Blackhumouristpress's Blog

September 19, 2011

The Young Americans… In Canada

Filed under: Detroit,Ethnicity,humor,Mixed Race,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:15 am
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            Dion had decided at the age of twenty six that it was time to throw in the towel, lower the flag and wave the white drapeau that signifies giving in or giving up.  For women the announcement of marriage to other women sends voices up octaves, accompanied by hand holding, discussions about dresses and registries.  For men, especially young men, the news is received, processed and then there is a two second delay where the stone faces of other male comrades, brothers and friends appear to ask why with their eyes.  Once Dion’s friends and cousins accepted the news the first important question among men was asked.

            “When and where are we having the bachelor party?”

            Dion was born inRomania with his other Romanian friends and cousins and wound up of all places in Detroit.  Dion grew up to love all things Detroit; American cars, Lions, Tigers, Red Wings and Pistons.  Dion loved University of Michigan even though he never attended the school.  Trumpet playing of all things lead him towards his destiny of finding and falling in love with the minister’s daughter at a Romanian Pentecostal Church in Detroit.  It actually was a Missionary Baptist Churchfor the most part with a black congregation but atnoonwhen the black Baptists were having coffee in the gym, the Romanians would come in and have their service in Romanian and then when the Romanians took the gym, the Koreans took the sanctuary.  By the time the Koreans took the gym for their post church fellowship, the church janitor had well earned his day of rest which would have to come on a Monday.

            Dion was a band geek in junior high and high school and offered to play trumpet after his mother had prodded him to go back to church and play his trumpet with the organ player during the hymnal periods of the service.  It all worked out for Dion.  Dion met Dianna, the daughter of the minister of their church who was beautiful and detached at the time Dion met her.  Dion gave up drinking, swear, chewing tobacco, visits to casinos, and strip clubs.  Dion went to rough parts of Detroit with his girlfriend as inner city missionaries to try and work with teens.  Dion liked that idea a lot better than packing up and moving to Angola and so he willingly got together with his girlfriend to spend Friday and Saturday nights playing basketball and talking about the word of god with poor children that cared more about getting a nice car, a nice piece of ass and money in their pockets by any means necessary.  Speaking English in a Portuguese speaking country like Angola might have been easier than trying to convince poor inner city black teens in Detroit that leading a clean life, will lead to positive things.  Some bought into it and other showed up to the church gym to play basketball and eat coffee cake.  After a year or more of this sort of stuff, Dion decided that being with Dianna on a full time basis was his destiny in life and so be posed the question, Dianna cried and accepted.  A life of marital bliss was immanent if not terminal for the young couple.

            Theo, Dion’s cousin and life long friend, got their inner circle of friends together to do Dion’s last night as a single man the right way.  Theo knew that his cousin had played along with the no sex, no drinking, no dancing and no swearing rules of devout Romanian born again types but also knew that his cousin Dion was once quite the partier and cocksman.

            “Troy, Tommy, you and me are going to Windsor tonight.  I got the Fong Sisters coming to a private suite that I rented on the top floor of Caesar’sWindsor.  The Fong Sisters are lesbian and sisters.  Totally out of control, dude…  Where you can find sisters who are lesbian and would do each other in front of people?  That is extra special.  I met them at the casino last month inWindsor.  I’m telling you, they are smoking hot and will do anything.  They originally came from China but live in Ontario now.  Beautiful fucking faces, tight asses and huge fake tits on skinny frames.  They got a website where you can see them 69ing each other covered in chocolate syrup.”  Said Theo.

            “I would have been fine going to a strip club around here, getting a few beers and calling it a night,” said Dion.

            “Whaddya you like fifty now?  Fuck that shit…  You are going down but you’re going down in a grand style, bro.  Don’t sweat it, it will be mayhem.  Fully stocked bar in the limo, fully stocked bar in the suite, room service and the lesbian show… Oh and I paid for the happy ending shower with them both for you.” Said Theo as he high fived Dion.

            The foursome drank in the back of the stretch limo and blared music.  They opened up the moon roof, stood and yelled like little boys in the tunnel that went under theDetroitRiverfrom downtown Detroit to Windsor,Ontario in the country of Canada.  Once on the Canadian side of the river, cameras picked up the sight of four young men hanging out of the moon roof up to the waist, singing, yelling and hoisting drinks which spilled onto each other.  Constable Williams caught sight of this on his desk monitor while he ate a sandwich he had just purchased on Huron-Church Road at the Tim Horton’s which was on the south side of the street, not to be confused with the Tim Horton’s on Huron-Church on the north side of the street, less than a kilometer away from the Tim Horton’s on the south side of Huron-Church Road. 

            Yes.  Well then, Constable Williams was eating his sandwich and studying the monitor of unruly Americans in a limousine.  Pieces of the bread stuck to his bushy moustache.  Constable Williams lifted the cup to his tea and doused the tea bag several times before taking a sip.  He put the quartet on full screen and followed them all the way up to line three at customs.  Constable Williams got on the phone and called for the sniffer dogs to meet him at line three.

            The limousine queued up behind several cars.  The driver was an older black man that was listening to the Detroit Tigers game in his compartment, not paying attention at all to the frat boy activity going on the other side of his contained area.  The boys were mixing drinks and singing when the doors were thrown open.  Two German Sheppards accompanied four uniformed men who had just asked the four young men to step out of the vehicle.

            “Smart people you are in America, eh?”  Asked Constable Williams.

            Theo giggled and said, “yes, sir”.

            “You young Americans…  Just like in the David Bowie song.  You boys know that song, eh?  So smart in America that they spent millions to send men to the moon just so that they could say that they sent men to the moon and give em a ticker tape parade in New York City…  Yes, you Americans are so smart.  Only smart men would ride in the tunnel that have hanging signs that could decapitate them as they stick their heads out of an opening in the roof.  Smart, young Americans…  You smart men have anything you want to declare before we set the dogs to find contraband?”

            The four young men all sobered up enough to take Constable Williams seriously.  Three out of the four men had nothing worse than chewing tobacco on them.  Theo though thought that buying two joints from a guy at work would be the icing on the cake as the Chinese born sisters and lesbians did their thing in front of them.  Of course they were going to purchase Cohiba Cigars at the duty free store and take them up to their suite also.  Theo had forgotten about the two joints packed in a plastic bag that was in a small pocket on the sleeve of his Hollister sweat shirt.  The first German Sheppard found the joints in a matter of three seconds.  The dog put its front paws up on Theo’s shoulders as if they were going to slow dance together.  Constable Williams held up the discovered bag with two hand rolled joints and smiled.

            “We are about to get to know each other very intimately tonight, boys.”

           Dion stood up and day dreamed as his soon to be father-in-law conducted the wedding ceremony.  To Dianna’s eye, Dion looked to have been crying.  She had no idea that her betrothed had been drinking, smoking, detained by Canadian border guards and forced to do a full cavity check, naked in a bare room with a lot of lights.  Dion could only think about touching his toes and the Canadian guard flashing a light up his ass as the guard probed around with a gloved index finger in search of further illegal contraband.  They boys never made it to the hotel.  They were detained at the border until the early hours of the morning and then sent back to the United States without their joints or really good stories to share with their friends. During the ceremony, Dion turned and looked at his best man, Theo with squinty eyes and could only shake his head as he recalled the indignity of his night in Canada.  Call it bad luck of the draw or that God truly does work in mysterious ways.

David Bowie- Young American
I got a suite and you got defeat
Ain’t there a man you can say no more?

Ain’t there a pen that will write before they die?
Ain’t you proud that you’ve still got faces?
Ain’t there one damn song that can make me
break down and cry?
All night
I want the young American
Young American, young American, I want the young American

September 12, 2011

Harry the Angry Clown or The Cubs Suck

Filed under: humor,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:44 pm
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Every city in the United States has that local figure that is known by most of the inhabitants who are native to that city.  Harry the Angry Clown, is well known in Chicago for snapping one day the way a suicidal gun man does at a shopping mall.  Harry never hurt anyone and never really wanted to.  He was and always will be a clown and clowns really love to make people happy when happiness is hard to find.

            Harry was a smallish Jewish boy who grew up in an area of the south side of Chicago that was Italian, Irish or Black.  Harry’s father joked that having to dodge the micks, dagos and schwartas, would either make him fast or tough.  For all of Harry’s disdain of the south side and ethnic groups, Harry never left his home.  Harry stayed and took care of his parents and when they passed on, he remained in the home he always lived in.

            Harry’s parents had wished that Harry would have become an attorney or a doctor or even a slick car salesman.  The choice to become a full time clown did not sit well with either of his parents.  Harry’s father would generally say the same things over and over to him about the logistics of not having a conventional vocation.

            “Whaddya gonna do if you get sick?  You want the government should take care of you?  The goddamn government is broke and corrupt.  They’ll find a goddamn loophole to leave you out in the cold.  You wanna sit at Cook County with all the schwartzas?  Huh?  You smoke and don’t exercise.  You eat nothing but fatty food.  You’re gonna wind up a heart attack patient by the time you’re thirty years old.”

            At the age of forty, Harry did wind up with a scare that left him waiting in the lobby of the country hospital for hours just as his father had prophesized.  After real heart attacks, strokes, stabbings, shootings and overdoses, Harry would be seen by a physician.  Harry didn’t much mind the wait because his favorite baseball team, The Chicago Cubs, was just beginning a road game on the west coast against San Diego.

            Most intelligent people who analyze why it is that grown men live for and follow sports as if the sport had some sort of true direction on their lives, will tell you that these men are borderline delusional and lacking fundamental depth to their own lives.  Following the statistics of individual players, spending larges sums of money on tickets to games, alcohol and food, when truly viewed properly appears to be a waste and a terrific diversion from reality.  Those that run over small children in attempts to retrieve foul balls or home runs are usually cut of the same cloth as those who call sports radio and refer to their teams as if they were truly part of the team. “We just didn’t have it tonight…” These same individuals stand in line to have transitory athletes sign all sorts of things for them so that one day someone will enter their homes and ask who it was that signed that T shirt, that bat, that photograph?  That moment will bring depth and meaning to their lives.  Hopefully.

            Harry was one of those men who in their mid forties, had followed the Chicago Cubs so closely that he could actually be put on a panel and quizzed game show style on obscure statistics and players who nobody remembered or cared about.  Sitting in the hospital lobby really didn’t bother Harry.  There he was in a red and yellow outfit with a red bulbous nose and white and black make up on his face.  He held his chest as he slouched in his chair glued to the small television screen which was strapped to the ceiling.  Other occupants either lived in the lobby because they were homeless or were poor people without insurance.  Just about every seat in the lobby was taken but Harry felt fortunate to have a seat in front of the television.  A burly and surly security guard sauntered through the lobby to make sure nothing too strange was happening.  Harry stopped the guard and asked/demanded that he turn up the volume enough so that he could hear the commentators babble.  The security guard refused to do it.  Harry approached a young black child that was sitting in the lobby with his mother and his brothers and sisters.  His youngest sister had swallowed a bell from a toy.  The mom packed up her five children and took two buses to get to the hospital.  Harry eyed the young boy who was about ten years of age.  He thought the boy was strong and agile enough to reach up and turn up the volume manually to the television if he were to climb up and stand on Harry’s shoulders.

            “Hey son!  How would you like to make five dollars right here?  No funny stuff even though I’m a clown.  Five dollars and a candy bar.  And I will give your brothers and sisters each a candy bar too.  Doesn’t that sound swell?  Whaddya say?”

            The young wiry boy climbed up Harry in his clown suit as if he were a tree.  He reached up and turned up the volume.  The security guard was behind a podium talking to another security guard and never noticed the event taking place.  The young boy scared the death out his mother and awed those sitting around watching when he did a backwards flip off of Harry’s shoulders and landed on his feet.  The boy got a lot of claps.  The clown got to watch the Cubs game with the benefit of audio.

            The game ended and then the post game ended and then reruns of Friends ended.  The late news came on and then infomercials for bras and a waist band that hid fat.  Then the Cubs game aired again about 2am in the morning.  Harry was still waiting.  The young boy who did the flip was asleep, leaning against a younger brother.  Harry watched the game for the second time.  The Cubs had a commanding 10-0 lead.  Zambrano had enough runs to hold him through three games and yet the Padres whittled away at the lead until the Padres were up 16-10 in the ninth inning.  The Cubs would have had to score a touch down and kick and extra point to win the game at that point.  Seeing the game a second time put Harry over the edge.

            It is hard to say what it is that makes marginally sane people throw down their cards and opt out of the game.  For Harry it was a culmination of several events that day.  His wife and secretary had sent Harry to 7200 South Central when the party was at 7200 North Central, which was about twenty miles away.  Harry missed the party and was being yelled at by the parent who said they had nothing else planned for twenty screaming and crying five year olds who were bored watching movies they had all seen many times.  While Harry was listening to the berating, a Chicago Police officer noticed the clown talking on his cell phone while driving.  Within the city limits of Chicago, it is unlawful to speak on a handheld device.  Harry was ticketed for the use of a hand held cell phone, no seat belt, expired license plates, expired license card and a broken mirror.  The cost to Harry was going to be hundreds of dollars.  Harry called his wife and began swearing at her about not paying attention to north and south.  His wife had no sense of direction and since she lived on the south side, she assumed the call came from the south side and never asked the client if the house they lived in was north or south of downtown Chicago.  Everything just seemed to fall apart at once for Harry.  He felt a tightening in his chest and decided that he needed to get to a hospital at once.  Upon trying to get admitted to the nearest hospital, he was directed to the county hospital that had to take people with no insurance benefits.  Fourteen hours later, Harry felt no more tightening in his chest.  He was just incensed that he was still waiting and that he had to endure one of the most miserable Cub losses twice in a day.  Harry walked out of the hospital and went directly to a bar on the north side that closed at four in the morning and then opened up again two hours later at six.  The Cubs were scheduled to play the Pittsburg Pirates later that day as a make up for a rained out game earlier in the season.  Both Pittsburg and the Cubs would have rather told the league that they both were happy to forfeit the meaningless game but the league wouldn’t let them do that.  Instead the Cubs had to catch a red eye back to Chicago and be at Wrigley Field by 11am.  It was a tough day for millionaires but they worked it out.

            Harry drank beer and ate nuts and said nothing to the other patrons that were getting off of a third shift and wanted a beer or two before going to sleep.  At about 11:30, Harry paid to get into Wrigley Field and was one of the first fans to enter the park.  It will forever be known as the game that never happened.  No rain or snow or other acts of God stopped the game from happening.  The game was cancelled due to a hostage situation where by the entire Cubs team was being held at gun point by a man in a clown outfit in their clubhouse.  Harry yelled into the faces of players as he made them kneel on the ground with their heads down as if they were praying.  Nobody noticed at first that the gun was one of those guns that shoot a daisy out.  One of the players who was an avid hunter in the off season realized that the gun was a fake.  Several players rushed Harry and held him until the authorities arrived.

            Harry wrote a book about his devotion to the Cubs and how he came to snap one day.  This was after receiving psychiatric help and paying his debt to society in jail. Upon being released from prison, Harry did talk show after talk show and even had a cameo on Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm upon becoming a free man.  The Chicago White Sox gave Harry a life time season ticket four rows up behind home plate in full view for the viewers at home, watching the games on television.  The caveat was that Harry had to attend all home games in full clown gear with an oversized White Sox hat and T shirt.  The White Sox were nearly as frustrating as the Cubs but at least they ended each season with a winning record and a tease of post season play.  Harry became less enthralled with baseball and spectator sports in general.  When asked about professional baseball by a sports reporter in Chicago and the allure they hold with the common man, Harry had only one comment while smoking a cigarette outside US Cellular Field.

            “It’s all pretty much a clown show… Right?”

September 7, 2011

The Road From Iraq to Detroit

Filed under: Apartheid,Detroit,Ethnicity,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:10 am
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Bill had finished two years in Iraq before being shipped out for four more in Afghanistan.  After six years of driving around in a light armored vehicle, he was fortunate to be alive and whole.  Bill had served one more year than his grandfather had in World War II and nearly five more than his father had inVietnam.  At the age of twenty five, Bill was hoping to become a police officer somewhere in the state of Michigan.  On Labor Day, Bertram volunteered to drive the school bus route that had been his since 1973, one more time to ensure Bill would be ready to go come Tuesday.

            Bertram had a late model Cadillac STS that he had saved up to buy for a number of years when his 1990 Pontiac had too many problems to throw money at.  Bertram sadly knew that the new Cadillac was probably going to be the last car he would ever purchase in his life.  At the age of sixty six, it just didn’t make too much sense to make a lot of long term plans like a thirty year mortgage on a house.  To buy a car out right in cash made more sense than to make payments into his seventies.

 On a bright, sunny and cool Labor Day Monday, Bertram met Bill at aConey Island off of Grand River in Detroit.  Bertram was finishing some eggs while reading about the Detroit Tigers huge win over the Chicago White Sox the night before.  Bertram, a tall and thin black man, clean shaven, wore a thin black tie on top of a long sleeved with shirt and dark tan slacks with shiny black shoes.  On the table next to the coffee and paper was a black pork pie hat. 

            Bill, a muscular young white man with four day old stubble on his head and face, walked in with a faded black sleeveless Detroit Red Wings T shirt from his high school days that proudly displayed a tattoo of a gothic D on his right shoulder.  He had a stud earring in his left ear, a furrowed brow and torn blue jeans as we walked into theConey Islandto meet Bertram.  Bill plopped himself down across from Bill as the waitress poured a cup of coffee for Bill.  Bill was tired and a bit hung over from being at the Tiger’s game the night before.  After the game, Bill and his friends hung out in the patio area of The Elwood, a bar down the street from Comerica Park.

 Bill thought it was a bit overkill to go through the bus route one more time but didn’t want to insult an old guy that gave a low level job, more respect than it deserved.  As they walked out to the parking lot, there was a huge boat of a car with the top down.  It was a 1973 Cadillac Eldorado painted light blue.

            “You evah driven one these old cars, young man?”

            “Can’t say I have…”

            Bertram tossed the keys across the car to Bill and got in on the passenger side of his own car.  The white seats were like new and the dashboard did not have a speck of dust.  Bill turned the car on.  Immediately the 8 track player began to play Summer Breeze by the Isley Brothers.  Bill still thought that the trip was pointless but looked forward to cruising around with the top down in a beautiful old car.  Bertram did most the talking.

            “So you gonna pick up the bus off Seven Mile…  My advice is to get there early so you ain’t lined up to get out there by the last minute.  You got you some fellas there with a chip on they shoulder, they gone try to cut and squeeze you outta place.  You gone want to bust them in the jaw.  My feeling is why go through that hassle the first day.  Get up early and take yo time and avoid all that mess…”

            Bertram spoke slow and in a deep rich voice.  Bill felt like he was driving in a time warp as he looked over at Bertram who was wearing a Pork Pie Hat and squared off Ray-Ban sunglasses.  Bill followed where Bertram directed him to go.

            “Make a right here onGrand River…  This is where you gone begin.  Now you gone find and make yer own way and I ain’t about to start telling you how you gone get things done.  That would be wrong of me.  I am gone to tell you how Bertram done things and you listen and decide whatchu want to do…  I started this here bus route afta losing my job at the Fisher Body 21 plant.  That’s that skeleton looking building you see off of 75 when you trying to git ovah to the 94.  I lost that job onna count I couldn’t keep mah self from drinking afta work.  You see…  I waddn’t married and I was young and had a few bones and so I would go out and have one and then one lead to anothah one and then a few moh and then before you knew what was going on, the sun be coming up.  So afta I missed work a few dozen times, they decided to drop me and they wasn’t nothing I could do even though I was in the union.  They only so much the union can do to help you when you off drunk every othah day…  Okay, here is where you gone make the first stop.  Lemme jus say this; the kids gone test you and the mo you try to act as bad as them, they gone try to git to you mo.  When I first started, there was a young guy with a large Afro and a pick stuck all up in his hair.  He came on the bus with a box blarin music loud.  I toll him to turn off the music and he toll me to do something to m’self.  My first thought was that not more than a year earlier, I was trying hard to stay alive in Nam and here some young punk who ain’t even got his feet wet yet in life gone step up to me?  I took his box and threw it out the bus and him with it.  The othah kids wasn’t scared.  They didn’t respect me no mo foh dat.  I didn’t git fired but I had to go and buy the punk a new box and aftah he looked like he did nothing wrong.  I ain’t gone throw religion in yo face cause we all got to find our way.  I started getting my life right and all the othah things in life fell in.  I began to think how I was gone to git the kids on my side and still git them to be respectful.  They gone swear and let they pants hang off they ass.  They gone git worked up ovah a pretty girl and act a fool.  How to let em know to act like young men and ladies and have respect foh each othah and they selves?  It wasn’t easy but I managed it, young man.”

            Bill had applied and accepted the job of being a school bus driver in inner city Detroit where most students were poor and all were black.  Bill looked to be a formidable looking young white guy with anger issues.  As they drove slowly downGrand River, the boarded up buildings and weeds growing in cracks in the side walk reminded him of driving in parts of Baghdad and Afghanistan.  Bill believed there were predators hiding behind windows of abandon buildings, ready to kill him and Bertram for the classic car not unlike what he had lived through in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Bill’s head was on a swivel.  He surveyed things from left to right and constantly used his peripheral vision as he drove an even thirty miles and hour.  Bertram wasn’t as cautious.

            “Yeah, I get what you’re saying.  The obvious difference between you and I is the color of our skin.  Them kids are gonna see me tomorrow and automatically are gonna hate me for what they think I am,” said Bill.

            “And you already decided that they gone look at you a certain way.  Imma tell you right now…  Some dem girls gone be workin you like a stick shift.  You a good lookin young man with a good smile and strong build.  Them girls look like women an probably they lookin as good as they evah gone look in they lives but you got to remember that they children trapped in an adult body.  Anyway…  All yo preconceived ideas and thoughts about young, poor black children gone ooze from yo eyes when they step on dat bus.  They already gone think that you some rich kid from Southfield or Royal Oak.  They ain’t gone think you jus some regular working class kid who jus live above 8 Mile all up in Warren.  They ain’t gone know you served.  They gone to think all the things they learned bout white people they whole lives.  How you gone to show dem they wrong?  I tell you what…  If enough white people and black people would put aside what they think and what they learned, we could bring this city back to what it was.  Black people blame whites and whites blame blacks.  How bout people who are black and white get together and say we Detroiters and we gone bring back this town.  I need you and you need me to do it.  I look at Nelson Mandela and the whole dang country of South Africa.  Them black people went from being nothing to running the country and they did not go aftah white people to punish them foh the past.  Why?  Cause a smart man like Mandela understood dat you need the whites to keep the country going. Detroitneed the whites to be in Detroit and if dat evah happens, things gone change.  Prejudice keep things where they at.  You ain’t gotta go to Mississippi, boy.  You got more racism in this state and city than you gone find in the south.  You and I both know cause we served in active combat that when you think might die, it don’t matter much the color of the skin of the dude next to you.  Somebody you know jus die and you not sure if you the next to git picked off and you lookin at the dude next to you and he from Hicksville, Alabama where they hated people from the north and they didn’t much like niggahs but he crying and just wants to be held like a baby and be told dat he gone make it, dat he ain’t gone die but if he does, he want you there wid him so that he don’t die alone…  Make a right up here.”

            Bill thought back to a day in Baghdad when a young boy had tripped a mine on the side of the road.  Bill had gotten out of his tank and tried to comfort a young boy that was missing a leg.  The boy, who was not more than ten years of age, died from a loss of blood.  Bill held the boy until fellow soldiers pried the boy away from him.  Despite all the gore and death Bill had witnessed, seeing a young boy die in a matter of minutes, hit Bill the hardest and had the greatest impact on him.  Tears began to stream down Bill’s cheeks.  Bertram asked no questions.  He just put his hand on Bill’s shoulder and rubbed it.

            “If I can give you one mo piece of advice, young man, I would like you to know dat you got you a finite number of days and yes when you young like you is, you can throw way years and still come out okay.  But them years gone roll like a Sherman Tank and take down evrah thang in it way.  Thirty, forty, fifty and then you git to sixty or mo like me and you wonder whatchu did with your life.  You ask yo-self if you lived or you jus existed?  What is the purpose of all this really?  I could have kept working foh a few more years but then it hit me in the spring when I had mah sixty sixth birthday; I ain’t gone be round much longer.  My wife dead, my son dead, two mah brothers dead and mah parents dead so long ago I sometimes think I jus made them up in mah mind.  If it weren’t foh pictures, Idda believe they was nevah here.  So I got to thinking bout what might make me happy and I decided that I will take this here car all the way toLos Angeles.  Imma go to California aftah living mah whole life in Dee-troit.  If you don’t count the two years I lived inVietnam, I ain’t nevah been nowhere else.  I got me an apartment picked out on computer where I can see the sun set ovah the Pacific Ocean.  Imma stay there all winter.  And so I tell you, young man, find now what gone make you happy.  Don’t keep saying someday cause that someday gone end up at the end of a road that you cain’t turn round on…  Speak of which, this here yo last stop.  Aftah here, you take dem right to school or you finished foh the day…  You gone be fine.”

            Bill drove back to the Coney Island and shook hands with an old man who had done more for him in an hour than most people had done for him in years.  After shaking hands with Bertram, Bill leaned forward and hugged Bertram.  Bill quietly spoke near Bertram’s ear before ending the embrace.

            “Not many people can begin to understand where I came from and where I’m going.  What I went through and where I could wind up…  I hope the west coast is exactly what you want and need.  Thank you for your time, sir.”

            At the second stop of the first day, a young black man with sleep still in his eyes stepped onto the bus with a straight brim Detroit Tigers hat and a white Tiger’s Jersey.  In the rear view mirror, Bill could see that the name on the back of the jersey was Verlander.  The young man sleepily stared out of the window while checking for messages on his cell phone that weren’t there.  His eyes met Bill’s several times in the mirror.  They both looked away.  Finally Bill engaged the young man in conversation.

           “Everyone thinks it’s going to be Boston, The Yankees or Phily.  We got Verlander, Valverde, Cabrera and Jackson.  Verlander might win the Cy Young but it takes a whole team and the Tigers are tough as hell this year,” said Bill.

            “If I could pitch like Verlander, I’d quit school today,” said the young man.

            “Most of us will never be a Verlander.  If we all just try to be as good as we can be everything will be alright.”  Said Bill.

            The young man nodded as he thought about what Bill said.

            “True dat…”

August 16, 2011

God Hates Haters More Than Faggots…

Filed under: humor,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:02 pm
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            Thorson Jensen received the news that his younger brother Erik had died on a Monday. Erik died in Afghanistan by an improvised explosive device on the road side in an area of the country that looked like Mars. Thor had been working on a 1947 Indian Motorcycle back in Nowhere, Minnesota when he received the call from his father.

            The news hit Thor rather hard.  Erik had been Thor’s younger brother who had been uncommonly handsome, wholesome and talented.  Erik had been on the student council, a wrestler and a singer in the school choir as well as musicals.  The only odd thing about Erik was that he always seemed indifferent to women.

            During boot camp, Erik had met a young man from Northern California by the name of Timothy who had been a high school football player and an outstanding student.  The two hit it off and became a couple.  Erik and Timothy together came to grips with their sexuality and found that they were each other’s best friend and lover.  Both of them believed that being discrete was important and to act like men was expected and so it was not known to anyone in either of their lives for quite a while. 

            It was during Christmas while Erik was on leave that he broke the news to his family.  It was like a bomb had been dropped on their ice hut on one of 10,000 lakes in Minnesota.  There was Thor, Erik and their father Lars, ice fishing in a hut when Erik told his brother and father the news.  Thor and Lars were in disbelief but after giving it some thought, they later realized that there were signs that they just never picked up on such as Erik’s love for musicals, gardening and color coordination  of clothes.  Erik was just too handsome and too perfect of a man for an area of Minnesota that was just not that refined.

            Thor had been the black sheep and renegade of the family.  He looked like Hulk Hogan and had been a modern day pirate that pillaged.  After doing half his adult life in prison, Thor went clean and started his own motorcycle repair shop that also fixed snowmobiles and lawnmowers.  It was by no means lucrative but it was steady and that is what Thor wanted.  Thor found a woman to settle down with that was covered in tattoos and had three children by three different fathers and was a recovering heroin addict. They were a typical biker family.

            It was quiet for a good minute or so after Erik broke the news to his brother and father that he was not only gay but had found his life partner.  Thor broke the ice with a little joke.

            “We wouldn’t mind meeting him I suppose…  Hope he won’t take offense to the fact that I think all Oakland Raider fans are queers.”

            Timothy showed up at Easter with Erik.  Timothy was equally good looking, masculine and well mannered.  Thor and Lars didn’t know what to discuss with Erik and Timothy at first but after awhile, it was like talking to any other men.  The fact that they were not demonstrative in front of them or effeminate in anyway, made the whole thing harder to believe.   Mom, dad and brother shrugged it off and decided that maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

            Nobody ever thinks that they would out live their children and to stand at a grave site service and subliminally listen to a priest preach the merits of a young man he did not know, was like back ground music to the parent’s deeper thoughts and memories of their son’s life from the cradle to the grave.

            A stone’s throw away was a group from Kansas that carried placards that read things like, “thank god for dead soldiers” and “god hates fags”.  They yelled over the priest who was saying pleasant things about a young man who was good and had selflessly served his country.  The extremist, anti-homosexual, anti-flag, anti-American group claimed to be primitive Baptists.  Primitive as in preliterate with physical similarities to humans.  Uncivilized, savage, simple and wholly unsophisticated splintered synod of Baptists.  Their hateful message was so profound that even other Baptists couldn’t recognize them as being like them.

            Thor and his band of biker buddies stood by silently upon Thor’s orders.  Thor’s emotions changed from sadness to anger.

The obnoxiously hateful group spewed such vitriol at a moment when as big and strong as he was, Thor was about to break down and cry.  Instead, Thor and his band of friends dressed in leather and boots just glared at the idiocy of the moment.  Women with high pitched voices yelling over men reciting bible verses who claimed to understand what god hated.

             “Most god loving people would agree that the men of Sodom were wicked and sought to break the order of things and destroy the differences between right and wrong.  This faggot was punished by god for being a sodomite.  He was a faggot and god hates faggots.  Genesis 13:13…  In the beginning god discussed his disgust with faggots, sodomites, homosexuals.”

            Lars balled up his fist and was about to attack the group when Thor stopped his father.  Lars was mystified by his older son’s restraint.  Thor had always been prone to fisticuffs.  If ever a time called for violence, the desecration of a soldier’s funeral called for action.  Thor simply whispered calmly in his father’s ear.

            “God has a plan for those motherfuckers.”

            One of the biker brotherhood was instructed to follow the troop away from the funeral to a motel where they were all registered.  It was at about midnight when most people are in their deep REM sleep that Thor and his gang of friends kicked open the doors to their motel rooms and rounded them up.  Thor lit a large cigar and took swigs from a bottle of Jack Daniels as he kicked back in a chair with his feet up on the bed.  The group of protesters sat cowered together on a double bed while an infomercial on the television loudly made a pitch for a fat hiding girdle like device.  Fat people could look thin by wearing what was akin to a girdle without having to exercise.  It was nothing new except to those who knew nothing about the Victorian Era. One of the bikers turned off the television so that Thor could be heard clearly.

            Thor opened up a dictionary and began to read calmly to all of them the definition of empathy.

            “Empathy…  If you’re psychotic this means nothing to you and I suspect that to be without of empathy leaves you probably in the psycho camp.  You bunch of fucking misfits picked the wrong fucking funeral to show up at…  Well then, let’s see…  Empathy- is the capacity to recognize and, to some extent, share feelings such as sadness or happiness by another being…  Those unable to recognize this cornerstone in human emotion are devoid of empathy.  Meaning that they do not give a fuck about other’s emotions.  You motherfuckers are going to learn something about empathy tonight.  After tonight, I suspect you will be able to put suffering into the proper perspective.”

            Thor and his friends drove through the night from southern Minnesota through Iowa into Kansas so that all those attending the Westboro Baptist Church could see the fruit of god’s labor.  Hanging off of every peak around the church was a protestor who was bound by the hands and ankles together with a tennis ball stuffed into their mouths with a duct tape to secure the balls in their mouths.  Sticking out of their exposed anuses were rubber chickens.  The heads of the rubber chickens were hidden with in the anal cavities.  All that was visible of the rubber chickens was a neck and body. A dozen members hung from every peak of the church with their asses exposed with dangling rubber chickens. The, “godhatesamerica.com” banner was removed.  In its place was spray paint on the building that read, “God hates haters more than faggots.”   It was a sight to behold on the Lord’s day.

August 11, 2011

The Next Beat

Filed under: humor,poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 2:10 am
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Sangria Maria, don’t know no Jazz

she discovered Bossa Nova at Starbucks one day

don’t like no mondays cause you know Saturdays

are for sundaes like whip cream and fluff.  Read the

papers about that stuff.  This is up and that’s down

obituaries and the funnies and some coupons for the buffet.

A smorgasbord of taste, smell and sound.

Dig that young cat with the mascara and the hair covering

his eyes.  Despondent resident of a subdivision and momma

always had food in the pot.  He learned them power chords

gonna make a band.  Don’t want no conventional stuff.

Full of angst and anger about all kinds of stuff.  You know

them southern California kids was so mad once upon a time

with their Punk Rock.  Now they got the perfect life, a mortgage, kids

and shapely wife.  Crack open the wine they bought at Napa for the

company.  Jim is a swell guy and a great golfer.  He might want to swap

wives for the night.  No need to trade lives.  Got the same cars, same homes,

same distant children with everything they used to have when there was real Punk Rock.

Drop the needle on some Black Flag or Fear and call your old girl on your momma’s

rotary phone. Momma was always there when daddy was busy.

Daddy was a Mason and an Elk, Republican and Presbyterian and a little Welsh.

You ain’t gonna get old and you ain’t gonna die but if you do, they got it all picked out for you.

Next to nice trees by some shade not far from the interstate and a billboard about 4Gs.

Because in the circle of life, they ain’t no corners.

Just the things that go around and come around.  No real forest, hill, groves

or real parks except for the industrial ones with their industrial strength.  More caffeine, less stress, less pressure,

more leisure  more comfortable shoes and a numbers when you sleep next to Sangria Maria after Tapas Tuesday

with Swell Jim and his wife in this comfortable life in that tract home in every town in every state…  No matter the state you’re

in.

August 2, 2011

Obama’s Text Messages

Filed under: humor,Mixed Race,obama,Oprah,Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:15 pm
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His name was John Holmes but everyone referred to him as The Wad.  The Wad was a smallish British Man with bushy blond hair, horned rimmed glasses and a smirk on his face at all times.  The Wad expertise was getting information that seemed impossible to get.

            The Wad had the occasion to meet with members of the Republican National Committee.  While swirling a Scotch in his glass at a Washington DC gathering of top GOP, The Wad posed a question.

            “Wouldn’t the public really like to know what it is your president says and thinks?  None of the farce you see behind the podium, Hail to the Chief and all that rubbish.  What I’m talking about is lifting the rocks and watching the bugs scurry about.  You people here in the states stay glued to television watching grotesquely obese individuals lose weight, has-beens and almost-were individuals dance and so forth.  Don’t think for a moment that transcripts of your president’s text messages wouldn’t be for every inquiring mind… Because it would.”

            Several older men with furrowed brows listened with interest to the jovial Brit.  Nothing was decided that night but soon after, The Wad received a text message from a Republican mover and shaker.  This is what the Cryptic message said:

 

I WOULD LIKE TO DISCUSS WITH YOU ABOUT THE RETREIVAL OF CERTAIN INFORMATION THAT COULD BE OF ASSISTANCE TO ME AND MY COLLEAGES.  LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU MAY BE AVAILABLE TO DISCUSS DETAILS.

 

            Keep in mind that the American people voted for change in 2008.  This change most likely meant an end to war, lower inflation, lower taxes for working people who make a modest living and possibly more jobs.  By election year four years later, taxes were higher, there was still a war in a part of the world that 99% of Americans would never visit and jobs were difficult to find.  Very little had changed.  The one thing that the president had over the stable of GOP hacks was his personality.  Being able to expose the president as a fraud and fake might be the only thing that could put a Republican back in the White House. 

 Two million in United States currency was wired to The Wad in London.  The GOP officials read in giddy glee at the intimate text messages between the president, his vice president, secretary of state, his wife and the singer R. Kelly.  It was a perfect deterrent from real issues like two unfunded wars, the economic mess of Wall Street, lost jobs and vanishing job opportunities.  Reading text messages from the president and his inner circle would be perfect to get people’s minds of the fact that to pay off the national debt, each person living legally and illegally, would have to pony up close to $40,000.  For all the talk of deficit reduction, there really wasn’t going to be a reduction.  Text messages are more interesting and easier to understand than finance.  Here is how it went:

 

President- We yanked Osama too early.  I’m going to need to pull another rabbit from a

                  hat before the election.  Any ideas?

 

Secretary of state- I say you put the bloodhounds on John Boehner.  Expose him like

                              Jimmy Swaggart.  Leave him crying like Eliot.  The public wants

                              blood. I say shove it up his ass.

 

Vice president- I’m ready to do what is necessary.

 

President- Lol…  I like the picture of Swaggart.  The holier than thou crowd caving like a

                           A house of cards.  Do we have someone digging up the dirt on the

                           Republican front runners?  Get word to Anderson Cooper.  We  

                           need this exposed.  I know he’s sore about the gay marriage thing.  That’s his

                           thing.  I just don’t believe it is the next civil rights issue.  Too many people

                           still don’t give a fuck about gays.  I got enough fish frying to worry about

                           all that.  If we need to, get Sulu from Star Trek to do some leg work for us.

 

Secretary of State- Do you really think we have much to worry about?  Mormons?  Get

                               real.  Stay the course like Bush Sr. used to say.  We got this one 

                               in the bag.  The GOP is looking for the great white hope and it isn’t

                               there.  McCain came off looking like a crippled Beetlejuice and now

                               what?  Mormons?  Airheads from Alaska?

 

President’s wife- The girls want to know if there is still a chance we might visit Haiti. 

                            They really are not fond of their French tutor and would rather quit if

                             We are not going to France or Haiti.

 

President- With all I have going on at this moment.  Look, you tell them we all have jobs

                   to do.  They’ll learn French.  I don’t want to hear again that Americans cannot speak anything but

                   English and certainly not our girls. I would like nothing more than for the press to catch wind of our

                    girls parlaying Francais.

 

Vice President- I’m ready to do what’s necessary.

 

President- Cool, Joe.  I’ll let you know what’s up.

 

R. Kelly- Wad up, dog.  Got a gig in Baltimore.  Was wondering if you wanted to get a

                A game going.  Two on two.  Me and Shaq, you and Prince.Lol.  Lemme know.

 

Secretary of State-  This may sound a bit Nixon like but I think we set up surveillance of

                               What is going on at the republican headquarters.  We get pros for this

                                and then turn it over to CNN as if they had been on the trail all along.

                                This will detract from anything that has flatlined and stagnated.

 

R. Kelly- Yo I hope your old lady is cool with me stopping by.  Don’t want to start no

                stuff, dog.  Two Chicago boys thrown a little rock.  That’s all.

 

Vice President- Just say the word.  I’m ready to do what is necessary.

 

President’s wife- I just spoke to Oprah.  She said she can arrange for Justin Bieber to

                            show up and do a few songs for the girl’s party.  What do you think?

 

President- I am copying you all on this same text.  I am overwhelmed with text messages

                 right now and need to put some fingers on some dykes.  French- yes.  Justin   

                 Beaver okay but what will it cost?  Tell Oprah I said hello and thank you. 

               R.K- B-ball yes if you can get Prince and Shaq, I’m down with that fo sho.  Hill- have

                your people look into what can be found on people of interest and so on.  Joe-

                I need you to visit a VFW hall in Fergus Falls, Minnesota next Friday for their

                 fish fry if you can attend.  Gotta go.  Playing golf with Boehner.

 

            The GOP was ready to make the call to Fox News when the bomb dropped in Great Britain.  Rupert Murdoch’s stock dropped in British Sky and really that was the only thing that really scared people who were stock holders.  Somebody, some employees, had decided to hack into phone messages.  Hacking of the royal family, victims of the London bombing and dead British soldiers.  The GOP feared that handing over transcripts of text messages of the president, might back fire and might be illegal too.  One older gentleman twisted the scan that he printed off of his computer message from The Wad and lit the paper and then lit his cigar.  Several men watched the flames burn the transcripts.  The flames glowed in all of their despondent eyes.  One man among them spoke a few words.

            “Well, boys…  Let’s pray that a calamity arrives in time to save us.  We have to HOPE for a CHANGE at this point…  That’s all we have left.”

July 19, 2011

Ali/Babar and the Wife Thief

Filed under: Detroit,Ethnicity,humor,Oprah,Short Story,walmart — blackhumouristpress @ 5:15 pm
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Ali was born a full six minutes ahead of his twin brother Babar.  Mother decided that her boys would be A and B and so it was.  A and B’s father decided when they were young that there was a land of great opportunity and diversity where immigrants were accepted and could find work, this land was Canada of course.

            Ali and Babar were as identical as identical could be.  Their parents could only tell them apart as infants and toddlers by a small birthmark on Ali’s left butt cheek.  As time went on, Ali was the quiet, thoughtful and a methodical young boy that would construct buildings with Lego’s and Babar was the loud, busy child that would deconstruct things his brother created.  As time went on, Babar suspected that his parents favored his twin brother at every turn in the road.  When it came to time to find them each a wife, Babar was convinced his parents held Ali in higher esteem.  Babar was matched up with a woman nearly the same height as him who carried more than a few extra pounds who had to shave the hair on her rotund stomach.  She wheezed, chortled and drooled in her sleep and always smelled like salami.  His wife’s mother had accompanied her only child to Canada fromPakistan and so Babar had a package deal that he did not care for on top of all the quirks.

            Ali went to Queen’s University in Kingston,Ontario and landed a job with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.  Babar often joked with his brother that he wanted to come toOttawato see his brother on a strong black horse, dressed in a red suit.  Ali was not offended.  Ali’s wife had been a runner-up in the Miss Pakistani World contest in Mississauga,Ontario and was beautiful among beautiful women.  Babar was upset that his brother had a good government job and a hot wife who maintained her shapely physique despite having two children, while his wife appeared to have swallowed furniture after having just one child.

            Babar actually loved the freedom of being a cab driver.  Like most Canadian boys, Babar was hockey crazy.  Babar loved watching the sport and playing it.  Babar kept his goalie equipment in the trunk of his cab and would not take customers who needed the trunk for suitcases.  Babar played shinny and league games all overTorontoand in nice weather, he could be found playing cricket at a park here or there.  Having a smaller home and less prestigious job was the trade off for Babar who loved the freedom to do what he wanted at anytime.  Babar could live with all that.  Having a less desirable wife than his brother was something that was hard to absorb and after close to seven years of marriage, the reality that his wife was plain and heavy and his brother’s wife was stunningly pretty and fit, still was something that overtly bothered Babar.

            Babar was more Canadian than he was Muslim or Pakistani and so it came as a surprise to Babar’s extended family when he had made the announcement that he was going back toPakistanto become a better Muslim than he had been up to that point.  Babar made friends inPakistanand grew to hate the Americans like the rest of the world.  A persuasive older man had convinced Babar that he was the best candidate to go to Afghanistan to train to be a terrorist.  It sounded like a good idea at the time.  Train to do god’s work of stopping infidels who occupy the land of Allah and his messenger Mohammed. 

            Babar got into the best shape of his life running around in a part of the world that looked more like the moon.  Babar was sent back toPakistan and ordered to wait in a hotel room.  Three men picked up Babar and covered his head, whisked him away in a hot van to a room without windows where an intense older man with a beard, instructed Babar in English what it was that he had to do.

            “Have you been to Chicago in the United States, my brother?”

            “No sir, but it has an attractive lake front with a food festival in the summer that would be worth checking out if I had a week or so to spend away from home…”

            “Yes…  Well that can be arranged.  You will be picking up a Ford Flex at Pearson Airport that will be registered to you with Ontario plates.  We will need you to drive to Chicago and put the vehicle through the basement of what they now call the Willis Tower.  Most still refer to it as theSearsTower.  Same difference. It is on a South Wacker Drive.  You have to navigate your way to the lower Wacker in order to get to the parking structure that supports the entire building”

            “Am I to leave this car in the parking lot of the building?”

            “You are to drive this automobile at top speed into one of the supports of the building…”

            “And when do I bail out of the automobile?”

            “There is no bailing.  Thus shall it be.  You shall be paired with companions pure, most beautiful of eye.  In the gardens will be mates of the modest gaze that have never been touched…In other words, you get the virgins when you’ve completed the mission.”

            It was sort of a tough sell for Babar.  He undoubtedly felt that the talent in the afterlife had to be better than what he had at home.  One in seventy two had to be hot or at least beautiful to the eye.  Babar convincingly accepted the task of picking up a new Ford Flex stuffed with explosives and caesium-137 that had been purchased by a Russian cab driver who was actually Ukrainian but spoke only Russian because back in the old days, that is what everyone spoke.  This Russian cab driver used to be a scientist in the formerSoviet Unionand was able to steal enough of the radioactive material stored in lead cases to sell to crackpots for a good price.

            While Babar was on a long flight from Pakistan to Toronto, he thought about how he could get out of committing suicide.  After all, Babar didn’t hate Americans anymore than other Canadian citizens.  Americans were loud and fat and felt that they were the standard bearers of freedom and had won the Cold War through their brand of democracy and capitalism tinged with strategic economic imperialism.  Babar really wasn’t passionate about felling the largest building in the world that represented American greatness and strength.  Babar was just not that passionate about donating his life to the cause.  The wheels began to turn in Babar’s head and before long, Babar had devised a way to complete his mission and get his brother’s beautiful wife all at the same time.  All he would have to do is convince his twin to drive the Ford toChicago.  And rig the automobile to detonate from Toronto with his brother in the vehicle in Chicago.  Technology is wonderful.

            “I have never asked anything of you in my whole life.  All I am asking is that you drive this automobile for me toChicago.  Someone will meet you in downtown Chicago who is interested in buying this vehicle that I won in a hockey raffle.  I don’t need the car, I need the money. I cannot afford to make this trip right now.  You have the vacation time to do this for me. You park it in a parking structure and wait for my instructions.”

            Ali opted to do this for his brother.  Besides, he really wanted to visit Chicago to hear some Blues and eat some really good pizza.

  Ali had crossed the border at Windsor without much questioning just as the skies grew dark and angry.  Before Ali could change his Canadian currency into American greenbacks, it had begun to storm.  The wind was hurricane force and the sky was as dark as night.  Ali pulled off the highway in Detroit as the windshield wipers could not keep pace with the rain that came down as if he were in a car wash.  The streets in Detroit resembled rivers.  Ali had decided to pull off the highway until the rain let up when he hit a hole in the road that was caused by a Detroiter who had stolen the sewer cap to sell as scrap metal.  The scrap yard accepted the sewer cap even though it had stamped on it in clear letters, CITY OF DETROIT.  The new vehicle had extensive damage and made a wheezing sound like Babar’s wife as it chugged along at about 10 miles an hour or 6.2 kilometers per hour.

            Ali drove past many abandon homes and streets that had no homes as the sky began to clear up.  Off in the distance was a Walmart unlike any he had ever read about in the middle of nowhere Detroit.  This Walmart was the Disneyland of Walmarts.  There was daycare, eye care, auto care and a petting zoo within the building that stretched over a length of a city block.  Ali passed thousands of parked cars as the Ford Flex limped up to the auto center.  Upon lifting the auto up in the air, it was discovered that the shocks were shot and the frame was twisted. 

            Ali walked to a motel that rented by the hour or night.  The beds took quarters and the ceilings had mirrors.  Ali watched the BBC news on public television and drifted asleep.  It was early in the morning when he returned to the Walmart. Ali drank coffee in the waiting room of the Walmart auto service center watching re-runs of the Oprah Show when the explosion occurred.

             One of the mechanics took a torch to the shock and a frame support that had gotten crushed when the front wheel on the driver side fell inside a large hole.  Ali had been speaking on the phone when he hit hole at thirty miles an hour.   Ali nearly bit off his own tongue as his head hit the roof of the vehicle.

            The explosion was the loudest thing that anyone had ever heard before except for those that had served for their nation in places like Afghanistan or Iraq.  The sound was familiar to them and they knew that it wasn’t a gun shot or a back firing truck.  It was a homemade bomb.

            Babar took a train up to Ottawa and hung around a coffee shop until the news broke that there was terrorist act against the world’s largest Walmart.  The CBC showed pictures of stunned people crying and consoling each other while fire fighters tried to extinguish the smoldering mess that was once the grandest department store ever erected.  Babar wondered what had happened and what had gone wrong.  It made no difference to Babar either way.  A few Detroiters were interviewed near the scene.  One was a man who went by the name of Yates.

            “Itta damn shame actually…  You know how hard it was in the first place to get any kinda grocery stoh, dee-partment stoh and automotive stoh and what have you right here in inna city Dee-troit?  Shhh damn…  Come on, now.  Who gonna wanna come back now aftah this?  Terrorist don’t like no success.  Dee-troit was coming back.  People was working again and buying cars and now this.  We all gone hafta go north of 8 Mile again or buy all important stuff at liquor stores…  Ain’t right.  It like roaches, you think you got them all an then some somehow git into yo box of cereal. Bin Laden waddent the end.  He die and someone else grab the wheel and drive. I’m saddened by this today.  Damn shame….  Ain’t nothin else but a damn shame.”

            Now Babar had gotten a tattoo of a mole on his left ass cheek and purchased clothes that he knew his brother would wear.  He walked into his brother’s house with out Ali’s wife or kids batting an eye.  The dog knew his master by scent and snarled at the imposter.  Babar had to give the dog some treats just to calm him.  The wife clung to who she thought was her husband and tried to console him over the possible loss of his brother.

            “It is a shame really.  To think your brother, playing hockey, drinking and watching porn and he turns around in a short period of time to become a fundamentalist.   They say he is in intensive care and has no hearing and cannot remember who he is…  So sad.”

            Babar was hopeful that his brother might die or remain incapable of knowing who he was.  Babar rolled with it.  He made love to his sister-in-law five times the first day and four the next.  She had to leave home to shop just to keep who she thought was her husband off of her.  Everything was working out as planned until Monday morning came around and Babar arrived at work and showed his name tag and had to hold his hand over a scanner.

            “This crazy thing has been acting up lately, Ali…  Just go ahead, we’ll have this checked, eh?”  Said the guard.

            Ali worked in forensics for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.  In fact Ali or Babar was studying finger prints and did not have a clue what he was supposed to be looking for or what he had was supposed to have been working on the Friday prior.  Ali’s co-workers thought he was a bit out of it but understood since his brother had been part of a terrorist plot to destroy an American institution like Walmart.

            When Babar returned home that Monday evening, the land line rang.  His wife or sister-in-law answered the phone and had a look of relief and happiness as she listened to a doctor report’s that Babar or Ali actually, would live.  They suggested his twin come to Detroit to spend time with him in hopes of getting his memory back.  Ali’s heart sank but really it was Babar’s heart.  He wondered if he would wind up in a Canadian prison or an American prison or if the terror cell that paid him and trained him, would catch up with him and kill him.  Ali/Babar looked at his beautiful wife/sister-in-law and told her what he thought would be best given the situation; more sex.

            “I will go to Detroit to help my brother…  It is the best thing I could do now.  I think before I go though that we should probably…  Well you know…  One last, I mean more time before I go.”

            The beautiful woman became suspicious.  The unquenchable appetite for sex, the politeness, the indifferent attitude towards their children and the dog who constantly growled and snarled at Ali/Babar all indicated that Ali was not Ali actually.  An idea came to the beautiful woman.

            “It has been quite a long time since I’ve allowed you to have anal sex with me… I think since we may be apart for some time, anal sex would be best for both of us.  Would you enjoy that, my love?”

            The real Ali had confided in his wife about his brother Babar’s fascination with having anal sex.  Ali on the other hand was never interested in engaging in that sort thing.  Ali/Babar’s eagerness revealed who he really was.

            “Okay my love…  I’m going to freshen up.  Why don’t you hop into bed and I will be there momentarily…”

            Within minutes, the RCMP had surrounded the house and came through the bedroom door and windows where Babar anxiously waited with an erect penis that pitched a tent under the sheet while he clasped his hands behind his head.  It became a very interesting story to all that heard, watched or read the details.  A man trained to be a terrorist sends his twin brother to bomb the largest building inNorth Americawith a vehicle packed with explosives and nuclear material, while moving in and assuming his brother’s life. 

The two Mounties and FBI agents burst out in laughter when Babar told the story of laying in bed waiting to have anal sex with his wife or the woman who was supposed to be his wife.  One of the FBI agents, a large African-American man, shook his head and put his hand on Babar’s shoulder.

            “You should have gotten up and ran at that invitation…”

            “Why do you say that?”

            “What beautiful woman asks her husband to perform anal on her…?  Shh damn… Come on, now.”

July 5, 2011

Karmalyzed Capitalism

Filed under: Ethnicity,humor,Mixed Race,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 5:08 pm
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            Molly was given LSD at her first party as a freshman in college and from that moment on, the world changed for her.  Molly became more aware of who she and was more in tune with the world around her and her senses.  Suddenly all that was right was wrong and wrong really seemed like the right thing after all. Things looked better, smelled better, sound better and tasted better than when she was living in a straight middle class life in America. The three bedroom bi-level in a post World War II suburb filled with men who belonged to the Masons, Moose, Elks and John Birch Society and women who ironed, shopped and watched soap operas by day and worked to please their men by night sort of life.  Suddenly the idea of aspiring to find a good candidate with whom she could replicate her species, seemed wrong.  A white, protestant, pro-Nixon, pro-Vietnam War, pro-women’s club, pro-monogamous, homogenous, nuclear family, with a man with a good smile and perfect hair, who would carry his lunch with him to the train station on his way to his desk job downtown, just seemed completely wrong and if given the right hallucinogenic drug, upside down can seem like the correct view of the world.  That’s what I’ve heard.

            Molly went on to take a lot of drugs, had a lot of sex, and became a communist and an activist for any and all causes that seemed anti-establishment.  While spending time in Oakland, California, Molly had fallen in love with several Black Panther activists.  One of the activists was successful at planting his seed within her while living together in a commune.  Molly gave birth to a mixed raced boy by the name of Huey Newton Washington.  Huey was named after the leader of the militaristic Black Panthers but carried Molly’s last name, the same last name as the first president of the United States and a slave owner; a true dichotomy.

 Molly loved Huey with all her being but found that Huey was cramping her ability to tap into her ability to find her “bag” and “do her thing”.  Having Huey was “groovy” and “beautiful” but it became necessary to really go to the Mecca of inner spirituality with a rebellious orthodox Jewish boy she was dating at the time, to India while Huey went to live with Molly’s parents for the rest of his childhood.

            Molly went through six marriages and lived on three continents and close to twenty countries but always made a point of sending her son postcards from all the places she visited and lived to remind him of how much she actually and truly loved her son.  From a great distance.  Most letters went something like this:

December 9, 1981

            “Greetings my one true love and reason for being in this life on my way to a higher level of human develop before I one day reach the pinnacle of understanding and knowing here on Earth.  My son, it is immanently important that you let your spirit soar.  That you become truly one  immersed in your spirit so that you can tap into your gifts bestowed upon you by God and come to understand that the only freedom truly in the world is that of total awareness in being and knowing who and what you are.

Currently I am in Hoboken right now which is in New Jersey.  I am working by day as nurse’s assistant in a hospital and a Yoga instructor by night.  I wanted to take the time to tell you that although I have not been there to witness ever little nuance a mother expects to experience in the development of their child, my love for you has never waned.  You are a part of my soul.  I gave birth to you and in doing so, gave you a part of me that will live on in your after I have departed this life for the next.

  On a separate note, John Lennon was killed yesterday and we had a slew of people come into the hospital who tried to kill themselves over his death.  One young man with a Mohawk and safety pins through his cheeks, tried to kill himself over a musician named Darby Crash who was in a Punk Rock band called The Germs.  Ironically he picked the same day to die as John Lennon.  I must say that I’m out of the loop on music these days and don’t quite get the Punk Rock phenomenon right now.  I do know that heroin is dangerous and hope that you are doing all the right things with grandma and grandpa and are saying no to drugs mostly.  They are good people and you are lucky to have them.  I will write you soon.

Love Mommy

            Huey played basketball and baseball as well as football and a little soccer but was run of the mill in all.  He was one of those black children that appeared to have been adopted by whites and in doing so, was stripped of his identity.  Huey did well in school, became an attorney, married a blond woman, had a family with children, and lived in a nice house with nice cars.  On the surface, all seemed well.  Huey was slightly paunchy and was too busy for regular exercise, ate fast-food, had a high stress job and was constantly on the go.  One day while arguing with a client on his cell phone, while sitting in traffic on the freeway, shaving and trying to eat a burger and fries, something tightened in his chest.  Fortunately for Huey, traffic was nearly at a standstill and so in the middle lane of a packed interstate, Huey put his car in park, opened his car door and faced on coming traffic with a look of horror and panic on his face while clutching his chest.  Motorists went around him while honking, flipping him off and yelling at him through open windows. Two black Ambulance drivers just happened to see him while coming back from meal at a Popeye’s Chicken.  Catfish was on sale with large fries and a 34 ounce soft drink.  The grabber, if you’ll pardon the expression was the special issue cups that were two ounces larger than a standard 32 ounce plastic cup and was tapered to fit into cup holders on both domestic and foreign vehicles.  They were left over special cups from black history month.  Bill, the ambulance driver, took sips of a soda from a plastic cup that had the image of a singing Paul Robeson.  Bill could have cared less about his special issue cup or Paul Robeson.  All he knew is that it was ethically wrong to pass up another man who might be dying and ethnically wrong to not stop and help out another brother.  Bill’s unselfish act saved Huey’s life and made it so that he and his mother could meet again after nearly twenty years.

            Death and funerals bring family together usually and although Molly was in Tibet at the time that Huey was married and was in Peru with the Shining Path Guerillas when both of Huey’s children were born, Molly always sent something like a card or a gift.  One year the kids received a hand made blanket from a Quechua Indian and another year was a Hugo Chavez action figure that still remains intact in it’s packaging in Huey’s garage.  It was the one item that was never sold in over four garage sales that Huey’s wife held.  In any event, the reunion between son and mother was interesting if not touching.

Molly- son…  This is a sign from God that the life you are living is not the life worth living.  Dilated pupils, high temperature, heart rate and blood pressure through the roof, insomnia…  It’s like a bad dope trip, son.  I’ve seen it happen many a time.  Capitalism kills.

Huey- Mother, I don’t take drugs.  I don’t even take the damn blood pressure medicine because it kills my ability to be a man.  I have to make some adjustments.  This is my body’s way of sending me a message.  I’m going to come out of this and become healthier.  I’ve always just said no as you always said I should in all your letters from around the globe.  You can’t fault me for trying to make a living and support my family.

Molly- Saying no to drugs is just the tip of the melting iceberg, son.  How bout saying no to poverty, greed and blinding capitalism that has lead you down this path of self destruction?  Your processed meals and need to get somewhere you think you need to be in order to fit in with something that someone else envies.  That’s what will kill, son, the need to keep ahead of the Joneses.  There is blood on my hands with all this.  I needed to find me at a time when I was young and unsure of my future and what it all meant. I cast you into my parent’s world knowing my roots and how you would not be of a clear enough mind to see past the finely manicured suburban lawns.

            Huey was about to rebut his mother who showed up as the victor and standard bearer for the true path in life necessary to take when suddenly a light fixture that was fastened to the ceiling became detached and hit Molly on top of her head.  Nurses rushed in and rushed Molly to the emergency wing of the hospital.  Molly was pronounced dead within an hour.  It was a sad freak accident that a twenty pound fixture had come detached from the twelve foot ceiling and came crashing down squarely onto Molly’s head. 

            A nurse phoned the hospital chaplain who was on his way up to break the news to Huey when something amazing and miraculous happened.  Molly sat up in bed, removed the sheet that covered her face and began to speak perfect Indian in a dialect consistent with inhabitants of Bangalore.  As time went on, Molly did talk shows with an Indian translator and although her mind processed her thoughts in English, Indian came from her mouth.  For those Americans who turned to transcendental meditation, Hinduism and Buddhism, Molly had become the reincarnated deity.

            It is difficult to say exactly what happened to Molly.  Was she reincarnated?  Did God put the Indian tongue in her mouth to help those on the path spirituality or just one of those freaky cases of Foreign Accent Syndrome?  Huey recovered and began to eat at Wholefoods and took up jogging.  Huey decided to go to New Jersey to visit his mother at her store front temple where people from around the world would come to see and hear words of wisdom from the odd woman who once spoke only English and could only speak Hindi. For a small fee of course.  Molly had become the Mother Theresa for crackpots.

  Huey spoke to his mother through the translator and told her that he had forgiven her for leaving him so many years ago and that he wanted to leave the anger behind and start new and fresh with a whole new way of living which would have meant trying to do away with pent up anger and resentment from unresolved things that he carried since childhood.  At the end of their meeting, Huey embraced his mother and they both became teary eyed.  Huey promised he would return to see his mother again soon and that he wanted a relationship with her.

            “Life is short mother and there is no need to carry the weight of things we both cannot change.  The past is the past,” said Huey.

            Through the translator, Molly said that she was pleased by Huey’s transformation and looked forward to getting to know her only child after nearly forty years.  As Huey was leaving, the translator stopped Huey to give him a card that had ten printed icons of the Hindu god Vishnu. Vishnu was holding a scepter in one hand and had the palm of his hand up in the other.  One of the icons was punched out by a card punch.  The translator explained the card’s significance as Huey studied it.

            “Your mother has opted to not charge you for today’s visit.  Your card has been punched today.  After nine visits, you can redeem this card and on the tenth visit, your visit will be completely free…  Thank you, please come again and may your spirit guide you and continue to grow.”

            Huey was truly speechless. 

June 28, 2011

The American Nursery Ryhme

Filed under: humor,poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 3:55 am
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Humpty dumpty sat on Wall Street.  Humpty Dumpty had an unprecedented fall.
All senators and congressmen tried to bail out Humpty again.  Cause when it’s raining, it’s pouring and stocks look flat in the morning.
 
Yankee Doodle came to town  riding in a Humvee
Winning the hearts and minds and forcing them to democracy.
Yankee doodle keep it up, like fishing in a phone booth
Spend money you do not have, send the deficit through the roof.
 
Hey diddle diddle, syringe just a little while grandma cooks in a spoon.  Three bags full; one for the master, one for the dame and one for the banker who drives down the lane.  Mix it up and make it nice,  A penny for a little rock, a penny for a needle.  That’s the way the money goes.  Pop! Goes the Weasel.  
 
 This was the woman all forlorn that milked the system, that tossed the kids into the street to sell drugs and sell their bodies, to make money to buy the drugs and slay in the house that crack built.
 
 Hush little baby don’t say a word, daddy’s past out on Thunderbird.  If that Thunderbird sings, momma’s gone pawn a diamond ring.  If the ring ain’t nothing but brass, somebody will hafta sell some ass.
 
Arnold parnold pudding pie, knocked up the house maid and told a lie.
 Liar liar, pants on fire catch Eliot and Tiger by the toe, if they cry let them go…  In fact maybe just give him their own show.
 
A diller , a dollar, you were going to be a scholar, Why do you sleep so late?
You used to get up to go to work and now you’re on Section 8.
 
Jack sprat is getting fat and his wife is hardly lean.  His arteries filling up and national health care is nothing but a dream.
Coast to coast, LA to Chicago who cares about geography?  Freedom to find and choose for yourself your form of pornography.
 
If all the world were paper and all the sea were ink, if all the trees were bread and cheese, what should we have to drink?

June 21, 2011

Trip to Walmart

Filed under: humor,poem,Uncategorized,walmart — blackhumouristpress @ 4:30 am
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            Larry the greeter from an era gone by when men held open doors and always wore ties.  Smiles to the all the patrons of the WalMart wondering just what hath god wrought?

I want to live in America.  Everything is good in America.  I saw it late on satellite.  What I see has got to be right.

Single mother- three children of different fathers.  Half brothers and sisters with steps and others.

I want a guest spot on Jerry Springer, late nights at Taco Bell.  I want to give the president the finger.  I want to be fat as hell.

Smart pharmacist in surgical blue. Old woman  knows not what to do. Buying a plethora of drugs and Maalox too.  Pharmacist yells so that she can understand.

“Your Medicare only covers a fraction in this plan.” 

Big blonds and beer.  Big tits and atmosphere.  Chase queers in big trucks.  A grande latte at Starbucks.

You who talk so loudly on a cellular phone, spinning rims from a pay day loan.  Looking for sharp sunglasses, left the kids at home.  Long white t shirt hides a stomach which has grown.

I wanna be a member of a health club.  Tongue piercing, lap dancing and romancing at cool bars.

Hefty man with a brass knuckle tattoo, Confederate flag shirt and a missing tooth.  Buying a windmill for the grass at the trailer park.  Plumber’s crack in faded jeans.  Abandoned cars, stray dogs and ripped up screens.

The motorized scooters and the oxygen tanks.  Lotto tickets and Marlboro Lights.  Have a coupon for the chips on sale.  Partially hydrogenated heart will fail.  Good health warnings like wind in sails.  Muslim women shopping behind veils.

Mulatto children and blond women.  Gang bangers in Elmo shirts.  Doddering elderly and the grossly obese.  Fertilizer, CDs and Cheddar Cheese.

It is all here in the biosphere, on a trip to Americana.

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