I know I'm late to the party, and both @0xbitcoiner and @hasherstacker have covered this letter... but it was in an opened tab for weeks and today was the day to read it

...AND my god Keonne is funny

I'm having a stupidly good time reading (#1592140). Can't believe the guy has this much humor left in him, given the nightmare and horror he has lived through in recent years. I certainly wouldn't. What doesn't kill you, etc.

So I thought to gather the best-of/funniest remarks. For my own goddamn amusement (and yours). If you haven't read the letter series, this is a Bitcoinland martyr; he deserves a few minutes of your attention.

Marshalls replaced flight attendants, though one really couldn’t tell any difference in demeanor between a Delta air steward herding a bunch of fat slobs in sweat suits and a US Marshall herding a bunch of prisoners.

Being thoroughly searched...

Another couple of hours pass – or years, who can tell at this point – in the second holding room and the Deuce heads are the only ones having a great time. The Deuce dealers have defeated yet another strip search and now a body scanner. Eventually an officer of indeterminate gender unlocks the door and yells out 5 to 10 names and you are escorted to your “range”

Full-stocked pharmacies in prison:

Before you even have a chance to breathe several face tattoos are in your face asking if you want to buy drugs from them. These enterprising fellows apparently are running a fully stocked pharmacy. They offer me deuce, ice, meth, snizzlefizz, and junglerush.  Okay, I made the last two up, but they offered me stuff I have never heard of before

("Deuce" heads are junkies getting high on some K2/burned roach spray)

You speak primate, bruv?

There is a whirlwind of papers being stamped, collated, duplicated, and filed and before you know it the assembly line ends. You breath a sigh of relief, surely some friendly officer is going to check your papers and notice you are a minimum security ‘camper’ and whisk you away. Instead yet another morbidly obese officer points at a room and makes some sort of grunting noise. You do not speak primate but gather he wants you to wait in the room.

Guards mess up:

oh, fuck:

The cell is small, only a bunk bed, a toilet, a sink, a desk, and a fluorescent light. Inside is a large American Indian. If you asked someone to draw the most racist caricature of an American Indian he would have drawn this guy.
He looks at me and says in a deep voice with a flat affect “I am Shadow”. The strange face tattoos gave him the air of some sort of tribal witch doctor. I said “You sure are” and quickly introduced myself lest he take offense to my glib remark and place a hex on me. I liked Shadow immediately. I learned that he was on his way to a USP doing 20 years for murder.

"Before I had a chance to explain that I was on my way to a camp for the fake crime of not having a license I didn’t even need in the first place Officer Just-A-Minute was in the doorway of the cell holding half of a foam mattress."

enough joking around... the horrors dude has to go through. Unbelievable.

I sighed and covered my head with the sheet they gave me – it smelled vaguely like motor oil and sawdust – and silently sobbed. Everyone told me that transit was bad, that Oklahoma was terrible. They were not overstating it. 

I laid there, ass on bare metal, harsh light shining through the threadbare sheet and asked myself if all this was worth the year off. I regretted ever leaving Morgantown, and I desperately wanted to call my wife Lauren.