler when he was assaulted. So, Bill got nabbed for assault and Jim for driving after his license was revoked. There are so many lessons to learn here.
And what was probably the final strike for this particular stint in jail involves both stupidity and alcohol. Jim and my sister had moved out of the small town (long story) and moved to a city that has approximately three times the population, which sounds more impressive than it is. As soon as he moved up there, he entrenched himself with a crowd heavily into – you guess it – booze. One night, he and his friends decided to have a bonfire in the parking lot behind some kind of repair shop. Now, you probably need a permit to do that (if they’ll even allow it) and I think it’s safe to say that no one obtained said permit. The cops showed up and everyone scattered like cockroaches. Jim got busted in the driver seat of a car, “leaning to get something out of the glove box.” He was drunk and I highly doubt that he was getting something out of the glove box while everyone else is running from the cops. He may have resisted arrest a bit.
On the day he checked into jail, my mother and I decided to celebrate by getting a cake. We went to Hannaford because their cakes up here are moist and the frosting is not overwhelming. We didn’t really care what the cake looked like, provided it was chocolate and festive. Then, on a whim, we brought it up to the counter to have “Happy Incarceration” written on it. We made it clear to the baker that it didn’t have to be the best lettering job and we all debated on whether an exclamation point would be too much.
They never knew. It was a secret cake. And despite posting this on the internet, they will probably never find out. My mother and I ate it all in one weekend. We have no shame.
Secret incarceration cake.