Thread by @AngeloBCollie

My Time in Twitmo [a thread]

Ah, sweet smell of freedom. Friends, I have been released from the Twitter Big House, and I am here to report on my time there.

The air is fetid inside, rank with the odious sweat of politicians run amok, and doctors of questionable ethics, and

seditionists chafing from their confinement. Or it might be their nether regions had not been washed in some time.

Upon my arrival, I protested loudly that I had not received a Miranda warning. Not for nothing had I watched Perry Mason in my youth, not to mention Judge Judy and

Night Court.

My captors smugly pointed to the Terms of Service. I hung my head low. Score one for the oppressors.

Then I claimed my right to legal counsel, but the finest lawyers in all of Twitterdom had blocked me. In my hour of need, Rudy Giuliani ignored me. Jenna Ellis

cackled and told me she had parking tickets to quash. For “important people,” she said.

Despondent, I requested spiritual counseling. But I was unable to pay the exorbitant retainers demanded by Paula White and Franklin Graham. Joel Osteen would only send tele-thoughts and

prayers if I could prove my drywall skills.

Friends, those who held me prisoner denied even conjugal visits from Chris Evans. To be fair, we have never met, but I’ve always believed he would come to me in my most desperate hours, my Captain America.

What they call food, my

friends, it is an abomination. The vodka was at room temperature, and the “caviar” was not black but red. When I sought redress, they offered me boxed wine. A private label, they said. And they held the box up to the bars. The countenance of someone named Jeanine was imprinted on

the box, and I swear to you, the face will be the cause of nightmares for years to come.

What are the prohibitions against cruel and unusual punishment meant to prevent if not this?

Around hour 12, I nearly lost hope. I saw the words at the bottom of my charge sheet.

If I wished to cancel my appeal and delete my offensive tweet, they’d see about letting me go.

In my mind’s eye, I saw the avatars of my nearest and dearest Twit-mates. I imagined your disappointment, your confusion, and your sorrow. I could see you wondering what I had

done wrong.

Then I saw the evil face of Chucklehead sneering at me. “Go ahead,” she cackled. “Delete your offensive tweet. Show your friends what a spineless Twitterer you are.”

So I resisted. I would not surrender. I would fight this to the bitter end! I spent the next few

hours pondering what had brought me to this, the brink of ruin.

A joke. Not even a very funny joke. Chucklehead had posted a “Live Free” tweet, and I responded with, and I’m paraphrasing here to avoid compounding the accusations against me, take your dose of the trademarked

name for Sildenafil and then I referenced the title of a John McTiernan film starring Bruce Willis.

I knew that the first amendment didn’t apply. I mean, Twitter is a private platform, not a government entity. But surely there was recourse.

I visited the prison library.

I recalled a phrase. “Mens rea.” Before being incarcerated, I thought it was shorthand for men’s restroom. As a gay man, I’d been warned all my life about the nefarious goings-on in those environs.

But no! It comes from the Latin “actus reus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea.”

It means “the act is not culpable unless the mind is guilty.”

Eureka! I was surely of pure intent! I only intended to make people laugh, not to harm themselves.

The Twit-gods were unmoved.

As the hours wore on, my thoughts grew darker. Who would accuse me of this crime?

“Targeted harassment.” What does that even mean? Is it better to harass haphazardly without a target? And is delivery of comic relief really harassment?

Surely one of Chucklehead’s simpering minions had reported me. They dislike even a hint of disparagement of the object of

their less than dry dreams. Or perhaps it was Chucklehead herself.

In what passes for justice in Twitterdom, one never meets one’s accusers, so I will never know.

My thoughts wandered. Did you know that penitentiary comes from the same root as pensive?

Or at least I think it

does. The prison dictionary had many missing pages, especially within the range of pen— to pu—. It gets lonely in the confines of these walls.

At last I slept. When morning came, the culinary abominations continued. The Hollandaise sauce on the eggs Benedict was a mess of

congealed grease. Benedict. This was a clue. How often had I heard Chucklehead referred to as Benedict Boebert!

My resolve strengthened. I checked on the status of my appeal. “While we review your appeal you will not have access to your account.”

Time passes slowly in

Twitter jail. I considered all the cute puppy videos I was missing. How many tweets I’d missed the opportunity to click that little heart. Puns I’d never see.

I checked on my appeal status again. My heart sank. The mysterious governors had denied my appeal.

They offered me

yet another opportunity to delete the evidence of my crime. Just push the delete button and acknowledge the error of my ways.

Friends, I am ashamed to confess I weakened and I took their offer. I could not bear another minute in this prison. I deleted the tweet with those

six words.

When at last I was released into the sunlight, and the iron gates of Twitmo closed behind me, I considered the lessons I’d learned, and what my new life would be like, freshly reformed.

As I entered my password on the blue screen, I realized the word I was searching

for was not “reformed” but “recalcitrant.”

And Chucklehead can eat my prison-issued dirty undergarments while she lives the long and healthy life I so earnestly wish her.

Have a nice day, y’all.