Blackhumouristpress's Blog

May 5, 2012

Hey Mickey!

Filed under: Ethnicity,humor,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 5:25 pm
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“Look at fucking Bernice.  You’re a fucking wizard at video games, aren’t you, Bernice?”

Mickey stood next to Bernie as he played a video game and nervously stared straight ahead at the screen.  One of the rockets got hit by fire and ended the game.  Bernie and his friend Saul tried to step away from the group that surrounded them but was unable to move.  Judas Priest blared through out the game room, which was full of teenage boys playing video games.  Mickey flicked Bernie behind the ear and then poked the Chicago Cubs logo on his baseball shirt.

“Bernice…  It’s fucking winter.  Don’t wear fucking white painter’s pants and a Cubs shirt when it’s snowing outside.  You know what?  You and your fucking girlfriend come outside for a moment.”

“We’re not leaving, Mickey,” said Bernie.

Martha, who was hanging on Mickey’s shoulder, laughed and weakly tried to persuade Mickey to just leave the two smaller boys alone.  She was enjoying the hazing.  Bullying is always a bit more funny when one is high and in a group of three or more.  Mickey and Martha were there with two friends Mathew and Mark.  In fact Mathew and Mark were sort of disciples of Mickey.  Mickey was the captain of the hockey team and his father was the coach.  Mickey’s father had a job lined up for Mickey, driving a beer truck just as soon as he graduated from high school.

Mickey, Martha and the disciples had just come from Mark’s basement where they took turns toking on a bong, listening to Rush.  They all became famished and went to eat hot dogs and cheese fries at a Greek fast food restaurant.  Mickey noticed Bernie and Saul through the window of the game room next door and decided that they would torment the two Jewish boys because they were Jewish, nerdy, small, timid and rich.

“Them fucking Jews run the world.  It’s a conspiracy.  You show me one poor Jew.  Bankers, lawyers, doctors, jewelers.  The name Jew is in Jewelry.  The old Jew who owns the liquor distribution company my old man works for, never leaves Miami.  He gets a big fat check each month and guys like my old man, run around making him rich.”

Mickey heard his father’s anti-Semitic rants over the years from his recliner, wearing a tank top, holding a beer after work from the time he could retain what he was hearing until he grew up and moved out of the house. Mickey grew up believing kids like Bernie and Saul were privileged and for that reason, teasing, bullying and terrorizing Jewish kids, was warranted.

“You two kikes strip down to your fucking underwear.  Leave that Cubs shirt over here next to those pants and you two Woody Allen looking motherfuckers…  Now get the fuck out of my site or I’ll tell the Nazis you were here.”

Bernie and Saul stripped down to their underwear and ran across the parking lot in their boots and white underwear and disappeared into the night.  Mickey went back to Martha’s house and had sex with her three times after getting high again while her parents obliviously slept.  Life in 1982 was great for Mickey and Martha.

 

Oh, Mickey, what a pity You don’t understand You take me by the heart When you take me by the hand Oh, Mickey, you’re so pretty Can’t you understand It’s guys like you, Mickey Oh, what you do, Mickey, do, Mickey Don’t break my heart, Mickey

Hey, Mickey

 

 

 

Bernard showed up at the door of a dilapidated home with weeds knee high in the front yard.  He pounded loudly on the door of the home with his bodyguard standing beside him.  Mickey answered the door in a stained white T-shirt that read Pabst Blue Ribbon.  He came to the door in a pair of underwear with rust stains near the side to where his cock pulled towards.  Mickey strained to adjust his eyes to the sunlight as he looked at two unfamiliar men who stood with suits on at the front steps.

“Hiya, Mick…  you mind if I come in? You really shouldn’t mind because I just purchased this fucking palace for back taxes.  It’s my home now and you and your family are now squatters.”

Mickey, who had been hounded by creditors regularly, tried to slam the door on Bernard and his large bald man.  Bernard’s bodyguard stopped the door from closing.  The two men forced their way into the living room and sat down on the couch.

“Let see, Mick.  You got laid off as an assistant deliveryman due to the fact that you lost your license for drunk driving, correct?  Look at this fucking hillbilly palace…  you probably got live coons living under the couches here, feeding on pizza crust that fell between the cushions.  Let me guess…  You married the beautiful Martha and spawned these inbred looking monsters I see wandering from room to room here.  They’re probably smoking your weed and watching goats fuck blond chicks on the internet while jacking off while you catch up on sleep on this here couch that smells like something the cat wouldn’t dare piss on.  It has been many years, Mick.  I’m in the driver’s seat now, you pathetic piece of shit…  You probably never knew this back in high school but karma has no expiration date. Now, I need to know when you’re moving or paying me rent.  I don’t care if you don’t have a job.  I own a Subway franchise.  You will work arm and arm with the Indians I have making more sandwiches in a day than you could shake a fucking stick at…  Practice asking if they want mustard on their sandwich.  You will fucking pay me rent or my associate here who is a war criminal from the Yugoslav War, will make your life less worth living than it currently is.  Now, if you decide you will not carry your end of the bargain, life will get a whole lot worse for you than it is now…  Oh and the rent just went up.  You can thank the president for that one.  Yes we can raise the rent.  Yes we can put your ass on the street.  Yes we can force you outside in your nut stained underwear if you’re not really fucking careful.  You thought you hated Jews back in the day?  Well now you really got a reason, my friend.”

Martha came into the room smoking a cigarette, with a T-shirt that said, “I’m sexy and I know it.”  Her breasts were at half-mast and it appeared as though her ass had deflated.  In a husky smoker’s voice, she smiled, cleared her throat and calmly posed a question to Bernard.

“Bernice…  Can’t we somehow work this whole thing out?”

At a well to-do nightclub in downtown Chicago near the large hotels that house conventioneers and businessman, Mickey dressed in black pants, white shirt and bow tie.  Mickey’s job was to hand paper towels to patrons in the men’s bathroom that had just relieved themselves before returning back to dance and drink.  A large patron among some very large people in these United States sat with his pants around his ankles in a stall and called out for help, unable to help himself up as he gasped for air and sweated profusely.  Mickey caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror helping the morbidly obese Jewish man with a yarmulke on his head, pull up his pants. Mickey was nauseated by the fresh scent of shit that had not been flushed away into the abyss.  Mickey could almost taste the breath of the large man who was sweating and panting as they both struggled to pull the man’s pants up and help him to his feet. The winded man asked Mickey his name as he stuffed a one-dollar bill into his shirt pocket condescendingly.

The obese man then recalled the old 1980′s syrupy; bubble gum hit by a woman named Toni Basil and began to serenade Mickey.

Hey, Mickey

Now when you take me by the hooves Who’s ever gonna know And every time you move I let a little more show, There’s something you can use so don’t say no, Mickey

April 30, 2012

The Gulf of Apathy

Filed under: humor,poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:36 am
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I want to look twenty-five forever

Malibu Pilates, a colonoscopy everything is good inside of me, behind me

Got passion, a sense of fashion waiting at Sears to see a real Kardashian

Its just mild anxiety about the complexity of the economy and the nosey neighbors next to me.  Dog piss on the rug, no eye contact or a hug from the wife, suburban life, bored offspring hate me but love to take Ecstasy.

A 600 lb woman on the screen, lean cuisine, P90X, mind blowing sex and people catching catfish with their hands.

More stars than grains of sand, universe growing, Serengeti wildebeest and plastic in the oceans and on the beach, deep wrinkle cream and cock enlarging potions.

Disney, history, mystery, military, unwrapping King Tut, developing a Brazilian butt

Juice, blend, chop, shop silver, sex toys, wealth without risk, Ru Paul and other chicks with dicks. My sleep number, look fit this summer.  Jimmy Kimmel, Jimmy swarggart, the roll of Erwin Rommel and a 12 disc set by Merl Haggard.

It is a virtual rodeo and a makeover, a subliminal take over with hidden messages masked as information and entertainment.  High definition low retention emptying minds and oozing radiation.  Televised real time closed caption of the rapture brought to you by your friends at BP- bridging the Gulf of Apathy.

April 19, 2012

I Feared For My Life

Filed under: humor,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:37 am
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When I met Sylvia back in the late nineties, it was in a hotel suite where other men stood around in Speedo swim trunks, waiting for their turn to writhe around on a rubber sheet, covered in extra virgin olive oil.

Sylvia was in perfect shape without a hint of fat on her body.  She emerged from the bedroom with rippling muscles and a healthy tan.  I paid my $100.00 to have my fifteen minutes on the mat while other men stood by for their turn and watched.  Yes, it is rather a bizarre fetish but most men have some sort of thing where they wear women’s underwear or like things shoved in their ass.  Mine is that I enjoy wrestling with women who are in perfect shape.

I offered to take Sylvia to dinner while she was in town.  We went to a sushi place and she ate eel and other seafood without the rice.  We drank some Japanese beer and went back to her hotel room and had the best sex of my life.  Everyday was better than the next.  Sylvia told me she loved me and wanted to be with me everyday of her life.  Sylvia suggested marriage and so we were married.

At first Sylvia forced a new diet on me that consisted of high protein and low fat.  I was forced to work out at least an hour a day.  Sylvia said that she did not want to be repulsed by a man who had bigger tits than her.  Sylvia’s breast actually became dome shaped, her chin became sharp and her voice got lower.  She went from 150 lbs on a 5’ 8 frame to nearly 200lbs.  All solid muscle.  Sylvia worked out six hours a day and then did hotel wrestling and porn so that she could make enough money to just work out and enter competitions.  Initially I was told that my friends were stupid and my family was holding me back and after several months she gave me a job squeezing fat out of ground beef for her lunches.  At lunch she would tell me what a big penis her ex-boyfriend had and how the guy could go all night.  She would talk about his muscles and how tough he was.  I finally had enough and said to her, “why don’t you go back to him?”  Later that day I was in the hospital with a broken arm.  Sylvia paid cash and told the doctor I was just very clumsy.  In the car on the way home, she looked at me with eyes that could kill and told me to not get smart again unless I really want to get hurt.

I never thought of myself as a wimp or a bitch but I truly was intimidated and afraid for my life living with a woman with Roid Rage.  The final straw was when we were discussing the legitimacy of wrestling.  Not the Olympic type but the kind where people get hit with chairs and forearms.  I made the mistake of saying it was phony.  She went to the bedroom, got a revolver that I didn’t know she had.  She pinned my on the ground and put the barrel of the gun in my mouth and told me to repeat what I said.  She then pistol whipped me and took me to the hospital.  Sylvia cried like a concerned wife and told the people in the emergency room that gangbangers in the park had attacked us.  Through her fake tears, she gritted her teeth and took her index finger and ran it across her throat as a way of reminding to keep my mouth shut.  I was admitted into the hospital after they suspected that I had internal bleeding in my head.  I was able to sneak into a service elevator and get away.  I’ve been in hiding now for a little over a month.  I want to thank The Life of Men for allowing me to share this story.  I now know after finding a discussion group for battered husbands that I am not alone.  I would not want this same thing to happen to any other man and yet I heard that Sylvia recently caused a man in Boston to have to get emergency surgery to remove a vegetable from his anus.  There are warning signs.  Abusers can be charming and loving as they can be jealous and violent.  I hope my story can help other men to realize that they are not alone.

March 29, 2012

Delerium at 36,000 Feet

Filed under: humor,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 10:45 pm
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Terrance had been a pilot in Vietnam and then commercially for Eastern and Pan-Am and a slew of other airlines before they went under.  Terrance had a strong libido for a man in his sixties.  The Asian route was his favorite because he could hit the boat cruises with underage waifs where they would drink and tryout their broken English on him and then they’d consummate the meeting on a mattress somewhere behind curtains.

 

Marriage had been one of those things that just seemed wrong one day to Terrance upon watching an animal show late one night with a glass of Scotch in his hand.  The male animals disappeared for most of the year except when it became time to mate.  When it was time to mate, a new mate or any mate was acceptable.  The male species would clear it’s head and then take off to do what guys do when they’re together.  Terrance thought to himself while almost fully crocked that humans had it all wrong.  After watching the animal program, he woke his wife and told her that the most natural and correct thing for him to do was to spread his seed anywhere and everywhere and if she wanted to remain his wife, that would be alright.  It wasn’t alright and they soon parted.  Terrance couldn’t have been happier.  The thrill of falling in love for an evening is what Terrance loved most about life.  The variation and selection of different sizes and colors of the women.  Hi, my name is Terrance and I fly airplanes…  Can I buy you a drink?

 

                Out of the blue, Terrance developed high blood pressure.  Terrance’s parents had high blood pressure and it was a matter of time before he would also.  At the age of sixty two, Terrance began taking high blood pressure medication and then promptly stopped when he realized that it prevented him from gaining and maintaining an erection.  Before long, the high blood pressure killed off his kidneys to do their work.  Terrance had to begin dialysis which meant he would have to retire from work.  Alcohol and a mixture of several medications had a strange effect on Terrance.  He constantly felt as though he was forgetting something and found himself often sitting motionless or hunting for things that he did not even know what it was that he was looking for.  Sort of rummaging for the sake of rummaging in a sock drawer and then getting lost re-reading old love letters from women that he dated for a short period of time.  All those that worked with Terrance knew that the end of his working days were drawing near but nobody realized that something seemed to be off mentally until one sunny day.  When the clouds rolled in.

 

                “Whatever happened to wooden coffee stirs?  If I wanted a fucking plastic one, I would have dipped my pen in and just stirred the creamer with that.  Do you have any idea, Mr…  What’s your name?”

                “Thomas.  It’s Rich…”

                “Rich…  short for Richard.  I remember when men could call themselves Dick without batting an eye.  Things were happy and gay and it had nothing to do with wanting to corn hole another man.  Things have gotten so dirty and twisted over the years.  We can’t blame it all on Hippies and Nixon, can we?  I mean something happened somewhere that sent a message to men that it was okay to wear frayed jeans and have their goddamn gut sticking out.  Someone sent a message to you young guys that it is okay to dress like pigs and let yourself go.  One way or another, you’ll still get ass and you don’t need to look or act like a gentleman.  Just take a look at these people, Dick.  We are on a plane going to a major city in the United States.  Where did the glamour go in travel?  Women in smart pill box hats and a matching ensemble that hugged her ass just so, so that you had to use your imagination about what you might find under that knee length skirt.  A man in a suit, a man with a hat. Now it’s ball caps all over this goddamn plane.  Who the hell here is playing ball right now?  I don’t give a fuck if you want Ohio State to win some basketball tournament.  That is no reason to parade around like a school boy when you’re middle age…  Is any of this reaching you, Richard?  Wooden coffee stirs is just part of the issue here.  You want to save a tree so you make plastic coffee stirs just to release toxins into your coffee.  It isn’t enough that some sick cow is being jacked up with steroids and antibiotics so that it can produce enough milk, cheese and beef to feed the masses of people living in this goddamn land.  Is it any wonder women today have more facial hair than they used to and young men need something to support their tits?  How is that eight year girls have hips and boobs?  Not enough people are worried about what is really going on here.  You got a job to do and I don’t want to tie you up.  I will have my coffee after you find me a goddamn wooden coffee stir and then we will make it San Diego without incident.”

 

Rich hunted around and even asked passengers if by chance they might have purchased a coffee in the airport and happened to have a wooden coffee stir.  The announcement made passengers uneasy.  Richard’s effeminate voice quavered and cracked as he spoke due more to the fact that he was getting over a cold.  People began to wonder what kind of a strange question was that to ask.  A large hum rose in the plane.  Terrance told his co-pilot to take over as he opened the cockpit door and stormed towards the passengers like an angry parent.

                “I don’t know what is going on here but I can tell you that if anyone has any strange notions about overtaking this plane for any sort of reason or belief, I can tell you that you will meet your maker sooner than later.  I’ve been closer to death than this on a random Tuesday so I will tell you calmly now to pipe down and sleep, read a magazine or re-read your text messages and don’t make things hard for yourself or Dick here.  His job is to make your trip as facile as possible…  Do we have an understanding, people?”

                Terrance suddenly felt flush and he could feel his pulse in his eyes.  He plopped himself back down in his chair, looked at his co-pilot and calmly told him that they needed to go back.  The co-pilot asked Terrance to elaborate on where they were going back to and for what.

                “Joe, you never served.  Your generation only served themselves.  If I say we have to go back, it is because it is the right thing to do between one human being and another.  You wouldn’t want to be left in the lurch would you, Joe?  You probably threw a fit when your mother wasn’t waiting in the minivan for you when soccer practice was over.  You cannot appreciate waiting.  Try to step outside yourself for a second, Joe and you’ll understand where I’m coming from…”

                Terrance grabbed  the microphone, flipped the  switches and made an announcement to all the passengers.  Terrance sounded sane and scripted accept for what it was that was coming out of his mouth.

                “Attention, this is the captain speaking.  We are cruising at an altitude of 36,000 feet and have a strong enough tail wind to get us to Saigon early.  Sit back and relax and we should be arriving in Vietnam ahead of schedule.  I have taken off the fasten seat belt sign.  Be sure to keep your belt on incase of any unexpected turbulence while seated.”

                There were several doctors that evaluated Terrance including psychiatrists and the FBI.  Everyone came to the same conclusion that the perfect storm occurred within Terrance’s body to create a delirium capable of making the frightening situation what it was for passengers and the crew: High blood pressure medication, Scotch and Viagra.

February 29, 2012

Amigos in America

Filed under: humor,Mixed Race,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:58 pm
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            The Ortega’s, no relation to Daniel Ortega of Nicaragua at least none that any of them know, came from a small town in Mexico.  The town that the Ortega’s come from in Mexico is not one that American vacationers would flock to overeat, over drink and generally over indulge in.  After the birth of his third child, Ronaldo Reagan Ortega, Javier packed up his family and crossed the Rio Grande and made his way up to the city of Chicago.

 The idea to move to the United States came to Javier when his wife gave birth to a sandy haired blue eyed boy that he named after the United States President that he admired so much.  Javier thought that it was fantastic that a man, who made pretty bad movies, could go on to be a governor of a state and then become president of one of the wealthiest and most powerful countries in the world.  Way back in Javier’s ancestry, there was blond haired, blue eyed German man who was his great-great grandfather who had immigrated to Mexico.  Javier took the recessive trait that surfaced in his son as a sign from god- go live with the white people in America.

Javier washed cars, drove trucks and cleaned tables as an undocumented illegal alien.  He did an outstanding job of saving money to help his children as they got older.  There was Socorro who was tall and thin with straight and long jet black hair with high cheek bones.  Socorro was the eldest and the rebel among the three children. Socorro had moved to Los Angeles and married a Low-rider gangster who gave up gangbanging to customize classic cars for other Low- riders.  Socorro had two children and lived in a small house not far from LAX airport in Los Angeles.  Nina was the middle child who was quiet and always there to help family at all times.  Nina bought a home with her husband in Chicago and moved her parents in with them.

Ronaldo was handsome and fair skinned.  He resembled those European actors in the  Spanish speaking novellas and had the ability to blend in with Anglo looking people without a second look.  Ronaldo was an outstanding student that finished medical school, became a citizen of the United States and had a birthday all in the same month. 

Ronaldo had a girlfriend named Jennifer who was a complete physical package in the eyes of most men.  She was pretty on an athletic frame with a nice set of breasts and perky posterior.  Jennifer was high maintenance among women who are considered high maintenance.  Jennifer had to have all the passwords to Ronaldo’s emails, Facebook account and cell phone.  Jennifer chose all of Ronaldo’s clothes, told him where to go to medical school, what car to buy.  Slowly over time, all of Ronaldo’s childhood friends were slowly phased out and those with money and title moved in to become Ronaldo’s newly sanitized friends.  Ronaldo’s family said very little about their concern that Jennifer, a rich sheltered woman was reinventing the pliable Ronaldo into something that was not Latino.  The family’s fear was that they were going to lose their brother and son.

Jennifer rented a coach bus to take Ronaldo on a tour of his thirty favorite places in Chicago with his newly adopted friends.  Jennifer had planned on renting out a banquet hall for the celebration of becoming a citizen, a doctor and having his thirtieth birthday.  Ronaldo asked Jennifer to have the party at the culmination of the six hour tour on the coach bus at his sister Nina’s house so that he could see his family for his birthday.

Nina and their parents didn’t feel slighted that Jennifer did not invite them to go along on the coach bus to tour places that she felt were Ronaldo’s favorite places.  Socorro had driven in with her husband for the celebration in a sharp 1964 Chevrolet Impala that was lowered three inches from the ground and painted a sparkly red color with spoke wheels and a hand painted sign on the back window that said, “Chavo Y Socorro”.  Socorro voiced her displeasure about Jennifer’s controlling nature to her parents and sister but promised to hold her tongue.

At a few minutes after six in the evening.  Thirty loud, drunk people filed out of the coach bus and into the home on Nina.  The crowd was mostly white and well to do.  The new friends of Ronaldo devoured all the food and drank more alcohol.  They were drunk, loud and obnoxious.  Nina, Socorro and their parents looked out of place in their own home among the partying people.  Jennifer, who was wearing a tight black dress, climbed on top of a coffee table in the living room and banged a spoon against her beer bottle until everyone stopped talking and listened to her.  Jennifer sucked in her quivering lips and put her right hand against her chest.  She began to cry as she gave her dedication speech to the entire room.

“I just want to say that I am so proud of the love of my life Ronaldo who has come so far from where he was to where he is now.  From a little town that nobody ever heard of in Mexico to become an American citizen just like all of us.  Very soon Ronaldo will do his residency at Children’s Hospital here in Chicago.  I want to thank all of you for being here to celebrate a special time for both Ronaldo and I…  I really love you all so very much…”

The crowd cheered and chanted Ronaldo’s name.  Friends raised shot glasses and bottles of Mexican beer.  The room had the feel of a frat party that was about to get out of hand.  Drunken urban professionals showed up at Nina’s home to eat and drink more.  Socorro could no longer hold back.  Socorro stood up on her chair and banged a fork against a bottle of beer.  A few men whistled as the shapely woman with blue eye liner stood up to say a few words to the group of friends.

“I want my brother to know that his family has always been proud of him and have always known he is special.  He is special not because he looks like Europeans but because he has a good heart.  I hope as he enters and is accepted into the world of Caucasian people, that he always remembers that little town he was from in Mexico that I have heard of as has my sister and my parents.  I hope my brother keeps in mind to be American does not mean to not be Mexican.  I hope my brother remembers that while blacks were once sent to the back of the bus in favor of white people during this black history month, Mexicans today weren’t invited or even allowed on the bus.  I hope you all enjoyed the authentic Mexican food you ate today and will be considerate and clean up your mess before you leave because these Mexicans who live here are not servants or busboys today.  I hope you all keep in mind when you leave here and are safely back in your safe suburbs among all the people who look just like you…  The day is coming when you will all have to recognize that we are here, we are growing and we are not going anywhere.  Every time you see a nice front lawn, every time you eat at a restaurant, think about the people who make that possible…  Think about that when you’re drinking your Coronas on Cinco de Mayo and think about that now that you’ve adopted my blue eyed brother as one of your own…  I ask you all to raise your glasses and repeat after me…  Viva Mexico, putas.”

And they lived happily ever after.  Separately.

February 1, 2012

Beyond Good and Evil- The Hockey Coach

Filed under: Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:07 pm
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The Oshawa Whackers had a season unlike any professional team had ever had in any sport at anytime.  They went from a dismal last place finish last year in the Ontario Hockey League to a nearly undefeated season.  The franchise had to thank Otto Werner for the turn of events.

            Otto was born and raised in Kitchener, Ontario and came from a long line of Germans going back to Prussia.  Otto’s grandfather jokingly told Otto at a young age that their family was related to Bismarck and for that reason Otto was named after his great, great uncle by marriage on his mother’s side; Otto Von Bismarck. 

            At a young age, Otto believed he was born special because he was German and a descendant of the man who was responsible for unifying most of the German-speaking people.

 Otto like all young Canadian boys, learned to play hockey and he excelled at it.  Otto made it all the way to the NHL and did well at the top level of the hockey world until he was forced to quit due to concussions.  Otto had well over five solid concussions during his two years of NHL hockey.  Since leaving the NHL, Otto became a coach who knocked around all over Canada at various levels.  Otto coached for a few years at Waterloo University and it was while he was at the school that he received a BA in philosophy.  At the age of fifty, Otto was the picture of health and virility.  Otto ate well, played hockey five days a week, lifted weights, listened to Wagner and studied Friedrich Nietzsche as if he was a god and that is sort of funny since Nietzsche claimed god was dead or worse, never was.

            Before the championship game with a 3-0 lead over Guelph after at 74-6 season, Otto made love twice to a young female student who came from a farming community in western Ontario.  She read passages of Nietzsche while Otto did pushups naked.  Rather than touch his chin to the ground, when his flaccid cock hit the ground, Otto would spring back up.  Melanie, with her exposed swollen breasts, full of life, sat on the bed reading a poem out loud which was written by Richard Wagner while Ride of the Valkyries blared on the an actual phonograph.

                        Is this still German?

                        Out of a German heart, this sultry screeching?

                        A German body, this self-laceration?

                        German, this priestly affectation,

                        The insense-perfumed sensual Preaching?

            Otto stopped Melanie who was not reading the poem as if it was a question but rather a statement.  Otto popped two pain pills to stop what he described as broken glass pressing against his brain.  Without the pain pills, it felt like shards of glass were digging into his skull.  After a glass of German white wine and two pain pills, rough sex and a shower, Otto left for the arena.  The young men filed in and began stretching out and taping their sticks.  Otto entered wearing a suit with his hands in his pockets.  His black hair was slicked back and his eyes made him look as if he was somewhere else all together.  The players thought their coach was a whack job and that moniker would be fitting for a hockey coach of a team called The Whackers.

            “Between good and evil…  Lays victory.  Several thousand people from this town will come today to see a victory…  A man who says, “I like this, I take this for my own and want to protect it and defend it against anybody”.  This is what I have sought in each and every one of you all season long.  You trusted me and I believed in you.  With so much starvation in the world, what will this victory ultimately mean in the larger scheme of things?  Well, not a fucking thing actually to anyone but us.  You become a permanent statistic in a book and on a cup so that when we leave this place, it will be noted that on this day, we did something that meant something to several thousand residents of this town and to every man who put everything into achieving something tangible and something memorable.  We are less than tiny grains of sand in a cosmos we cannot begin to grasp and yet I must tell you that of all the things in this life that you could undertake, playing ice hockey is among the noblest of occupations.  It is a secret we hold dear to our hearts and is our national treasure.  It is more than a sport, it is life itself.  For those who toil at menial tasks for a pittance to sustain themselves, they always come back to the arena to honour and appreciate those who have mastered the art of working together for a common goal and a greater good which is hockey.  Every attainment, every step forward follows from courage, from hardness against oneself.  There is an innocence in admiration; it is found in those to whom it has never yet occurred that they, too might be admired someday…  Simply put, finish off these suffering Guelph bastards.  They couldn’t hold your jocks at a Sunday mass.  You all are aware of where you stand in the history of modern day sports if you win this game.  Where we go from here is not as important today as what we can and will achieve…  Fucking bury them and then say a prayer.”

            The Whackers won handily and the coach who was a cross between Adolph Hitler and Vince Lombardi, quietly slipped away during all the celebrating.  At a hotel off route 401 that runs from north of Toronto to Windsor, a fire broke out.  This fire was a magnificent blaze that took firemen from several small towns to help extinguish.  News reporters arrived at the scene to interview those that were able to escape.  One of the survivors was a man by the name of Otto Werner.  He wore a white robe and had his arm around two young women that looked young enough to be his daughters only they weren’t.  The news reporter recognized Otto and asked Otto if he was relieved that he made it out alive and then asked what he was doing in a hotel in a town that he lived in. Otto never took his arms off of the young women that were shy in front of the cameras.  Otto smiled and grasped the shoulders of the two young women and then kissed them both on their cheeks before speaking. 

            “Around the hero, everything turns to tragedy…”

January 16, 2012

A Letter From My Son’s Hockey Coach or Darwin Was Right

Filed under: humor,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:42 am
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Parents, Please be advised starting with our next game (Jan. 21st) I will go back to having 5 defence and 9 forwards. This will address any issues we have had with trying to keep ice time balanced during a game. In the event we are short players for a game I will do the best I can as a volunteer coach to try and keep it as fair as possible to all our players. This means I will roll the lines to get as even as possible skating time for each child, regardless of how other teams “match” our lines . TRANSLATION- YOU SIGNED UP FOR PARK DISTRICT ICE HOCKEY.  THIS IS NOT AAA OR AA AND SO THE PARK DISTRICT HAS PUT A GUN TO MY HEAD BECAUSE OF YOUR COMPLAINTS AND SO I HAVE AGREED TO PLAY EVER KID AS EQUITABLY AS POSSIBLE.  IF ANY OF YOUR KIDS EVER MAKE A AAA OR AA LEVEL, YOU WILL SEE WHAT INEQUITABLE IS ALL ABOUT DESPITE THE FACT THAT THE COST FOR YOUR CHILD TO PLAY BETWEEN SEPTEMBER AND APRIL IS EQUIVALENT TO BUYING A USED AUTOMOBILE EACH YEAR OR TAKING A HAWAIIAN VACATION FOR A MONTH.  KEEP THAT IN MIND WHEN YOU ARE CRYING.

 It has always been my intent to try and keep everyone’s ice time as close as possible while trying to keep competitive with other teams. It is not an easy task to try and get the kids off the ice for a shift change while play is going on. I am always open to suggestions that any one might have , about ANYTHING . If there are any parents that would like to assist in working the bench during a game I would be more than happy to oblige.  TRANSLATION- I WILL GIVE YOUR FAT ASS A STOP WATCH AND TELL YOU THAT YOU NEED TO GIVE EACH PLAYER ON THE TEAM EXACTLY 15 MINUTES OF PLAYING TIME AND YOU CANNOT CHEAT AND GIVE YOUR BORED, UNINSPIRED, SPOILED, TALENTLESS LITTLE BRAT, ONE SECOND MORE OF PLAYING TIME THAN ANY OTHERS.  WHEN YOU THROW YOUR HANDS UP AND TELL ME IT IS IMPOSSIBLE, I WILL PAT YOU ON THE BACK, GIVE YOU A HAPPY MEAL AND RECOMMEND THAT YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR THE DURATION OF THE SEASON.

 Please contact me with any concerns you may have regardless of what they might be . Don’t forget that we follow the 24 hour rule for any complaints to any of the coaches. The intent of that rule is to prevent any “heated” discussions that may cause hard feelings , not to give you time to forget the problem . Level heads solve more problems than hot ones ! Hockey is a journey , not a destination- TRANSLATION- I HAVE A MILLION OTHER THINGS GOING ON IN MY LIFE OTHER THAN COACHING THIS TEAM FOR NO MONEY.  I DECIDED TO COACH THIS TEAM BECAUSE MY NIECE IS THE ONLY GIRL PLAYING ON AN ALL BOY SQUAD AND WANTED TO ENSURE THAT HER EXPERIENCE WAS AS POSITIVE AS POSSIBLE GIVEN THAT YOUR HORMONE DRIVEN LITTLE FUCKS ARE THINKING ABOUT LINING HER UP A WHOLE HELL OF A LOT MORE THAN PUTTING A HIT ON AN OPPOSING PLAYER DURING A GAME.  WITH THAT IN MIND, WE CAN DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS AFTER 24 HOURS SO THAT I AM NOT TEMPTED TO ASK YOU TO STEP OUT TO THE PARKING LOT AFTER THE NEXT PRACTICE.  I’D ALSO LIKE TO RECOMMEND THAT YOUR SON TAKE UP GOLF BECAUSE THERE IS A LOT LESS PASSING IN GOLF AND HE WON’T HAVE TO FEAR BEING HIT UNLESS HIS ASS IS STANDING ON THE FAIRWAY.  I AM FULLY AWARE THAT YOU FEEL YOU COULD COACH THE TEAM A WHOLE LOT BETTER THAN ME.  BASED ON THE PARENT/PLAYER GAME THAT WE HAD BEFORE CHRISTMAS, I WOULD HAVE TO CONCLUDE THAT YOU NEVER PLAYED AND ALTHOUGH YOU HAVE SEASON TICKETS TO SEE AN NHL TEAM, I SUSPECT YOU ARE WATCHING THE BEER VENDOR MORE THAN STUDYING THE GAME ENOUGH TO VOICE AN OPINION WORTH CONSIDERING.  REMEMBER WHAT DEAN WORMER ONCE SAID IN THE MOVIE ANIMAL HOUSE?  “Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son” - DON’T BE THAT PERSON.

 I hope it will become a life long love your child can someday share with their own kids . There are many skills he will learn along the way . Some children pick up the game easier than others, that doesn’t mean they can’t all have the same amount of fun. See you at the rink- Coach Bob-TRANSLATION- YOUR KID WILL HAVE KIDS ONE DAY PROVIDED THERE ISN’T OCEAN FRONT PROPERTY IN KANSAS WITHIN THE NEXT TWENTY YEARS AND WE GO OUT LIKE THE DINOSAURS.  I HOPE YOUR CHILD REMEMBERS YOUR SCREAMING AND BERATING YOU GAVE HIM FROM THE STANDS AND SHUTS HIS FUCKING MOUTH AND JUST SITS AND WATCHES THE GAME.  YOUR SON WILL NOT BE IN THE NHL UNLESS HE CHOOSES TO WORK AS AN USHER AND SIT PEOPLE AT AN ARENA.  THAT IS AS CLOSE AS HE WILL GET TO WORKING AT AN NHL ARENA.  I WOULD SUGGEST YOU ALL READ UP ON DARWIN.  YOU MAY GET BORED AND SINCE YOU REALLY DON’T READ MUCH OR UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE READING, PLEASE READ RE-READ.  I WOULD STICK TO THE INHERITENCE OF ACQUIRED CHARACTERISTICS.  THIS WILL EXPLAIN A LOT TO YOU ABOUT NATURAL SELECTION, SURVIVAL OF THE FITEST AND THAT PHYSIOLOGICAL CHANGES ACQUIRED OVER THE LIFE OF AN ORGANISM MAY BE TRANSMITTED TO OFFSPRING- FURTHER TRANSLATION- WE CANNOT PICK OUR PARENTS.  IF YOU ARE UNATHLETIC AND SLOW, DON’T EXPECT TOO MUCH FROM YOUR SON…  WHATEVER…  I’LL SEE YOU AT THE RINK- COACH BOB

 

December 6, 2011

Inheritance Day

Filed under: Detroit,Ethnicity,humor,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:33 pm
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“Before we get started, I just wanted to give each of you a calendar for 2012 from our law firm as a token of our sincere condolences regarding the death of your loved one. It has our web address, email addresses and phone numbers in the event that any of you would require our services going forward… Now then I will need a check made out to our firm in the amount of $375.00 for the consultation that occurred between our office and your mother prior to her death back at the beginning of the month.  We generally bill on the last day of the month and with your mother’s passage on the 28th of November, it would have been impossible to bill and collect prior to her passing.  I just want to explain our billing process so that everyone here is aware of the charges prior to the time today…”

            Maricella DiMaria Woechichowski passed on Wednesday in her sleep in her modest frame house in Hamtramck, Michigan, just north of the city of Detroit.  Mary, as she was called, arrived on Ellis Island at the age of two and eventually migrated with her family to Detroit.  Around the time of World War II was when married Maricella married Wochek.  Wochek was a hard working weekend alcoholic who ignored his Italian beauty for the most part.  They had a daughter by the name of Cynthia in 1945 and then James in 1960.  Both children of Maricella were present at the attorney’s office on Monday morning following the wake Friday night and the funeral on Saturday.

            Jimmy sat slouched, chewing his thumb nail in a pair of faded and torn blue jeans with a pair of black high top gym shoes.  He wore a black leather coat and a black t shirt with the name of his band emblazoned in white.  Jimmy slipped off his jacket to be comfortable, showing off an array of skulls, grim reaper tattoos as well as winged angels.  Everyone studied the name of the band, Death March written in gothic, Nazi Germany script.  Jimmy and his girlfriend Zanna never figured out why Cindy, her husband and the attorney, stared at the two of them. 

            Zanna looked like Jimmy from behind in that she wore similar jeans and had an identically black dye job on shoulder length feathered hair.  Zanna wore a brightly colored roach clip from her hair and suede boots that came up to her knees.  She was Albanian with a thick New York City/Brooklyn accent and had been with Jimmy for three years after seeing one of his concerts and buying a skull necklace off of him from his crafts display that accompanied band t-shirts and CDs.  Zanna glared back at Cynthia and her husband as she chewed strawberry bubble gum, careful never to smear the lip gloss from her lips.  Cynthia’s husband Tom stealthily admired Zanna’s firm fake tits that filled out her baby doll T-shirt quite well.

            Cindy looked old enough to be her brother’s mother.  She looked matronly even though she never gave birth to a child.  Cindy had always been in love with Dachshunds so Tom bought her a ranch so that Cindy could breed Dachshunds on the gulf side of Florida.  Cindy’s husband worked as a personal assistant to a televangelist and motivational speaker.  They had two homes in Florida, six cars, a boat and forty Dachshunds.  They had a team of undocumented Mexican helpers watching over the brood of dogs as they made the pilgrimage to Detroit on interstate 75 in their RV from Tampa Bay. 

Jimmy loved skulls and singing about death and Satan and Cindy was part of the Evangelical women’s group at Church that helped raise money for born-again single mothers in Senegal.  Jimmy screamed incoherent lyrics through an octave divider that lowered his voice and distorted it so that nobody could detect that he had no pitch while banging distorted chords on a Flying V guitar.  His fans were angry suburban boys in their teens.  Cindy sang in the women’s choir at church while playing an organ.  Most of the songs she sang were two hundred years old.  Jimmy never moved out of his parent’s home and Cindy moved out at the age of twenty-three.  After three failed marriages, Cindy found god and a wealthy man.  Jimmy never married but had a slew of fragile relationships that one might experience in junior high.  Jimmy believes that Zanna is a keeper.

            “Ok…  So James will be given title to the home in Hamtramck and everything in it as well as the 1987 Lincoln Continental and Cindy will receive $352,000.00 that are in certificates of deposit.  The following messages are to be read to each of you prior to signing any documentation…  Jimmy, you were always such a good boy but so dumb in many ways.  You graduated high school in 1978 and never grew up.  The music you play hurts people’s ears.  You wear clothes that nobody wears anymore and have a haircut that makes you look like an ugly woman.  You got this dog walking thing that you started in Gross Pointe and I think it shows that you are worried a little bit for your future.  Don’t waste all your money on Marijuana.  I know you still sit up in your room and smoke Marijuana.  It is no secret.   After thirty five years of smelling it in my house, I have become accustomed to the distinct odor.  You’re 51 years old and still go to those shows with high school kids, play video games and do drugs.  It is time to grow up.  This New York girl you got now is nothing but a user.  You want some companionship and like your poppa used to say; a piece of ass is nothing but a drain on your life.  You get her pregnant and you are going to regret it.  I’m guessing in her early forties that she could still have a few.  You were always good to me and took care of me despite the fact that you had no ambition.  Never any back talk.  You were a good boy.  You get the house.  I paid the taxes for the next two years.  You have to make enough money and put away for utilities and taxes.  You got to cut the lawn and take out the trash.  Nobody will tell you to do that no more…  Now then, Cindy…  You were an angry child who blamed me for not leaving your father years ago but then went on to marry three men who were angry drunks.  You hated life for not being able to have children.  You hated Detroit so much that you could never come to see me.  I would call you and you would never answer.  I would get blanket Christmas cards addressed to everyone you knew with all those Dachshunds dressed up like reindeer every year with some kind of a re-cap of your life with Carl and all those dogs.  You could never just write me a personal card, it always had to be some long winded thing about you and dogs and your women’s group and about some people you don’t even know in Africa.  Did you really dislike me that much?  You traveled to Alaska in an RV but could never make it to see your mother in Michigan.  You use religion as a crutch for your great unhappiness.  You were a good looking girl with a scowl on her face and have become a lumpy senior citizen with a permanent frown.  I want to thank you for coming to my funeral if you in fact made it and hope that your dogs all cry at your funeral along with the people you’ve never met in Africa.  I suspect you’ll die and a few people at that Protestant Church will sing a few songs and say a few nice things for you and then they’ll have coffee cake and punch and they will need to try and figure out who will play the organ at the services going forward. Sadly, we are all replaceable. My only goal in life was to be a good wife and a good mother.  Once you two grew up, I realized I missed the boat on the most important thing in life which was to make myself happy. 

            So you sat in a foreign Catholic Church in Detroit and listened to some young fellow say some nice things about an old lady he never knew.  Something about god calling his flock home and so on.  While this was all going on, you were probably taking a head count and were wondering what it was going to cost to feed all those people you didn’t know.  For this reason, I want you to have all my money that was really saved by your father who saved every extra cent and never did anything with that money.  We never went anywhere or saw anything.  Money should make you happy, Cynthia.  The only home you’ve ever known should be a comfort to you, Jimmy.  Alright.  I did my job as a wife and as a mother.  You kids were not easy and your father was a bastard but I made it through.  Getting a job seating people at a restaurant in Greektown was probably the best thing that ever happened to me.  I sat trapped in the house my whole life and then when your father passed, I got a job seating people. They asked if I was Greek and I told them that as a Sicilian. I looked Greek.  That was good enough for them.  I met so many people over the last twenty five years.  I met some really nice people and some not so nice.  I met old and young, rich and poor.  People of all kinds of colors and shades.  If I had to do it all over, I would do it differently as would most people.  There is still time on the clock for you both.  Figure out what makes you happy and just be happy.  Happiness is all there really is.  You should not die unhappy because that would truly be sad.  Alright then, enjoy the gifts and don’t squander them.  I had a good life.  Momma loves you.

November 12, 2011

The Beat Your Ass Cafe

Filed under: Detroit,Ethnicity,humor,poem,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 11:49 pm
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Patrice Fort was born and raised in a really small town that most people never heard of in Alberta.  For those of you in the states, Alberta is a province, which is sort of like a state except that it is not a state.  The Fort family slowly moved from the Plaines of Abraham near Quebec City and over the years kept moving west like the Mormons in search of a new town called Springfield.  The Forts wound up in no place Alberta.

Fort, if you know the French language, means strong and Patrice was the epitome of a Cro-Magnon man of the modern age.  Patrice was a hair over six feet tall and weighed 250 lbs.  Patrice was a solid mass of muscle like a human pit-bull.  At a young age, Patrice learned that his ice hockey skills were mediocre at best.  Patrice was not fast and did not make the best decisions on the ice nor did he have the best shot.  Patrice was able to fight and from the age of thirteen, Patrice never lost a fight.

The thing that scared people most about Patrice when they were faced with fighting him was that there was no anger or malice.  It was just something he was born and bred to do and so he would pummel opponents who messed with the premier players on whatever team he happened to be playing on.  It was during juniors that life suddenly changed for Patrice.

Patrice’s Quebec junior team had gone south to New York City to play in a tournament sponsored by some bank that no longer exists in the states.  Patrice had never been to a city as large as New York and had never imagined so much humanity crammed into such a small space in a place like Manhattan.  Patrice went into a Starbucks and ordered a tall hot chocolate and watched the unique people that walked down the sidewalk near Times Square.   From the Starbucks window, for Patrice it was like watching a freak show at the circus. There were so many different types of people, in varying sizes and shapes. An older woman of about sixty years of age came up and spoke to Patrice in a way he had never heard before.  Even though the woman was older, she was shapely and confident.

“Many years have come and gone man and you’re one of the last relics of the Neanderthal period, man.  All swelled up with muscles and I suppose you never took one supplement… Man, dig that crazy tune.”

Herbie Hancock was playing Cantaloupe Island over the speakers in the Starbucks.  The woman put her hand on Patrice’s large forearm and closed her eyes as the song played.  Patrice looked at the strange woman and sort of dug the tune that softly played.

“People are always saying that this or that is the shit.  I’m here to tell you that this is the true shit, man.  You weren’t around when this shit was devised.  People were swinging to Benny Goodman and then cats like Herbie came round and opened people’s eyes to music that could speak without words.  1964, we all thought the world would end, man.  Kennedy killed and a cowboy with his hands on the nuclear button, man.  Beatles came and what did they say?  They said too much but listen to this here, man.  I know you can feel it, cave man,  baby…  I bet you’re hung like a horse.”

It was the first time that Patrice had ever had sex with a woman and the woman was older than his own mother and twice as shapely.  There were very few sags and lumps on the old Beatnik woman. They made love, if you want to call it that, several time over the course of an afternoon while listening to cool Jazz and hearing the woman read Beat Poetry by Ginsberg and Kerouac.  Patrice left the small basement apartment in Manhattan and was never the same.

As the years went on, teammates came to understand that Patrice was a bit out there but they respected the difference.  And wouldn’t respect a man who could kill them with his bare hands.  On planes and trains, Patrice listened to Coltrane, Miles Davis and Thelonius Monk through earphones and wrote poetry.

What colour is blue when the sky is gray.  Walk down the streets of Detroit like I came from Mars, come to visit bars full of coulorful coloured folk and they think they know me because the press wants to own me, ride me, pride me like a pony and it’s phony.  Won’t eat gluten. I’m free like Putin who wants to keep Russia from anarchy after the fall of The Wall and Soviet dynamo.  The Red Army Team came to town when I was young.  Ate biscuits and drank coffee in a vast land.  I followed the road from Alberta to everywhere, man.  Everywhere is nowhere and yet I’m somewhere between where I should be and where I am.  Sit in the shade  sipping wine no words to this Monk tune that rolls through my mind.  If the colour blue is true, I hold out hope for me and you…  Coltrane, last train try in vain…  Gonna sit outside in Portugal or Spain and write a few words on the balcony in the rain…  Rinse and repeat that, Cat.

 

Now to you and I, words strung together such as this meant little or nothing.  A long stream of unconsciousness.  Patrice was traded from Phoenix, to San Jose to Boston and then went to Nashville and landed in Detroit at minimum wage for the NHL.  The Detroit Red Wings were a finesse team that really did not need a lug or a goon to go out and fight to protect the true hockey players of the team.  The fighters were an outdated necessity from days gone by of clutch and grab hockey a la Philadelphia in the 1970’s.  Detroit grabbed Patrice and never really played him until one day against Chicago, a heated rival who happened to be winning the game and taunted the Detroit team.  The Detroit coach, Mike Babcock, nodded to Patrice, who on his first shift, beat up two Chicago players and mistakenly punched a referee.  From that point on, Patrice had a home in the hearts of Detroit Red Wing fans.

Most people don’t know the story behind the finger snapping when Patrice takes the ice.  To those from out of town or watching on Versus, it may sound like the theme from the Adams Family is being played.  Before long, large groups of Beatnik poetry types who frequented Patrice’s café in the Detroit suburb of Hamtramck, began going to Detroit Red Wing games, wearing jerseys that had the name FORT on the back.  Scruffy faced young men who appeared to be anti-sports, showed up wearing Red Wing jerseys, snapping their fingers violently whenever Patrice got on the ice or fought.  Before long, everyone got in on the act.  It was like throwing octopus on the ice.

After home games in Hamtramck on Jos Campau there is a Beatnik café where people drink and read poetry to Jazz.  It is called, Beat Your Ass Café.  It is nothing more than an old Polish watering hole that Patrice bought to host poetry readings and feature live Jazz.  On the walls are pictures of some of Patrice’s best fights with the dates and names of opponents. Patrice usually appears after games and reads his latest poetry while young Jazz musicians play behind him and others.  It is standing room only after Red Wing games.  Dig that.

November 2, 2011

Cleveland de Brasil

Filed under: Ethnicity,humor,Mixed Race,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:06 am
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Mathew, Mark and Luke all lived in a gated community on a hillside that overlooked the Pacific Ocean.  All three of the men were part of the hated 1% of the United States that appeared to be flourishing off of the backs of those being displaced from homes and depleted of savings.
            Mathew and Mark had become friends with Luke and his wife Maria a few years back after Luke made a killing buying and selling real estate.  Luke’s name was actually Joao, which is John but decided to go with the middle name of Lucio or Luke. Understand?  Orange County in California saw home prices tank before the rest of the nation.  Luke moved from Ohio by way of Sao Paulo to southern California and quickly became a very wealthy man.
            Mathew and Mark’s wives, Martha and Myrtle were friends with Luke and Maria and really appeared to like them but actually were suspicious of them and wondered how it was that both of them could seem so in tune to one another and so happy and content and yet never speak to one another.  The quartet noticed that quite often, Luke and Maria would just look at one another without saying a word and it appeared as though they had a conversation with their minds.  Mathew finally said to Mark when Luke went to his wine cellar to get a bottle of wine that he had purchased at a small winery in Italy.
            “I think these two are aliens…  I know it sounds weird but how do two people look so perfect, act so perfect, never fight, never complain and yet look at you as if they know something you’re trying to hide something that they already know about.  Who comes from Cleveland and makes a fortune in real estate?  What’s their secret?”
            The three sets of couples sat eating and drinking wine in Luke and Maria’s backyard that had a magnificient view of thePacific Ocean.  It was warm as the sun began to set.  The wine flowed like water.  Luke had more alcohol than he had had in quite some time and could not contain himself any longer.  Luke was no longer the quiet observer as usual.  Luke went from being quiet to loud and aggressive yet maliciously playful all along.
            “Let’s play a game… Shall we?  A game of, ‘I know what you’re thinking’…  You all must agree to this first.  I want to make sure we are all on board,” said Luke.
            Maria grabbed her husband by the arm without saying a word.  Luke pursed his lips and held his hand up.  Maria blinked hard and took a seat with her arms folded.
            “This game is called Guess the Guests…Now then… One among us is sleeping with another among us while married to two others among us.  One among us has actually been set for life since birth and has set up a faux business to give the appearance of hard work while screwing the secretary while she shoves beads up his ass in his office.  One among us worried about insider information that they had knowledge of and is worried about the feds closing in on them.  One among us is fucking everything they can whenever the chance presents itself including with friends of their offspring.  One among is certifiably cuckoo and is on every sort of medication you could imagine to help this individual walk a straight line.  Straight enough so that nobody knows or suspects that something very wrong is going on inside their brain…  I’ll make this easy on all of you.  If you take me and my wife out of the running on this guessing game, that narrows the field to just the four of you.”
            “Luke! Nao… Por favor, pare.  Eles nao sabem que podemos ler suas mentes…”
            The guests were stunned that Maria could speak another language other than English.  She looked like them and sounded like them but then suddenly bust out in another tongue when the chips were down and out.
            “You see it for yourself tonight, my dear friends…  My wife and I are truly capable of disagreeing, of fighting, of disappointment in one another.  Here I am a Midwestern fly-by-night who happened to have that Midas touch… Like Goldfinger, right?  I make money hand over fist and you all wonder how.  How is he doing this?  How do these two manage to get along so well?  They seem plastic.  They seem fake.  They seem to be aliens who use some sort of telepathy to communicate with one another like some sort of weirdo Twilight Zone bullshit, right?  You’re goddamn right that I see it in your eyes and read it like a book.  I know your secrets…  I know your dirty little secrets and you can’t hide from Luke.  I  know when you’re being honest and that is far more than any of you know about yourselves…  So as they say in Brazil or shall I say Cleveland, after too many drinks; go fuck yourselves and cry or have another drink and dance…  I will be back.  I am going for more of the truth serum… A little of that Cleveland Indian fire water.  You either be gone or remain when I get back.  You have a choice.”
            Nobody left the table and nobody spoke while Luke was gone.  They were all stunned and shocked by the brash outburst of a man who had never said very much in the past.  Luke had never bragged or judged before. Loud Samba music accompanied Luke’s return.  Luke laughed loudly with a cigar dangling out of the corner of his mouth, holding four bottles of red wine.  He was singing along with the song in Portugese.   The guests all guessed it was Spanish.  They were wrong.
 
            Batom- a bala bate no meu coracao.  Dentes espalhados pelo chao- Natural- E a vezes social…  Vai la cou boi!
           
            Nobody in the backyard had ever really heard Samba music before or danced to it except Maria who had grown up with it long before they reached Cleveland.  They all drank and all danced and gave very little thought to the things Luke had said.  They may as well as have danced naked. Their inhibitions disappeared. The Mexican wait staff and the Vietnamese au pair joined in on the dancing as did neighbors adjacent to Luke’s property until the sun came up over Santa Monica Boulevard.
 
            At about two in the afternoon following the party, Luke stood and stared out at the water the way he had once done at the Atlantic Ocean as a boy and Lake Erie as a younger man.  He held a cup of coffee and suffered through a headache as he watched surfers off in the distance wading on boards, waiting to catch the right wave.  Maria approached Luke and without saying a word, spoke to her husband in Portuguese.  I could write what she said to Luke in Portuguese and it would really sound pretty.  In English, this is how it went;
 
            “You nearly let the cat out of the bag last night.  I really thought you were going to tell them how we know… They could never begin to grasp how we know things.  It would blow their minds.”
            Luke or Lucio, Joao or John, took a drink of his coffee turned to his wife and replied without opening his mouth with a big toothy smile.
 
            “Pessoas de Cleveland… pode ser estranho… 
 
             “The People of Cleveland… can be strange”

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