reply to post by jacobe001
The common man/woman must follow the law.....................those, like G. W. Bush Jr. are above the law.
Read his record, he did coc aine for god's sake, awol, drunk driving, but he got off.
There are two sets of people in this world, no justice.
Those that do not have to follow the law and those that must adhere to the law.
Again the Prison System is becoming big business in America - step by step, inch by inch.
Again I repeat, not all children get a good start in life, not all children get a hug and a kiss at night (like they should) they get a smack across
the head and told, go to bed stupid.
Once you privatize something it doesn't come under scrutiny.
My husband works for a company that is partially federally funded and although he has a high position, he must sign in and out in front of all his
work mates exactly like the technical assistants do.
I worked for a private company..........my boss came and went as she pleased, jipped the company time wise, played video golf (we weren't allowed, we
had monthly reports of every site we went to as we had a lot of government / state sites we had to go to and if our manager found one site that
wasn't "work related" we got our arses chewed out.
two sets of rules = no justice.
You have to watch the watch dog that is watching the chicken house or you're chickens are going to start turning up dead.
People bad mouth the government and maybe in the high levels it's dishonest but my husband has to account for ever single minute of his time and he
is under constant scrutiny unlike my boss who held the same position in a private company and could do as she pleased.
Companies are not people they should not be given rights like people.
And everyone should be held accountable for their job equally. Not just the pions.
Of course, now most of the pions are in India.
We, (my household) may have less money, less "things" but I am happy my job was out sourced.
I would rather starve than go back to the daily abuse I withstood for over a decade (the other 6 years I worked under nice bosses, same company).
A prison is a trap for catching time. Good reporting appears often about the inner life of the American prison, but the catch is that American
prison life is mostly undramatic—the reported stories fail to grab us, because, for the most part, nothing happens. One day in the life of Ivan
Denisovich is all you need to know about Ivan Denisovich, because the idea that anyone could live for a minute in such circumstances seems impossible;
one day in the life of an American prison means much less, because the force of it is that one day typically stretches out for decades. It isn’t the
horror of the time at hand but the unimaginable sameness of the time ahead that makes prisons unendurable for their inmates. The inmates on death row
in Texas are called men in “timeless time,” because they alone aren’t serving time: they aren’t waiting out five years or a decade or a
lifetime. The basic reality of American prisons is not that of the lock and key but that of the lock and clock.
That’s why no one who has been inside a prison, if only for a day, can ever forget the feeling. Time stops. A note of attenuated panic, of watchful
paranoia—anxiety and boredom and fear mixed into a kind of enveloping fog, covering the guards as much as the guarded. “Sometimes I think this
whole world is one big prison yard, / Some of us are prisoners, some of us are guards,” Dylan sings, and while it isn’t strictly true—just ask
the prisoners—it contains a truth: the guards are doing time, too. As a smart man once wrote after being locked up, the thing about jail is that
there are bars on the windows and they won’t let you out. This simple truth governs all the others. What prisoners try to convey to the free is how
the presence of time as something being done to you, instead of something you do things with, alters the mind at every moment. For American prisoners,
huge numbers of whom are serving sentences much longer than those given for similar crimes anywhere else in the civilized world—Texas alone has
sentenced more than four hundred teen-agers to life imprisonment—time becomes in every sense this thing you serve.
For most privileged, professional people, the experience of confinement is a mere brush, encountered after a kid’s arrest, say. For a great many
poor people in America, particularly poor black men, prison is a destination that braids through an ordinary life, much as high school and college do
for rich white ones. More than half of all black men without a high-school diploma go to prison at some time in their lives. Mass incarceration on a
scale almost unexampled in human history is a fundamental fact of our country today—perhaps the fundamental fact, as slavery was the fundamental
fact of 1850. In truth, there are more black men in the grip of the criminal-justice system—in prison, on probation, or on parole—than were in
slavery then. Over all, there are now more people under “correctional supervision” in America—more than six million—than were in the Gulag
Archipelago under Stalin at its height. That city of the confined and the controlled, Lockuptown, is now the second largest in the United States.
The accelerating rate of incarceration over the past few decades is just as startling as the number of people jailed: in 1980, there were about two
hundred and twenty people incarcerated for every hundred thousand Americans; by 2010, the number had more than tripled, to seven hundred and
thirty-one. No other country even approaches that. In the past two decades, the money that states spend on prisons has risen at six times the rate of
spending on higher education. Ours is, bottom to top, a “carceral state,” in the flat verdict of Conrad Black, the former conservative press lord
and newly minted reformer, who right now finds himself imprisoned in Florida, thereby adding a new twist to an old joke: A conservative is a liberal
who’s been mugged; a liberal is a conservative who’s been indicted; and a passionate prison reformer is a conservative who’s in one.
The scale and the brutality of our prisons are the moral scandal of American life. Every day, at least fifty thousand men—a full house at Yankee
Stadium—wake in solitary confinement, often in “supermax” prisons or prison wings, in which men are locked in small cells, where they see no
one, cannot freely read and write, and are allowed out just once a day for an hour’s solo “exercise.” (Lock yourself in your bathroom and then
imagine you have to stay there for the next ten years, and you will have some sense of the experience.) Prison rape is so endemic—more than seventy
thousand prisoners are raped each year—that it is routinely held out as a threat, part of the punishment to be expected. The subject is standard
fodder for comedy, and an uncoöperative suspect being threatened with rape in prison is now represented, every night on television, as an ordinary
and rather lovable bit of policing. The normalization of prison rape—like eighteenth-century japery about watching men struggle as they die on the
gallows—will surely strike our descendants as chillingly sadistic, incomprehensible on the part of people who thought themselves civilized. Though
we avoid looking directly at prisons, they seep obliquely into our fashions and manners. Wealthy white teen-agers in baggy jeans and laceless shoes
and multiple tattoos show, unconsciously, the reality of incarceration that acts as a hidden foundation for the country.
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