Basically, the police found a baggie of marijuana in my car (which was parked in my driveway -- the cop just randomly walked up, as if he was bored and figured it looked like a weed car). Since it was my first offense, I was given one year of probation, drug and alcohol treatment classes, 40 hours of community service, and three full weekends in the slammer. So, yes, they sometimes do jail terms like detention in The Breakfast Club.

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Later, I was riding my bike, enjoying my last hours of freedom and rethinking my life choices. That's the last thing I remember before I woke up in the middle of the street, covered in blood. I'd been hit by a car, my arm broken at a complete right angle. The courts actually gave me an extra week before starting my jail time in order to undergo the necessary surgery to fix my obliterated limb. The weekend after my surgery, I was in a cast and under lockdown. And herein lies the problem:

I was on a regimen of about six Oxycontin a day as well as a muscle relaxer in order to manage the pain of recently having six screws, two bolts, and a metal plate shoved inside my arm. I thought I would be fine just bringing my pills and my prescriptions in with me to show that I needed them, and the guards or whoever would dole them out to me as needed during my stay. Imagine my delight when the officer informed me that I wouldn't be getting my medication until they heard from my physician -- who, like most doctors, was not in the office on weekends. I was so fucked that the officer actually said, "Looks like you're kinda fucked."

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See, when you go to jail, they can't just accept prescriptions and pills that you bring in yourself, because for all they know you forged the scripts and those pills are frozen cocaine coated with super acid. Checking with your doctor and ordering the meds themselves is standard procedure. This sounds fantastic on paper, but it isn't exactly a fast process -- just ask all the people who have died in prison waiting for their medication to be authorized. (You can't actually ask them, because they died.)

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The jail where I was staying threw in an additional hurdle requiring me to be physically present when they actually received my doctor's authorization, which was difficult because, as I mentioned, I was in prison only on the weekends, and my doctor was in the office only on weekdays. Sometimes jails have their own doctors who can look you over (who, wouldn't you know it, also don't work on the weekends), but if they decide you don't really need painkillers, you're pretty much stuck with frontier medicine, which is another way of saying "biting nearby objects and screaming into the callous night." Some facilities refuse to dispense narcotics at all, regardless of what any big-city doctors say.

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That whole first weekend was one of the most painful and exhausting experiences of my entire life. Imagine your whole arm slowly exploding with pain so excruciating that you can't think about anything else for three days straight, and also you're in jail. There was no relief, no sleep, and nothing to take my mind off of it. After what seemed like an eternity, I was released Sunday afternoon brimming with violent rage, which is presumably the exact result they were going for, because there is literally no other reason to treat a human being that way. Needless to say, I left the experience vowing to never go through that kind of torture again, but I still had two weekends to go.

After some consideration, it dawned on me: I could use the length of string to tie the baggie around my dick! This way, my magnificent girth would conceal the pills as they rested neatly between it and my balls. I found that, even if I was totally naked, the baggie was nearly impossible to see. Because lassoing narcotics to my dick seemed like an infinitely better plan than stowing them in my poop chamber, I changed tactics immediately, congratulating myself for my genius.

The mission was simple -- I'd show up to do my allotted weekend of hard time, with my medication nestled safely in the folds of my balls and penis. All I had to do was waltz in there, get patted down, and get to my bunk without having a nervous breakdown and giving myself away. And yes, it was worth risking years in the slammer rather than relive the bone-shrieking hell of the previous weekend. Consider that for a moment -- my pain level was so extreme that I was ready to spend half a decade in prison just to avoid going without medication for two days.

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When you check into jail, the first thing they do is collect all your personal belongings, pat you down, and walk you to a booking area, which is a room where you sit and wait until it fills with enough people to actually take you into the cell blocks. This is also where you get the serious pat-down, where you strip down and they check every nook and cranny other than your actual butthole and that place between your dick and balls. It's nerve-wracking, standing naked in front of a police officer with a serious felony hiding just behind your penis, but amazingly, I was all clear.

I was seated on a bench across from three other men. The first guy was about my age and looked like the most normal person in the world (we will call him Normal Guy). Then there was a chubby, bearded black man who used every opportunity to remind us that we were in jail because of God's plan (we will call him Black Jesus). Then there was Hobgoblin, a crazy-eyed medicine ball of a man loudly in jail for a DUI at approximately 1 p.m.

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The four of us sat there and chatted as we waited to be taken to our cells, sharing stories about what we were in for and eating our government-issued sack lunches like we were on the world's shittiest field trip. A pretty smooth operation, so far -- clearly I am one of history's great criminal masterminds. No need to read any further.

After about an hour of holding in a furious stream of urine, one of the officers announced that we would have to be placed in a confinement room while they lead a group of women through the booking area. By this time, my urge to pee was all I could think about, and I could feel my anxiety starting to creep up on me, which is bad when you're smuggling a crotch full of four years in prison. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I stood up to be walked to the confinement room and the string around my member tightened. My dick had quite literally hanged itself.

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Normal Guy, Hobgoblin, Black Jesus, and I sat on one bench across from Crazy Hercules, who inexplicably refused to stop staring at Normal Guy. I looked out of the tiny window in the door and saw two officers corralling a group of six middle-aged Asian women shouting loudly at each other, and when I turned back, Crazy Hercules had pinned Normal Guy against a wall with one hand and snatched away his lunch sack with the other. He threw Normal Guy back down into his seat, hand still on his shoulder, and smashed the sack lunch against the wall. Crazy Hercules then promised to kill every one of us, and I got the distinct feeling he was a man of his word.

I was literally frozen, stuck in a tiny room about to pee my pants with a tiny string slowly strangling my dick to death, watching a man about to get murdered by a psychotic mutant. Thanks for everything, mom. You did your best.

After about another awful 15 minutes, we were patted down once again and brought to the cell blocks. I was assigned a bunk right next to Black Jesus and directly under Hobgoblin, which I was less than happy about, but I needed to get that baggie off before my dick suffocated and/or exploded.

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I threw my blanket over my body and frantically started trying to untangle the knot around my now-numb penis. Fun fact: if your dong has been deprived of blood for a long enough time and then suddenly gets a huge rush of it, you get a boner faster than should be humanly possible, which is the exact opposite thing you want to happen when you're surrounded by a large group of men in jail.

Black Jesus had noticed my desperate fumbling and understandably asked what the hell I was doing. I briefly considered lying and saying that I was battering out a hasty orgasm, but I had to spend two days next to this guy, so I came clean. Surprisingly enough, he congratulated me on my drug-smuggling genius and offered me $50 and a ride home from jail on Sunday in exchange for two of my pills. From that point on, we were best friends.

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I will always remember the piss I took after removing the garrote from my penis. Not just because I had to go so bad, but also because it confirmed that my manhood could still function on the most basic level after being slowly choked out for several hours. Since then, things have been normal. My dick made a full recovery. I look back at the whole experience as a reminder of how much trouble you can get yourself into if you aren't careful, walking out to your own car in your own driveway. I don't smoke weed anymore, not because I have anything against it but because it clearly wasn't working out for me.

So there you go, kids. Don't do, just, any of that stuff up there.

Kevin occasionally writes stuff on the Internet. Want to learn more about Kevin's penis? Hit him up on Twitter!

For more insider perspectives, check out 5 Things Movies Get Wrong About Bank Heists (From a Guard) and 5 Adventures I Had as a Cam Girl With a Niche in Sex Puppets.

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