Blackhumouristpress's Blog

August 28, 2009

The Texture Of Apples And Pears

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 2:33 am
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Friends, visitors, and people in the back,
You may have seen this video already, but I don’t care.
It’s really funny and you should watch it again:

And if you laughed as much as I did, please buy the book, it’s even better. Really. There’s a lot in here.

http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/the-texture-of-apples-and-pears/7217941

August 27, 2009

Truth and Reconciliation

In the year 2013, after the re-election of President Obama and an even greater Democratic control of the House of Representatives and the Senate, came the Truth and Reconciliation Committee.

The idea initially came from South Africa where former prisoners who were tortured under the apartheid regime prior to 1994, could confront the perpetrators. The perpetrators would receive amnesty but have to face the shame of what they did.

The Truth and Reconciliation Committee in the United States forced some big fish to confront those accused of terrorism in an attempt to win over moderate elements within terror organizations. George Bush and Richard Cheney showed up and listened when subpoenaed. George W. Bush looked at his watch frequently as his father had once done in a debate. Rather than risk jail, both former heads of the United States government showed to hear stories of torture and humiliation. The hearings were broadcast on Spike TV in between Ultimate Fighting bouts. The hearings were not on a delay as they were being broadcast in real time. The apologies were numerous and appeared to be sincere until they got to Ambrose Ambrister.

Ambrose Ambrister had been a POW for two years in Vietnam before escaping into Thailand. He went to work for the CIA and was directly responsible for a torture manual that was referred to as the New Testament.

On the panel were two Republicans and six Democrats. The questions came rapid fire. Ambrose Ambrister was living happily and peaceably in the Bahamas until his mother of ninety years of age grew ill. When Ambrister returned to the United States to attend to his mother, he had no choice but to face the committee or face jail time. Ambrose Ambrister spoke freely.

“Ambrose Arthur Ambrister, born April 20th 1948 in Pontiac, Michigan, graduated West Point, served two tours of duty in Vietnam, was a prisoner of war from February 1970 to June 1972 before escaping. He received the bronze Medal of Honor and became general a major before retiring from the Army in 1979. He served in the Reagan, George Herbert Walker Bush administrations and was responsible for conducting interviews of potential terrorists… Is this all correct?” Asked an older middle aged woman as she read from a piece of paper in front of her.

“Yes except that I was actually born in Waterford, Michigan… My mother went into labor at home and the car broke down in the driveway and my father had to deliver me in the back seat of a Pontiac… Fortunately there was good weather that day. So it was actually in a Pontiac rather than in Pontiac… Otherwise the facts are all correct.”

Laughter broke out in the hearing room, lined with photographers and reporters. Ambrose chewed at his nails while listening and studied the manicuring job he did with his own teeth. Twice he spit away pieces of his nails.

A spectacled man of Arab descent stepped forward and with the aid of an interpreter, explained the direct contact he had with Ambrose Ambrister.

“I was taken into a room… After being hosed down with a high pressure hose used to extinguish fires… Mr. Ambrose would smile and offer me a plate of pork sausage and beer with a large German woman on the label with exposed cleavage. The temperature in the air was very cold and my teeth chattered… He would ask me if I was ready to discuss where I was trained and by whom. I told him that I was no more than a citizen of my country. I then was forced to eat the sausage and drink the beer even though I was on a hunger strike. I was then lead to what they called Waikiki Beach… It was small pool where the water was heated to a temperature that would not kill you but would burn you so badly that one would have no choice but to scream and cry. I begged them to stop and they would tie me up and soak me while I screamed. All the while they forced me to listen to a song called The Candy Man by a black man whom they claimed was a Jew. I then would be dried off and a young woman in a bikini would come in and shave all the hair on my body except my face. On my face they would twine my moustache with wax so that it stuck up in the air like Salvador Dali. I don’t know who that is but they would make me scream over and over in Spanish, “Yo soy Salvador Dali”. Then they would attach a rubber band to my penis and force my genitals up towards my buttocks until my front appeared to be that of a shaved vagina. The woman in the bikini would then use a marker to draw a slit where my penis would normally be. Mr. Ambrose would only come once a week but when he came, this sort of treatment would go on for hours…”

The former prisoner accused of terrorism had submitted to the tactics and signed a confession that he had wired a road with explosives that maimed several American soldiers and destroyed a truck. The truth was that the prisoner had done it and there were witnesses who saw former prisoner just minutes before a convoy came down the street. The former prisoner was put up at the Waldorf Astoria free of charge, with food and a round trip ticket to and from New York City. It was believed by most on the committee that showering hardliners with gifts and forcing those responsible for the humiliation to confront victims, that moderation would flourish. It never really happened. After twelve months and millions of dollars, the Truth and Reconciliation hearings were stopped. Ambrose Ambrister was the last to face the committee.

“If I could clarify a few things… I personally loved Sammy Davis Jr. The man had a great voice. As a young man in Vietnam, Sammy Davis Jr. took a picture with me and Bob Hope as part of the USO. They risked their lives to sing and entertain. Those were unselfish Americans who appreciated the job we were doing…” Said Ambrose.

“Is there more that you’d like to clarify?” Asked a Republican member with a southern drawl.

“Yes… The Salvador Dali thing was not my idea. It was one of my men actually. I wanted him to say Rollie Fingers…” Said Ambrose.

“Sir… Rollie Fingers?”

“Yes… Mr. Fingers was a pitcher for the Oakland Athletics back in the seventies who actually invited me as his own personal guest to see the World Series in Oakland, California after escaping a prisoner of war camp… His moustache was more similar to Rollie Fingers actually. It curled at the ends… Oh and Waikiki Beach was just a hot tub, nothing more and nothing less,” said Ambrose.

“How do you explain the other claims?”

“Well I’m going to level with you; I learned from masters in North Vietnam. They were some cruel bastards. They were all trained by the Chinese actually and it’s no mistake that terrorism does not occur in China. The Chinese would hunt them down and torture them until they begged to be killed. Knowing that we couldn’t torture prisoners to death, I used all at my disposal to extract the proper amount of regret for atrocities and what have you.”

“Were you ordered by the president of our nation or any cabinet members, chiefs of staff or others, to carry out these sorts of strategies in order to gain compliance?”

“No ma’am. I was given carte blanche to do what was necessary to get prisoners to cooperate,” said Ambrose.

“How do you explain the humiliation of tying up his genitals and drawing female parts on him?”

“I’ll level with you… This was an old West Point hazing ritual we would do with the young guys. We’d shave them down and hike their equipment back and make them walk the locker room. They had to walk with one hand on the back of their heads like Mae West and repeat “How you like me now, big boy”… This was just a little light hazing. Let’s be honest with each other here…. This sort of stuff goes on in fraternities all over the country and nobody has to come in front of congress to face hardened criminals who are dead set on destroying us. You people put the prisoners up at the Waldorf and I’m staying at the Days Inn on my own dime. Sometimes you get an innocent person here or there, that’s part of life. Think about all the people who go to a hospital and die of malpractice. You could fill a jumbo jet daily with the number of people dying each day and crash that plane into a side of a mountain. How bout the bankers and investors that nearly killed our financial system?”

“Okay, thank you Mr. Ambrister… You may step down.”

“What about those of you that take kick backs from lobbyists and then go to bat for whatever their cause is? How many of you are cheating on your taxes and your wives? As long as we got this tribunal, let’s clean the slate. If were purging each other of past sins and crimes, let’s hear everything… Cold water, hot water, Sammy Davis Jr, Salvador Dali, Rollie Fingers, Pontiac and Pontiac, Michigan… What are we doing here? This is the best exploitation show that ever was. You should be getting those who you lent money to, to buy air time and make a few bucks back for the tax payers…”

“Thank you again, Mr. Ambrister…”

People from all over the country showed up at the Days Inn in Queens and chanted his first name over and over again. The crowd grew so large that cops had to be called in and then a riot squad. Ambrose was soon put on a plane with his mother and flown to Freeport in the Bahamas on a military jet. The next morning, Ambrose sat on a lawn chair next to his wife and mother looking out at the ocean. Ambrose’s mother read the transcripts of what his son had said to the Truth and Reconciliation Committee. She studied her son’s picture and set the paper down on her lap and stared straight ahead. Ambrose asked his mother what she thought of it all. After careful reflection, she spoke.

“This is the first time I ever thought this, son… But after reading this article and seeing your picture, I have to say you look a lot like Ted Kennedy.”

“Thanks mom, I knew you’d understand.”

August 18, 2009

The Hockey Moms

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:52 am

 

            The hockey moms of the Pee Wee major ice hockey team of suburban Detroit, Michigan called Little Caesar’s, had been getting together the last Friday night of every month.  The plan for one particular Friday in early September was to meet and eat at Champp’s on Big Beaver Road and then all drive to Royal Oak to go to Memphis Smoke to listen to a Cajun band from New Orleans.

            Matilda, a spunky woman of nearly forty years of age, was the one to gather up the mom’s who she liked on the team of fifteen boys.  Some of the hockey moms were frumpy and overly consumed with their son’s hockey while others were just there to be supportive but still maintain who they were as individuals. 

            Matilda became friends with Annie, Maria and Lorie.  The four women worked out together on road trips to Chicago or Toronto and joined a fitness center together in Southfield.  They shopped at malls and they jogged and drank together.

            Matilda was the team manager and it was her job to make sure that all parents paid their dues to the team, had the practice schedule, game and tournament schedules.  Matilda’s son was a goalie as was her husband Jay.  Jay was a computer guy that played in high school and still played recreationally with some friends in a beer league in Taylor, Michigan.  Jay and Matilda’s son was the starting goalie for Little Caesar’s.  In the league, they were in third place behind Team Illinois and Honeybaked. 

            Jay suspected that his wife had a thing for the hockey coach who was kind of a rough around the edges guy who played minor league hockey and was well built, had a rugged smile and was the life of the party.  Everyone liked Tom, especially the moms.  They liked that he was in shape, talked to all of them and drank with all of them in the lounges on the road.  Matilda liked Tom because she had a similar personality to him.  Her husband was quiet and soft spoken.  Matilda was a wind up toy; full of spunk and energy.

            Maria was one of those Hispanic women who could pass for white and since she was immersed in a white sport, married to a white man and living in a predominantly white suburb, Maria was an honorary white hockey mom.  Maria ran five miles a day, ate sparingly and had less body fat on her than 98% of all women walking the earth.  Maria loved watching her son play but never stopped running races while her son played a high level of hockey.  Maria’s husband was usually out of town.  They hardly fought but they also did not have much in common.  They weren’t unlike many parents and married couples.

            Lorie was a salesperson for a cable company.  Her job was to try and get car dealerships and car makers to buy advertising.  She landed the Ford Motor Company all by herself and that account alone, brought in six figures alone.  Lorie was married to a high school sweat heart that was a flop as a salesman for vacuum cleaners.  He made close to $15,000.00 last year and the comparison was more than a sore spot.  Lorie took care of almost everything.  Lorie had a boyfriend who worked for Ford.  They got together for dinner now and then and usually went back to his apartment in Greektown to drink red wine and fuck.  There cycle was about every 13 to 14 days.  No flowers, cutesy text messages or nothing.  One would send the other a very business like text message after about ten days.

            WHAT IS YOUR SCHED LIKE NEXT WEEK?  CAN YOU MEET FOR DINNER AND A DRINK?

                        Dinner was usually several glasses of wine and then more wine at a Greek tavern and then a bottle up in the executive’s apartment which was used for just the women he was banging.  His trophy wife took golf lessons during the day in Farmington Hills, lifted weights and swam at their country club.  His wife was fucking someone on the side too and that guy was fucking someone else and so on.

            Annie had a few children and took really good photographs with her husband and kids.  Their family of the year photos could all be found on Facebook with all kinds of compliments.  They really could have collectively done catalogue photo shoots and vacation commercials and all.  Annie loved her life at home, with the kids and her husband.  One day Tom the hockey coach innocently asked if Annie was a natural blond.  Annie was insulted by the question.

            “You’re asking me if I dye my hair?  Is that what you’re asking?  What kind of thing is that to ask?  Why would that be any of your fucking business?”  Asked Annie, rapid fire.

            Tom felt badly and tried hard to do damage control.  As big as he was, he cowered like a little boy and stammered and stuttered as he tried to explain why it was that he asked.

            “I’m really sorry…  I meant to say that your blond hair looks natural and it goes really well with your freckles and blue eyes and all…  So many chicks… I mean women, dye their hair and it looks goofy with dark roots and I didn’t see any dark roots on you and so… I’m sorry.  You’re really attractive and I didn’t mean nothing by the comment.  I’m sorry for offending you.  Just pretend like I didn’t even talk to you… Really, I didn’t mean to insult you.”  Explained Tom.

            Later, Annie sent a Text message to Tom.  He was quite happy and relieved to receive it.

            HEY!  YOU’RE REALLY A BUNDLE OF NERVES.  I’M SO SORRY FOR GRILLING YOU.  I OWE YOU A DRINK.  CAN YOU MEET ME IN BERKLEY FOR A DRINK AFTER PRACTICE?

            The answer was a very quick yes.  Annie dropped off her son after practice and told her husband that she was meeting Matilda to talk about some family stuff that she was having trouble with.  Her husband wasn’t listening.  He was watching highlights of the last Michigan State football game.  It was a game he attended in Lansing just two days earlier but was watching all the televised highlights.  He never heard a word Annie said but responded with okay and I love you.

            Now nothing had happened sexually between Tom and Annie at that point.  They did have some drinks; tell some jokes, gossiped about some of the bizarre parents on the team, talked about their childhoods, favorite vacation spots and so on.  Annie had to ask if Tom was fucking Matilda.  Tom wasn’t and said he wasn’t but Annie wasn’t buying it.  Annie had no reason to doubt what he said and even less of a right to be jealous but she was in a competitive way.  Annie was pretty as was Matilda but Matilda tried hard to be notice and that was just not Annie’s thing.

            Time went on and Tom sent Annie text messages and emails, always conscious that Annie was married, had children, a husband, a house in the suburbs, a few cars, a vacation home, a time share, a boat and so on.  Tom went out of his way to never discuss Annie’s husband or what his own role was in Annie’s life.  It was heavy flirting with a heavy cloud of sexuality that hung most ominously.  It was the elephant in the room and they just ignored it for the time being. 

            Matilda picked up Annie and met up with Lorie and Maria at Champp’s.  They had salads and Margaritas and talked about mundane things, gossip and so forth.  After a few hours, they headed over to Memphis Smoke.  A racially mixed group from New Orleans played jump style blues with an accordion and a wash board.  The large black man with a space in his front teeth played the accordion and sang in French.  Every once in a while he would yell out “et toi”.  The women jumped around and danced together and had a great time. 

            Sitting at the bar, watching one of the last Tiger’s games for the season on one of several televisions strapped to the ceiling, was Tom the hockey coach.  Annie knew he would be there since she had text messaged him and asked him to show up.  Annie commented to Lorie.

            “That looks like Tom at the bar…”

            “Which one?”  Asked Lorie.

            “The one in the t shirt with the Tigers hat on…” said Annie.

            A waltz like ballad played by the Zydeco/Cajun band was conducive to a slow dancing.  Maria went and grabbed Tom and brought him out to dance with all four of the ladies at once.  They all took turns taking spins with the coach.  He smiled brightly and had a great time with the moms.

            “Ma cherie, ma coeur le soleil du matin… je voudrais etre ton homme et habitent dans ma maison… Ma maison avec vous, ma cherie, ma coeur, le soleil du matin… Vous etes ma femme… Et toi! 

             Annie had decided that whatever may happen may happen and if it was going to happen, she needed to ditch the others sooner than later.  Annie came up with an excuse.

            “Hey look… I don’t mean to be a poop but I gotta get home early tonight.  My little one has been sick and I really should get home,” said Annie, while pretending to look at a text message from her husband.

            Lorie and Maria tried to convince Annie to stay longer while Matilda seemed to understand and was ready to leave.

            “Yeah, I really should get going to.  We got that game tomorrow against Cleveland and the boys need to be there an hour before the game… Right coach?

Dressed in a white shirt, tie, black shoes, one hour before the game.”  Said Matilda.

            With that, Annie and Matilda took off in Matilda’s Lincoln SUV.  Now both women were more than a little buzzed and the chances of being pulled over on the 696 by the Michigan State Police was high.  Annie pulled off the highway near Telegraph and parked in a parking lot of a medical center.  There were no cars around.  Matilda turned off the car and turned her body so that she could face Annie.  Matilda smiled a nervous smile, took Annie’s hands and leaned over and put her tongue in Annie’s mouth.  She held Annie’s face in her hands and kissed her hard.  Annie was not only grossed out but was shocked.

            “Does this really come as a surprise to you, Annie?  You had to have seen this coming.  I’ve wanted you for so long and I think you knew, did you?”  Asked Matilda.

            “Um actually I thought you were fucking Tom on the side.  I had no idea that you were a …” said Annie before being cut off.

            “A dyke, a lesbo, a carpet muncher… what else?  You know what?  I’m a mother who has been married for nearly fifteen years to a man who is really sweet but a fucking bore and I need something he can’t give me and he knows it.  I believe we could have something so sweet and yet toxic… Hardcore and gentle…  Just remember that it takes courage to enjoy it…”

 Annie was trying to get out of the SUV but Annie had the doors looked.

            “Look… would you be okay coming home with me?  Jay is totally cool with us being together.  He really just wants to watch more than anything.  I mean if you’re cool with him joining, that’s fine with me too.”  Said Matilda.

            “Um… I’d really like to get the fuck out of the car right now more than anything…” said Annie.

            “Just be cool… I’ll take you home but think about it.  I think you’d really like it if you’d just give it a chance… I love you, Annie.”  Said Matilda.

            Now Annie got into her Chrysler mini van with a 3.5 liter engine in black with tinted windows.  The Sponge Bob CD was in the player and sippy cups were in the cup holders with books and crayons on the floor of the van.  Annie drove back to Memphis Smoke.  Tom was watching highlights of other baseball games at the bar.  The Zydeco band was winding up their final set.  A few couples slowly danced to the sounds of the violin and accordion.  Tom and Annie joined them.  The large sweating black man smiled and played the accordion while he sang in French.

            Vous etes la femme pour ma Coeur mais la vie c’est  tres difficile… Je voudrais a partir avec vous a l’isle tres loin… Tres loin avec vous… je vais trouver le chateau pour nous.  Sous les etoilles et le lune… Vous etes ma femme ce soir…  Vous etes ma femme ce soir.

August 14, 2009

Preying on the Poor

Filed under: Auto Industry,Detroit,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:09 am
Tags: , , , ,
August 12 at 2:17am
Filmed in Detroit about late night local car sales on Television in Chicago.

http://www.youtube.com/wat ch?v=lFs8t4S0cQo

August 10, 2009

Detroit Vacation

This one is not fiction. I left Chicago Friday at 11:00 am. My day actually began or ended depending on how you look at things, when I finished writing a blog entry/short story entitled, “Menage a Trois” at 12:30am Friday morning. I took a sleeping pill, watched highlights of baseball on ESPN and turned in at roughly 2:00am and rose bright eyed at 5:30. I grabbed my hockey equipment and headed to Johnny’s Ice House on Madison Avenue in the west loop of Chicago. Twenty two men rose before the rooster to get some exercise in at 6:30 in the morning. I finished playing, cleaned up and headed north on the 94 to where I live up in Evanston. It may be that everyone is on vacation in August or that everyone is losing their jobs. At 8:00am in downtown Chicago, I was able to take the expressway through the city without applying the breaks once during the twelve mile trip north of the city. I gathered up my clothes and musical equipment and readied myself for the five hour trip to Detroit.

Jason, the baritone saxophone player in the Chicago group I play in called Skapone, showed up in his Cadillac STS. He stood out in front of the house as the dogs howled. He smoked his cigarette and looked past the trees as if he was looking for something. Jason walked in with his Doc Marten Boots, black military pants and black long sleeve shirt. He wore round granny glasses a la John Lennon but with black lenses. Jason stands at five feet seven inches with brown hair on his head that goes where it wants to. Jason has a perpetual smirk on his face that tells one that he is not only sceptical but expects proof at all times that whoever he is talking to, should prove that they are worthy of being heard. We loaded our stuff into my 2006 Dodge Magnum and headed east (actually south in the City of Chicago) towards the Irving Park exit.

Standing on the curb five feet from the homeless guy wearing $100.00 gym shoes and a Cubs hat, was Chris. Chris is one of two guitarists in the band Skapone that is headquartered in Chicago. Chris was wearing a military issue pair of shorts that he bought for $10.00 at Sears. Nobody I know is still buying anything at Sears and in fact the largest icon in the United States once named the Sears Tower, is now named Willis. I have heard from people in and around Chicago that Willis is the name of a British company that owns a majority of the space within the building. I won’t ever call it Willis. I still call it Peking duck, Burma and the dictator Khadaffi. I’m just an old creature of Habit.

Chris jumped in and we were on our way. This trip would not have the same quaintness of Sal Paradise in On the Road by Jack Kerouac. I had a debit card full of money and five one hundred dollar bills in my pocket. There would be no picking up Ed Dunkle in New Orleans to make a stop in Denver and then onto to San Francisco. We were going to play music for the weekend in Detroit and then return to our lives in Chicago.

Jason’s job is to create circuit boards that go into the making of automobiles for General Motors. When he’s not playing music he is working for a company in suburban Chicago that is trying to find a way to make his job obsolete and put him out on the street. Problem is that they need him right now. Jason tells GM that there is a problem with this or that on conference calls with a committee of six or seven on the phone of people that cannot make a decision quickly or at all, in the city of Detroit. Jason has a soft spot for them and drives a Cadillac. Despite what you may hear, a Cadillac is still a Cadillac.

Chris is a door man at a small drinking establishment on the north side of Chicago. He is six feet two inches and resembles an Irish lad. Without hearing his Midwest accent, you could imagine an Irish brogue flowing like water from his lips. Chris is in the running for under achiever of the year and does not even care that he may win. He holds a masters degree in philosophy and checks identifications of young urban professionals who flock to the cutting edge club where there are no buckets of Bud, five dollar wings or Cub games on thirty televisions strapped the walls. Living hand to mouth is more favorable than being a cog in the wheel and so it is for Chris.

We meet our other band member who made the trip in Detroit. Lincoln is an African American or black as most people say when they don’t feel compelled to say something as wordy as African American. Lincoln drove himself separately from the south side of Chicago in his Subaru SWV from 1994 that he loves as much as one could love a non breathing object. Lincoln lives on the south side of Chicago and works as a bailiff during the day at a county courthouse on the south side. Lincoln sings at his Catholic church on the south side, visits strip clubs and lives alone in a condo. Lincoln’s parents both died within the last ten years and his sister married a man from Spain and moved to Seville. Band members of Skapone are his family even though he may not actually like any of us.

Lastly there is me. I can’t fairly and objectively, describe myself. Let’s just say I play bass guitar, sing and am the narrator of this thing. I not only play bass for Skapone but also for Superdot, a similar Ska/Reggae outfit that hales from Detroit. I was going to be the Detroit tour guide for my Chicago compadres for the weekend. I’m in Detroit at least once a month or more. I have to return in just two weeks for a wedding.

I chose to make our stay at the Motor City Casino in downtown Detroit, one mile from the Ambassador Bridge that leads to Canada. The neighborhood surrounding the Motor City Casino has beat up homes that are still occupied but mostly abandoned. The nicest buildings in the neighborhood are the ones that belong to the Teamsters. A banner one block from the casino reads, “Casino workers… Your credit union is right here”.

For me, the sites of factories covered with graffiti without a window left in the structure is no big deal. As we rolled up on Grand River towards the casino, there is very little between the Chrysler Freeway and the Las Vegas style casino that had a dancing light display on the sides of the building. It looked like a mirage in the desert across the blocks and blocks of vacant space that had crab grass and other weeds growing through the cracks of foundations that used to house homes. The boys were in awe. Jason commented first.

“People actually still live here… This is great. I feel safer in this desolate bombed out part of Detroit than back home in my own suburban neighborhood.”

There was nobody on the side streets where there were maybe a half dozen homes to a block and many wide open spaces. We gathered up our things and checked into the casino hotel. The first thing that strikes you is the smell of cigarettes everywhere. Smoking in public places, at restaurants, clubs and hospitals, is all still legal. Everyone but me smokes in Detroit or so it seems. Most people are black but a smattering is white. People are overweight to grossly obese. Lumbering black women with their daughters and their daughter’s children, spending a night at the casino in lieu of a formal vacation, wore sleeveless shirts and tight pants over their enormous posteriors and arms that looked liked thighs that jiggled whenever they moved. For me it’s sad to think that the fractured family spends its family vacation in town at a Disneyland set up for adults to drink and gamble. There is no pool for the children or any play area to speak of. The children stay in their hotel rooms and play video games and watch pay per view movies as they do at home. The only difference is the clean rooms with piped in cool air and a view of Detroit that makes the city look not that scary at night.

The whites at the casino are not unlike the blacks. They are segregated for the most part without problem or incident. They too are overweight and most like spending their vacations or weekend get away at the casino in town. They all queue up in line at the buffet stocked full of a variety of good and bad food alike called the Assembly Line. Four in the morning or four in the afternoon is no different, there are people, smoke, Motown music playing through speakers, cocktail waitresses and mostly working class people risking their earnings and savings at the casino; The mirage in inner city Detroit.

I proceeded to lose forty dollar before taking off for the northern suburb of Berkley which is north and west of downtown Detroit. In Berkley, homes were neat and orderly and there were no pawn shops, barber shops, MB Churches with hand painted signs on the building, staggering drunks, junkies and prostitutes. It is white and affluent and insulated from the inner city. The suburbs are insulated from Detroit but cannot exist without the city. People enter The Berkley Front and sit at the downstairs bar to watch the Tigers play the Minnesota Twins, drink beer and eat fried food. There was one waitress who looked as though she hated life. She never smiled, rolled her eyes over our need to see a menu before eating and wore a tank top t shirt without a bra. Her sagging boobs, frayed jeans and messy hair went well with her demeanour; she did not give fuck, welcome to Detroit, what do you need?

I played two sets in front of a fairly full establishment with the band Superdot and Skapone without event. We earned our duckets and headed back to the Motor City Casino after eating Taco Bell at three in the morning on a park bench, under a waxing moon. Crickets went well with a warm humid night where everyone seemed to be sleeping in the suburbs. When we returned to the casino, there was hardly a parking spot to be found. Heavy bass pumped from old Caprices with shiny rims, jacked up with tinted windows. People filed in and out of the casino at three in the morning. The night was electric. I went up and got into bed and flipped channels as I waited for sleep to come. On three hours of sleep, I played ice hockey, drove five hours, played two sets of music and lay in bed wide awake. Sleep came nearly 24 hours later with the help of a sleeping pill. That and Shark Week, helped me to finally slip down stream.

Saturday was a rainy dreary day. We filed into the car and headed south to suburban Taylor to find a Denny’s since the boys did not want to pay $18.00 a head to eat at the Assembly Line. I was tempted to pay for them for the luxury of not having to travel fifteen miles to find a Denny’s where I ate the exact same breakfast in Seattle, Washington just the weekend before. There was absolutely nothing different in the omelette, dry potatoes or grits. Two thousand miles between restaurants and it may as well have been the same place. I returned the hotel and used their state of the art exercise equipment to try and offset as best as possible all the calories I took in between drinking and eating since leaving home. I spent three hours at the health club between lifting and running. I got my money’s worth there. The boys were antsy and wanted to see something worth seeing in Detroit. The only thing that came to mind in inner city/downtown Detroit was Greek town, a two block area near the baseball and football stadiums, houses Greek restaurants, bars and shops. It’s a great place to people watch and just walk around and not feel too apprehensive. The boys loved Greek town. They loved the flaming cheese, shots of Ouzo and lamb with rice. We got back in the car and headed over to our second show of the weekend which would be an outside block party under a tent in Warren, Michigan.

I took 75 north to eight mile road. Marshall Mathers made eight mile road popular in his movie and rap tunes. Eight mile road is the northern border of Detroit and is eight miles north of a particular point where Woodward Road begins in the heart of downtown Detroit. I stopped for gas at a Sunoco and noticed a sign for a three bedroom brick ranch for sale for $17,500.00 cash. A fucking house could be purchased for less than a new car, a good new car. The party was off of Nine Mile. It was a party of mostly young people that would have rather heard rap than white reggae. Be that as it may, we played our sets and sat around and socialized for a while. Me being a student of human nature, I marvelled at the young women who showed up all dressed up as if going to a night club to just drink cheap beer and shots of Captain Morgan outside. When dance music blared on the sound system after we finished playing, young women under twenty took turns dancing seductively while holding one of the two poles that supported the tent. Young white men with cocked baseball hats and cheap tattoos, bobbed their hands and heads to the music while holding forty ounce beers or full bottles of hard alcohol. I got the feeling that the night was nothing more than a diversion from the mundane routine day to day life of an area that was not much more affluent than the depressed areas of inner city Detroit. It was a front yard with a tent and booze. It may as well have been a night club though.

We made a stop at liquor store on eight mile where you can pay all your bills too. There were no grocery stores around and so the liquor store that looked like an emporium was actually the catch all store for the neighborhood. An Arab man behind the bullet proof glass smiled as he accepted money through the lazy Susan, bullet proof spinner. There were five different magazines devoted to cars, weed and black women with extremely large asses on the counter next to colored condoms on a spinner rack. We were not approached or hassled or robbed. I went in apprehensive but nothing happened. Chris even pissed on the wall that separated the emporium from a vacant lot. A football field away were several young black men who noticed the parked Magnum and large white dude pissing on the wall. Yet nothing happened.

I returned to the casino and slipped a hundred dollar bill into a slot machine and proceeded to lose almost all of it when I hit it. I won $597.00 and cashed out. I then got greedy and lost $200.00 after that. I still came out ahead for a change. We woke, got our things together and headed out on the highway on a hot sunny day. The ramp that takes you from the 75 to the 94 going west has a large factory that is riddled with graffiti and sits without one window still in place. It is the same structure that was covered with a gigantic tarp several years back when the city of Detroit hosted the Super bowl. The tarp helped to keep the eyes of the rest of the nation off of the dismal reality of what Detroit has become and what it looks to be for years to come. The recovery may just skip over Detroit. It has not been a city most would consider inhabiting since before the first men walked on the moon, since Vietnam and since Robert F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. walked the earth. Jason posed an obvious question as we made our way towards Ann Arbor. It is a question that anyone who may live in New York, Los Angeles or Chicago may ask; what is the appeal for you in this city?

The answer is that there is nothing fake in Detroit. Everything in Detroit is really real. If it’s bad where you live it is probably worse in Detroit and yet the people for the most part are no worse for the wear. If I had $17,500.00 cash, I’d by a three bedroom brick ranch there and make it my summer palace. But that’s just how I am.

August 7, 2009

Menage a trois

Joe and Sara were high school sweethearts. Joe was four years older than Sara and so when Joe was in his last year of high school; Sara was graduating from junior high school. At 26 and 22 years of age, the difference between them was no longer and issue.

Joe and Sara married last year and at about the time of the honeymoon in Freeport, Bahamas, Joe suddenly had little interest in sex. Joe had never had never had a problem with impotence in the past but it was becoming increasingly obvious that his libido was not what it was. Something about marriage brought this about. Sara worried that the issue was that she was unattractive or not seductive enough. She followed all the directions in Cosmo Magazine on the six ways to make him scream. Joe’s Wang lay dormant against his right thigh with every new tactic. He was frustrated and angry at his own penis. Joe seriously thought he had a problem until he attended a wedding with Sara of one of her cousins in Akron, Ohio. It was at the wedding that Sara’s chubby cousin Abby, asked Joe to dance with her. Joe had always liked his thin framed wife who was a running fanatic. Sara had small breasts and thin hips and not much in the way of a buttock. Sara had a pretty face. Abby, who was the same age as Sara but lived in Akron while Sara lived in Cleveland, had always carried a little meat on her. Abby was active but was built like a female softball player. Abby had thicker legs and a round bottom with full breasts. After several glasses of champagne and wine, Joe found that while slow dancing with Abby, he had developed a full fledged erection. It was boner of the first order just like he had every morning as a boy and like he used to have upon kissing Sara on the neck. Joe held Abby close to him and was careful not to press up against her. Abby whispered something in Joe’s ear about how awkward one of the men on the dance floor looked with his gaudy tux and bad looking hair piece. There was no mistaking that Joe was rock hard. Abby was surprised at first and pulled back. She was impressed that she had that kind of an effect on Joe. After all, Abby had always considered herself second tier next to her cousin Sara. Sara was the one the guys always wanted to talk to at the movie theater or the mall when they were younger. Abby was pretty buzzed and was enjoying the night. She pressed herself against Joe and smiled up at him. Joe was slightly embarrassed until Sara teased him about it.

“Joey… It appears someone here has joined the military and is standing at perfect attention…”

Joe blushed a bit and tucked his lips in as he tried not to laugh. Abby kissed him on the cheek and rubbed her crotch against him and whispered in his ear so that nobody could tell what she was doing.

“Joey… That feels so good. If I didn’t love my cousin like a sister, I would take you out to the parking lot and fuck you raw… That sounds so crass, I’m sorry. I would take you out to the parking lot and make beautiful love with you. I’ve caught you over the years checking my tits and ass out. You’re not quick enough to look away before being caught… I’m right aren’t I, Joe?”

Joe just smiled. It was about that time that Sara came over, a bit concerned over what they were whispering back and forth. They both motioned over to the man with no rhythm with the crooked rug on his head in a powder blue tux and white shoes. Sara no longer suspected anything. Joe excused himself and went to the bathroom of the banquet hall. There was a black man hired as an attendant in a tux with tails who had a raspy voice like Louis Armstrong. He hummed Celebration by the Commodores that played loudly on the dance floor while he handed a man a paper towel and asked him if he wanted a squirt of cologne. The white man asked if the Louis Armstrong look and sound a like if he had heard the score of the Cleveland Indians against The Boston Red Sox.

“Well sir, I ain’t hoyd the radio since I come to work. I know they was winning in the thoid an that only is cause they have Sabathia pitchin. If they could pitch him and Cliff Lee everyday, they’d never lose.”

“Amazing isn’t it?” Said the stuffy man who wouldn’t normally talk to a bathroom attendant except for the fact that he was riding high on whiskey sours. “They have two Cy Young winners and not a damn guy who can hit. It’s sad. I love going to watch the Indians. It’s such a great stadium but the team stinks.”

While talk of baseball went on, Joe pulled his stiff member from his pants and jerked away at it. He closed his eyes and imagined Abby’s wide ass in the air and his hands wrapped around her, clutching her large breasts while and kissing her on the neck. He then imagined her telling him to slip it into her ass.

“I know you love my fat ass, Joey. Put it in my crapper…”

Joe came all over the wall. It took a little over a minute and the two men were still agonizing over the Cleveland Indians. Joe mopped up the cum that dribbled on the toilet seat and that was dripping down the wall. He stood there trying to urinate for a good minute. He zipped up, washed his hands and joined in on the conversation about the Indians. Joe then returned to the table where Abby and Sara were talking. They continued to drink and Abby flirted out in the open in front of Sara. As drunk as Sara was, she was taken back by her cousin. Joe’s mind was temporarily clear and so he did not engage in the flirting. About one in the morning, Joe hailed a cab to get them to their hotel. Sara barely got in the cab and closed the door before she started hitting Joe with questions.

“So you two have something going on, don’t you?”

“She’s just buzzed… She’s known me forever and just feels comfortable with me…”

“Yeah? She told me you had a fucking hard on while you two danced. Is that true? You were rubbing your cock on my cousin’s twat? You can’t fucking get hard anymore with me but with Abby, you’re ready to go, huh?”

The cab driver alternated between watching the road and the drama in the back seat. Both Joe and Sara were too drunk to notice. Joe was prone to be honest after drinking heavily and so he told his wife what was so appealing to him about Abby. That night Sara slept on the hide a bed in the living room of their hotel suite. Joe fell asleep pretty quickly but Sara stayed up thinking about the whole thing. In the morning she climbed into bed and kissed Joe until his eyes opened. Joe was surprised. He opened his eyes as he lay on his side and just looked at his smiling wife.

“I’m not mad at you, Joe. I thought about it and know that guys get bored and some times want a different flavor. I’m totally not cool with you having affairs and prostitutes but gave it some thought last night… I think Abby would be totally cool with a three some and I think that is something you would really want.” Said Sara.

“This is a tactic to get me to admit what I really think and want and then you’re going to scream and throw shit, right?”

“Absolutely not. I will allow you anything but fucking her. That is sacred between us… The caveat is that I have to be there in bed with both of you.”

Joe was excited. He wanted her to call Abby. He thought that they could have breakfast and then come back to bed and fuck all afternoon. He pictured himself eating Abby out and maybe even slipping his tongue up her wide ass and when the desire became overwhelming to put it in her, he would pop it in his wife who would be in the corner finger diddling herself. Joe then visualized giving it to his wife from behind and while she licked her own cousin’s cunt and tits. Joe was almost trembling with desire.

“Can you call her now?”

Sara had more class than that and her ultimate idea was to bring zest back into their bedroom. Sara discussed going to their grandfather’s cottage near New Buffalo, Michigan, right off the shores of Lake Michigan. Sara set it all up. Sara had started menstruating on Monday and by Friday; she was already for action again. Joe went into her bathroom to see if there was another X on the calendar in her bathroom. It was a calendar of various cats. Sara loved cats. The cat of the month was a Siamese. All Joe could think about was climbing all over Abby. It was going to be great. The only thing that might ruin things is if Abby had her period. Joe brought it up to Sara and Sara asked Abby. Everything was clear. Joe tried not to look too excited by that news but he was jumping up and down inside.

Joe and Sara picked up Abby on a day that had a clear fall day with a hot breeze. Joe took the top down to his Jeep and packed the cooler with sandwiches and beer. Abby got in and sat in the back and said barely a word as they headed west towards Lake Michigan on the Indiana Toll Road. Joe tried hard not to speed but if he could have gone a 100, he would have. Joe began to notice Sara and Abby were unusually quiet and feeling awkward. They both had their arms folded and were staring out of their sides of the Jeep. Joe saw signs for wineries and decided that he would hit a few of them with the girls. Both girls were happy to sample some reds and whites. They hit four in a five mile area and were beginning to get giggly. At the last one called Hickory Creek; the older man opened up a bottle and gave them all a healthy pour and then poured another for them and poured one for himself. The older guy with a gentle smile discussed the wineries he visited all over the world and was most satisfied in Michigan of all places. Joe bought six bottles of assorted red and rushed to the cottage. The girls carried in their back packs and Joe carried in the cooler and case of wine. They stood in the living room and looked at each other and laughed. It felt very junior high to them all at that moment. Joe attempted to down play the whole thing and he was buzzed enough to do it.

“Okay… We’ve all had sex before but just not with each other. I think we know one another to be cool with this…”

Joe went to one of the three bathrooms and washed his nuts, cock and armpits and popped some mints into his mouth. He emerged from the bathroom ready to go. Sara asked him to go down to the basement to get the extra pillows that her grandfather kept in storage. Joe pulled the light chain and jogged down the stairs. It was dark in one corner but it looked to him like there were people sitting on the couch. It scared him. He pulled the next chain to illuminate the entire basement. Sitting in the corner on the couch were two Indian looking men with large beards. These weren’t the Indians that Columbus found when he landed on the island of Hispaniola or modern day Haiti and Dominican Republic, these too were not the mini mart “hello my friend” Indians. They were Pakistani convicts that had lived two years in Guantanamo Bay Cuba. They had been Cricket players that had given large amounts of money to a mosque in suburban Detroit to help build schools in Pakistan. The money was placed in an account to help fund terrorist activities and training in Afghanistan. Amir and Amal had no idea that their money was being used to fund terrorism. They were born and raised in Pakistan. They had played professional Cricket for Pakistan and were supposed to marry identical twin girls who were also Pakistani in the states. They arrived at O’Hare Airport in Chicago to meet their future wives. There they were; two clean cut Pakistani athletes who happened to be identical twins, meeting their future wives who were also identical twins. As they cleared the door way, they saw the two women that were to be their wives. They wore different color head scarves to differentiate them just as Amal wore black and Amir wore white. The moment they stepped off the plane in Chicago, several white men in suits with ear pieces and sun glasses, hustled them away. They had a bag placed over their heads and when the hoods were removed they were in Cuba. For two years.

President Obama got the idea to close the base and scatter the prisoners all over the country. Amir and Amal wound up in a prison near Benton Harbor, Michigan. They were in charge of cooking and were helping the delivery guy load cheese and meat in through a service door. The guard responsible for watching them, was fighting with his wife on his cell phone when Amal and Amir, held a box cutter against the neck of the delivery driver. They tied him up and dumped the truck near Stevensville, Michigan before they stole a car at a gas station. They then parked the car and took off on foot, wearing surgical colored clothes. The luck of the draw brought them to the same cottage that Joe, Sara and Abby were going to have their ménage a trois. The give away that the place was vacant was the sign on the window to the mailman to have their mail diverted back to the girl’s grandparent’s winter home in Florida.

Joe stood there motionless in his Ohio State t shirt and Indians hat. The Indians hat had the ridiculous image of a big nosed smiling Indian in the center of the cap. It looked a lot like Amir. Amal laughed at the hat and told his brother in their language that he resembled the figure on the cap. He poked his brother with the shot gun barrel and told him to shut up.

“Take that fucking hat off your head,” said Amir.

“If you yell, I vill kill you. If you reach into your pockets, I vill kill you… Do you understand me?” Said Amir.

The two bearded men lead Joe upstairs into the bedroom where Sara and Abby were naked, kissing each other in the bed while drinking red wine from the bottle. They hadn’t stopped to acknowledge Joe or the other two men standing behind him. Amal yelled out.

“Put on your clothes… Now!”

The two identical twins had become more religious in Cuba. They had gone from rather secular people to believing that America and Americans were pure evil. Upon finding out that Abby and Sara were cousins, ready to partake in sex with Sara’s husband they were convinced that evil reigned supreme among the average American. Case in point; naked cousins, drinking and having sex with each other. While getting dressed, Sara pushed 911 on her cell phone. She coughed when the woman came on to address her. She started asking the men if they were going to kill them.

“Are you going to kill us? If so, just go ahead and shoot all of us. We just ask you not to cut our heads off and put it on Youtube. We don’t want to be part of some martyr crusade to kill innocent Americans. We just came to have a nice weekend at our grandfather’s cabin, Pete Miller who lives in Florida and comes here to New Buffalo for the summers. We don’t want to die… We have nothing against you people…”

The dispatcher quietly dispatched police to the cottage and listened as Sara spoke to the twin men.

“Shut your mouth… Shut up! You people, You people… Vat dee ell does you people mean. Terrorists? Vee grow beards and vee are obviously terrorists, right? Vell Vee are not terrorists and ve are going to get to Canada and find our way back to Pakistan. So as they say here; shut the fuck up, bitch.”

Amir and Amal duct taped the three of them to chairs and grabbed the keys to Joe’s Jeep and headed out on the highway. The two men’s beards rippled in the wind. Tire spikes popped the air out of the tires and the Jeep nearly tipped over. Michigan State troopers and local police swarmed to the scene. The two brothers were taken back to the prison. The official word was unofficial and the prison authorities fabricated a storey for the press. Nobody knew that accused terrorists were living on American soil. They knew that was the plan because it was being thrown around as an idea even though it was already being done. Luckily it was kept under wraps. Nobody knew about Amal and Amir. The cops cut the tape off of the three of them and questioned them for several hours. About midnight, they were allowed to go back to the cottage. Joe knew that the escapees had killed the mood. He was hoping that a glass or two of wine would bring back the feeling. Joe hugged both women at the same time and Abby pushed them both away.

“Look, I love you both and I was willing to do this more for both of you and whatever hang ups you both have… I really believe this was a sign from god to not do this. I mean, god sends us clues and this was a really big fucking clue. We could have been executed by those two freaks… I’m sorry but I can’t go through this,” said Abby.

Sara chimed in.

“You’re totally right, Abs… I really think this was a message to all of us. It’s just too weird and I’m sorry I suggested it… What do you think, Joe?”

Joe was too disappointed to say anything and knew that this whole episode would make his member turtle up for some time to come.

“I don’t know what to say… It’s definitely bad karma…”

At the same time, Amir and Amal thought the same thing. It was a day of dashed hopes for all by coincidence or possibly divine providence. It all depends on what you believe.

Menage a trois

Filed under: obama,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 4:59 am

Joe and Sara were high school sweethearts. Joe was four years older than Sara and so when Joe was in his last year of high school; Sara was graduating from junior high school. At 26 and 22 years of age, the difference between them was no longer and issue.
Joe and Sara married last year and at about the time of the honeymoon in Freeport, Bahamas, Joe suddenly had little interest in sex. Joe had never had never had a problem with impotence in the past but it was becoming increasingly obvious that his libido was not what it was. Something about marriage brought this about. Sara worried that the issue was that she was unattractive or not seductive enough. She followed all the directions in Cosmo Magazine on the six ways to make him scream. Joe’s Wang lay dormant against his right thigh with every new tactic. He was frustrated and angry at his own penis. Joe seriously thought he had a problem until he attended a wedding with Sara of one of her cousins in Akron, Ohio. It was at the wedding that Sara’s chubby cousin Abby, asked Joe to dance with her. Joe had always liked his thin framed wife who was a running fanatic. Sara had small breasts and thin hips and not much in the way of a buttock. Sara had a pretty face. Abby, who was the same age as Sara but lived in Akron while Sara lived in Cleveland, had always carried a little meat on her. Abby was active but was built like a female softball player. Abby had thicker legs and a round bottom with full breasts. After several glasses of champagne and wine, Joe found that while slow dancing with Abby, he had developed a full fledged erection. It was boner of the first order just like he had every morning as a boy and like he used to have upon kissing Sara on the neck. Joe held Abby close to him and was careful not to press up against her. Abby whispered something in Joe’s ear about how awkward one of the men on the dance floor looked with his gaudy tux and bad looking hair piece. There was no mistaking that Joe was rock hard. Abby was surprised at first and pulled back. She was impressed that she had that kind of an effect on Joe. After all, Abby had always considered herself second tier next to her cousin Sara. Sara was the one the guys always wanted to talk to at the movie theater or the mall when they were younger. Abby was pretty buzzed and was enjoying the night. She pressed herself against Joe and smiled up at him. Joe was slightly embarrassed until Sara teased him about it.
“Joey… It appears someone here has joined the military and is standing at perfect attention…”
Joe blushed a bit and tucked his lips in as he tried not to laugh. Abby kissed him on the cheek and rubbed her crotch against him and whispered in his ear so that nobody could tell what she was doing.
“Joey… That feels so good. If I didn’t love my cousin like a sister, I would take you out to the parking lot and fuck you raw… That sounds so crass, I’m sorry. I would take you out to the parking lot and make beautiful love with you. I’ve caught you over the years checking my tits and ass out. You’re not quick enough to look away before being caught… I’m right aren’t I, Joe?”
Joe just smiled. It was about that time that Sara came over, a bit concerned over what they were whispering back and forth. They both motioned over to the man with no rhythm with the crooked rug on his head in a powder blue tux and white shoes. Sara no longer suspected anything. Joe excused himself and went to the bathroom of the banquet hall. There was a black man hired as an attendant in a tux with tails who had a raspy voice like Louis Armstrong. He hummed Celebration by the Commodores that played loudly on the dance floor while he handed a man a paper towel and asked him if he wanted a squirt of cologne. The white man asked if the Louis Armstrong look and sound a like if he had heard the score of the Cleveland Indians against The Boston Red Sox.
“Well sir, I ain’t hoyd the radio since I come to work. I know they was winning in the thoid an that only is cause they have Sabathia pitchin. If they could pitch him and Cliff Lee everyday, they’d never lose.”
“Amazing isn’t it?” Said the stuffy man who wouldn’t normally talk to a bathroom attendant except for the fact that he was riding high on whiskey sours. “They have two Cy Young winners and not a damn guy who can hit. It’s sad. I love going to watch the Indians. It’s such a great stadium but the team stinks.”
While talk of baseball went on, Joe pulled his stiff member from his pants and jerked away at it. He closed his eyes and imagined Abby’s wide ass in the air and his hands wrapped around her, clutching her large breasts while and kissing her on the neck. He then imagined her telling him to slip it into her ass.
“I know you love my fat ass, Joey. Put it in my crapper…”
Joe came all over the wall. It took a little over a minute and the two men were still agonizing over the Cleveland Indians. Joe mopped up the cum that dribbled on the toilet seat and that was dripping down the wall. He stood there trying to urinate for a good minute. He zipped up, washed his hands and joined in on the conversation about the Indians. Joe then returned to the table where Abby and Sara were talking. They continued to drink and Abby flirted out in the open in front of Sara. As drunk as Sara was, she was taken back by her cousin. Joe’s mind was temporarily clear and so he did not engage in the flirting. About one in the morning, Joe hailed a cab to get them to their hotel. Sara barely got in the cab and closed the door before she started hitting Joe with questions.
“So you two have something going on, don’t you?”
“She’s just buzzed… She’s known me forever and just feels comfortable with me…”
“Yeah? She told me you had a fucking hard on while you two danced. Is that true? You were rubbing your cock on my cousin’s twat? You can’t fucking get hard anymore with me but with Abby, you’re ready to go, huh?”
The cab driver alternated between watching the road and the drama in the back seat. Both Joe and Sara were too drunk to notice. Joe was prone to be honest after drinking heavily and so he told his wife what was so appealing to him about Abby. That night Sara slept on the hide a bed in the living room of their hotel suite. Joe fell asleep pretty quickly but Sara stayed up thinking about the whole thing. In the morning she climbed into bed and kissed Joe until his eyes opened. Joe was surprised. He opened his eyes as he lay on his side and just looked at his smiling wife.
“I’m not mad at you, Joe. I thought about it and know that guys get bored and some times want a different flavor. I’m totally not cool with you having affairs and prostitutes but gave it some thought last night… I think Abby would be totally cool with a three some and I think that is something you would really want.” Said Sara.
“This is a tactic to get me to admit what I really think and want and then you’re going to scream and throw shit, right?”
“Absolutely not. I will allow you anything but fucking her. That is sacred between us… The caveat is that I have to be there in bed with both of you.”
Joe was excited. He wanted her to call Abby. He thought that they could have breakfast and then come back to bed and fuck all afternoon. He pictured himself eating Abby out and maybe even slipping his tongue up her wide ass and when the desire became overwhelming to put it in her, he would pop it in his wife who would be in the corner finger diddling herself. Joe then visualized giving it to his wife from behind and while she licked her own cousin’s cunt and tits. Joe was almost trembling with desire.
“Can you call her now?”

Sara had more class than that and her ultimate idea was to bring zest back into their bedroom. Sara discussed going to their grandfather’s cottage near New Buffalo, Michigan, right off the shores of Lake Michigan. Sara set it all up. Sara had started menstruating on Monday and by Friday; she was already for action again. Joe went into her bathroom to see if there was another X on the calendar in her bathroom. It was a calendar of various cats. Sara loved cats. The cat of the month was a Siamese. All Joe could think about was climbing all over Abby. It was going to be great. The only thing that might ruin things is if Abby had her period. Joe brought it up to Sara and Sara asked Abby. Everything was clear. Joe tried not to look too excited by that news but he was jumping up and down inside.
Joe and Sara picked up Abby on a day that had a clear fall day with a hot breeze. Joe took the top down to his Jeep and packed the cooler with sandwiches and beer. Abby got in and sat in the back and said barely a word as they headed west towards Lake Michigan on the Indiana Toll Road. Joe tried hard not to speed but if he could have gone a 100, he would have. Joe began to notice Sara and Abby were unusually quiet and feeling awkward. They both had their arms folded and were staring out of their sides of the Jeep. Joe saw signs for wineries and decided that he would hit a few of them with the girls. Both girls were happy to sample some reds and whites. They hit four in a five mile area and were beginning to get giggly. At the last one called Hickory Creek; the older man opened up a bottle and gave them all a healthy pour and then poured another for them and poured one for himself. The older guy with a gentle smile discussed the wineries he visited all over the world and was most satisfied in Michigan of all places. Joe bought six bottles of assorted red and rushed to the cottage. The girls carried in their back packs and Joe carried in the cooler and case of wine. They stood in the living room and looked at each other and laughed. It felt very junior high to them all at that moment. Joe attempted to down play the whole thing and he was buzzed enough to do it.
“Okay… We’ve all had sex before but just not with each other. I think we know one another to be cool with this…”
Joe went to one of the three bathrooms and washed his nuts, cock and armpits and popped some mints into his mouth. He emerged from the bathroom ready to go. Sara asked him to go down to the basement to get the extra pillows that her grandfather kept in storage. Joe pulled the light chain and jogged down the stairs. It was dark in one corner but it looked to him like there were people sitting on the couch. It scared him. He pulled the next chain to illuminate the entire basement. Sitting in the corner on the couch were two Indian looking men with large beards. These weren’t the Indians that Columbus found when he landed on the island of Hispaniola or modern day Haiti and Dominican Republic, these too were not the mini mart “hello my friend” Indians. They were Pakistani convicts that had lived two years in Guantanamo Bay Cuba. They had been Cricket players that had given large amounts of money to a mosque in suburban Detroit to help build schools in Pakistan. The money was placed in an account to help fund terrorist activities and training in Afghanistan. Amir and Amal had no idea that their money was being used to fund terrorism. They were born and raised in Pakistan. They had played professional Cricket for Pakistan and were supposed to marry identical twin girls who were also Pakistani in the states. They arrived at O’Hare Airport in Chicago to meet their future wives. There they were; two clean cut Pakistani athletes who happened to be identical twins, meeting their future wives who were also identical twins. As they cleared the door way, they saw the two women that were to be their wives. They wore different color head scarves to differentiate them just as Amal wore black and Amir wore white. The moment they stepped off the plane in Chicago, several white men in suits with ear pieces and sun glasses, hustled them away. They had a bag placed over their heads and when the hoods were removed they were in Cuba. For two years.
President Obama got the idea to close the base and scatter the prisoners all over the country. Amir and Amal wound up in a prison near Benton Harbor, Michigan. They were in charge of cooking and were helping the delivery guy load cheese and meat in through a service door. The guard responsible for watching them, was fighting with his wife on his cell phone when Amal and Amir, held a box cutter against the neck of the delivery driver. They tied him up and dumped the truck near Stevensville, Michigan before they stole a car at a gas station. They then parked the car and took off on foot, wearing surgical colored clothes. The luck of the draw brought them to the same cottage that Joe, Sara and Abby were going to have their ménage a trois. The give away that the place was vacant was the sign on the window to the mailman to have their mail diverted back to the girl’s grandparent’s winter home in Florida.
Joe stood there motionless in his Ohio State t shirt and Indians hat. The Indians hat had the ridiculous image of a big nosed smiling Indian in the center of the cap. It looked a lot like Amir. Amal laughed at the hat and told his brother in their language that he resembled the figure on the cap. He poked his brother with the shot gun barrel and told him to shut up.
“Take that fucking hat off your head,” said Amir.
“If you yell, I vill kill you. If you reach into your pockets, I vill kill you… Do you understand me?” Said Amir.
The two bearded men lead Joe upstairs into the bedroom where Sara and Abby were naked, kissing each other in the bed while drinking red wine from the bottle. They hadn’t stopped to acknowledge Joe or the other two men standing behind him. Amal yelled out.
“Put on your clothes… Now!”
The two identical twins had become more religious in Cuba. They had gone from rather secular people to believing that America and Americans were pure evil. Upon finding out that Abby and Sara were cousins, ready to partake in sex with Sara’s husband they were convinced that evil reigned supreme among the average American. Case in point; naked cousins, drinking and having sex with each other. While getting dressed, Sara pushed 911 on her cell phone. She coughed when the woman came on to address her. She started asking the men if they were going to kill them.
“Are you going to kill us? If so, just go ahead and shoot all of us. We just ask you not to cut our heads off and put it on Youtube. We don’t want to be part of some martyr crusade to kill innocent Americans. We just came to have a nice weekend at our grandfather’s cabin, Pete Miller who lives in Florida and comes here to New Buffalo for the summers. We don’t want to die… We have nothing against you people…”
The dispatcher quietly dispatched police to the cottage and listened as Sara spoke to the twin men.
“Shut your mouth… Shut up! You people, You people… Vat dee ell does you people mean. Terrorists? Vee grow beards and vee are obviously terrorists, right? Vell Vee are not terrorists and ve are going to get to Canada and find our way back to Pakistan. So as they say here; shut the fuck up, bitch.”
Amir and Amal duct taped the three of them to chairs and grabbed the keys to Joe’s Jeep and headed out on the highway. The two men’s beards rippled in the wind. Tire spikes popped the air out of the tires and the Jeep nearly tipped over. Michigan State troopers and local police swarmed to the scene. The two brothers were taken back to the prison. The official word was unofficial and the prison authorities fabricated a storey for the press. Nobody knew that accused terrorists were living on American soil. They knew that was the plan because it was being thrown around as an idea even though it was already being done. Luckily it was kept under wraps. Nobody knew about Amal and Amir. The cops cut the tape off of the three of them and questioned them for several hours. About midnight, they were allowed to go back to the cottage. Joe knew that the escapees had killed the mood. He was hoping that a glass or two of wine would bring back the feeling. Joe hugged both women at the same time and Abby pushed them both away.
“Look, I love you both and I was willing to do this more for both of you and whatever hang ups you both have… I really believe this was a sign from god to not do this. I mean, god sends us clues and this was a really big fucking clue. We could have been executed by those two freaks… I’m sorry but I can’t go through this,” said Abby.
Sara chimed in.
“You’re totally right, Abs… I really think this was a message to all of us. It’s just too weird and I’m sorry I suggested it… What do you think, Joe?”
Joe was too disappointed to say anything and knew that this whole episode would make his member turtle up for some time to come.
“I don’t know what to say… It’s definitely bad karma…”
At the same time, Amir and Amal thought the same thing. It was a day of dashed hopes for all by coincidence or possibly divine providence. It all depends on what you believe.

August 3, 2009

Wine with the Prime Minister

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:24 am
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After 225 years of French rule in North America, a battle on the Plains of Abraham ended all that. A general for the British by the name of Wolfe, defeated a French general by the name of Montcalme at the Battle of Quebec in 1759. At the Treaty of Paris in 1763, New France was named Quebec. France was left with two islands near Newfoundland. The British sought to have all French inhabitants assimilate into British ways. In 1774, fearing that the French citizens of Quebec might team up with George Washington and company, the British passed the Quebec Act which recognized French law, language, culture and the Roman Catholic Church. Assimilation was impossible after the passage of that act. French culture continued in Quebec.
In October of 1995, the 30th to be exact, the future of Canada as we know it presently, was being decided. The province of Quebec was voting on a referendum to decide if Quebec should be a sovereign nation. Two weeks before the casting of the vote in Quebec, the sovereign vote was ahead in the polls by nearly five percent. The night of the election, everyone was on the edge of their seats, in Canada only.
93% of eligible voters turned out to vote making it close to 4.7 million voters in Quebec. 53,498 people out of 4.7 million were the difference in Quebec becoming a sovereign nation and seceding from Canada. Most of the 53,000 people were foreign born non-French and non-English speaking immigrants. For the Parti Quebecois, it was a defeat to be sure. There to this day are grumblings and strong feelings in Quebec about going it alone where French could be spoken by French without having to ever speak English. Where stop signs would forever say Arête and any Americanized, English words would and could be abolished once and for all. The preservation of French culture would have been mandated by law instead of the French and English that now exists in the province of Quebec. Not very interesting? Not many people took notice outside of Canada at the time and today not many know that the future of Canada was being decided the day before Halloween in 1995. But this really is not the story. The story is the story within the story, which is usually the case. It’s not the substance that mattered it was the drama and tension as a result of the referendum.
To protect his identity and to keep me from being sued, I have altered the name of the Parti Quebecois member of the Canadian House of Commons, representing an area not far from the Ontario border in Quebec by the name of Etienne Cadeau.
Etienne was short and portly. His dark hair was receding and he had a large gap between his two front teeth. Etienne had a gift for being able to talk to anyone about anything and seem interested. It is a trait which is necessary to be a politician.
Mr. Cadeau was born and raised in the Atlantic coast city of Gaspe not far from where Jacques Cartier planted a cross for France back in 1534.
Etienne’s father was a fisherman and his mother raised nine children. Etienne was an above average student who went to Laval in Quebec City and became a lawyer. While is college, Etienne met and married a woman by the name of Jeanette who was born in the city of Gatineau, not far from the nation’s capital of Ottawa in the province of Ontario.
Mr. Cadeau left the Liberal Party to join the Bloc Quebecois in 1990 and became a member of parliament representing a region of western Quebec. Things looked good for those that wanted sovereignty for Quebec. Mr. Cadeau saw himself as a possible candidate for the first president of the Republic of Quebec. He could be the French George Washington and forever live on coins and paper money. The night of the election, Etienne watched the results from a bar that was frequented by French Canadian politicians and other various separatists. On the wall were pictures of Rene Levesque and Charles de Galle, the French Canadian flag and the words, “Je me souviens” which translates to mean in English, I remember or I remember my French heritage.
As the hours passed, Etienne and others became more drunk and disappointed. Etienne sat at a table with other MPs of French extraction that were looking forward to a new nation for North American Francophones. It became clear late in the evening that the referendum had been defeated by a 50.6 to 49.4 percent. One percent of the province was the difference. Etienne was so upset that he threw down his Canadian money with the English queen on it and staggered out into the night. The air was cold with a hint of winter that was about to come to that part of Canada. Etienne got into his Citroen that he imported from France and drove towards the bridge that would take him across to Ottawa where he lived during sessions of parliament.

Bill Stowe was a descendant of people who once lived in the colony which became the United States of America. They were loyalists and wanted to remain loyal to the crown. After the colonists gained their own country, Bill’s ancestors moved north. Over the course of two hundred years, Bill’s family never bred much with people over other persuasions. There was a Dutch woman and a Flemish Belgian man who married into the Stowe clan. For the most part, they were of Anglo-Saxon stock.
Bill had played hockey and was a stand out in the Ontario Hockey League until one too many concussions sidelined his career and forced him to seek other means to an end. Bill became a police officer in the OPP or Ontario Provincial Police.
Bill grew up in Ajax which was about 50 kilometers from the city of Toronto. Upon being hired into the OPP, Bill had to move to Windsor near the Detroit border and then all the way to Cornwall near the Quebec border. It had been five years that Bill had been living and working for the OPP near Ottawa. Bill liked Ottawa.
Bill sat sipping Tim Horton’s Coffee and talking to a fellow trooper on the citizen band radio about their men’s league hockey team that was taking a trip to Calgary to play against other police teams from all over Canada and the United States. The team to beat were the Mounties from near Edmonton. They had won the tournament three years in a row. This year, Bill’s team got some fresh blood. Two young rookies just got done playing in the Ontario Hockey League and were more than capable of helping the Ottawa OPP.
Coming off the bridge that leads from Hull, Quebec to Ottawa, Ontario was the black Citroen. The Citroen’s wheels screeched as Etienne cornered. It was on Queen Elizabeth Street that Etienne cornered too fast and slammed head on into a lamppost. Bill had followed the screeching Citroen with Quebec plates, ever since the bridge. Etienne sat banging his head on the steering wheel of his car that was cleaved right up the center of the car. Etienne was able to start the car again. He put it in drive, thinking that he was in reverse and knocked the lamppost down onto two other parked cars. One of the parked cars had just some dents on the hood but the second one had the ornamental head of the lamp, resting on the front seat of the sedan after it had ripped through the windshield. Etienne got out of his car and kicked and punched as he swore in French. Unbeknownst to him, Bill walked up and flashed a light in Etienne’s eyes. Bill spoke first.
“Sir… Don’t move. I want to hear from you what just happened,” commanded Bill.
“What happened? I will tell you what appened… We lost our chance to be our own nation by less than one percentage point. Eef we aad won dee referendum, ah would not be eer raht now speaking to ahn English speaking cop een fucking Ottawa… Fucking dumb English prick,” said an inebriated Etienne, while staring at the light of the flash light.
“Sir, I need to know why it is that you were driving so fast that you lost control of your vehicle. Calling me names is not going to help you right now, eh? I need to see your driver’s license…”
Etienne had set his wallet down on the chair besides where he was sitting at the bar in Hull. Nobody would steal the wallet and it was probably being held by the bartender at that moment. Etienne let the officer know what had happened.
“Ah can geeve you the name and number of the bar een Hull. Ah left eet on a chair next to me… Een any event, I ham a MP. I leeve on Queens Street when I ham not leeving en Quebec,” said Etienne.
“Sir… I’m going to have to take you in to custody,” said Bill.
Etienne did not go down without a fight. He swore and punched Bill. Bill could be heard on the radio, calling for backup. Three other troopers showed within a minute to detain the member of the House of Commons. Later that morning, under the light of day, Etienne was released from OPP holding pen. Reporters from papers all over Canada as well as the CBC camped out to get a comment from the drunken driving Member of Parliament. Etienne refused to speak English. In French he made a statement in the form of questions. Here is the English translation;
“If I were an English speaking member of the House of Commons, would I have been arrested? Do you believe this is another symbolic statement by government officials that the French citizens of this nation will always be second class citizens within Canada? You need to answer these questions. The people of Quebec have voted by the thinnest of margins to remain part of Canada and who were the 50,000 who put the no vote over the top? Not French speaking citizens of Quebec whose lineage dates back three hundred years to France… That’s all I can say right now…”
A sharp witted columnist who had a syndicated column in English language newspapers throughout Canada commented on the incident. That more than anything else, fuelled the smoldering fire. In Quebec, separatists began to smash windows of businesses that had English sounding names. A five second film clip showed a group of separatists singing in French and burning the Canadian flag. The scene looked more like the taking of American hostages in Iran than something that could have happened in Canada. It was at that point that the prime minister had to step in.
Jean Chrétien, the 20th Prime Minister of the country which is Canada, tried to calm the situation. Luckily for Chretien at the time, there were no reporters around when he was told about the situation. He did say in French, “ Il est tres stupide…”. It wasn’t clear if the situation was stupid, The drunk member of parliament or the OPP police officer. In either case, the press was not present to hear the prime minister. The situation escalated without any help.
Jean Chretien, understood that even though the referendum had failed, the country could still be in crisis due to an individual incident that was quite symbolic; French discrimination from an English heavy hand. Chretien had invited the two men in question to meet on the Plains of Abraham to drink a bottle of wine from the province of Ontario and another from the province of Quebec. Red wine would be drunk by the three men from each province in a dark wooded room that overlooked the St. Lawrence River from the Chateau Frontenac. Bill Stowe, Etienne Cadeau and Jean Chrétien sat in the room and discussed the whole situation and the situation that occurred from the situation. Before both bottles were finished, the conversation turned to ice hockey. Bill graciously declared that Maurice “The Rocket” Richard was probably the best hockey player to have played the sport even though in his heart bill believed it to really be Gordie Howe. Etienne declared that the best player was difficult to declare but that it might have been Gordie Howe since he was able to play professionally into his fifties even though Etienne really believed the best of best was Maurice Richard. All men declared by the end of meeting that they would do all within their abilities to keep Canada intact. Seven years later at the invitation of the prime minister, Etienne and Bill watched Canada win the gold medal for Canada. The two men with lumps in their throats, stood as the national anthem played. Both men sang the words in their own languages as the flag was raised above all others in Utah. It was a proud moment for Canada. Oh Canada…

After 225 years of French rule in North America, a battle on the Plains of Abraham ended all that. A general for the British by the name of Wolfe, defeated a French general by the name of Montcalme at the Battle of Quebec in 1759. At the Treaty of Paris in 1763, New France was named Quebec. France was left with two islands near Newfoundland. The British sought to have all French inhabitants assimilate into British ways. In 1774, fearing that the French citizens of Quebec might team up with George Washington and company, the British passed the Quebec Act which recognized French law, language, culture and the Roman Catholic Church. Assimilation was impossible after the passage of that act. French culture continued in Quebec.
In October of 1995, the 30th to be exact, the future of Canada as we know it presently, was being decided. The province of Quebec was voting on a referendum to decide if Quebec should be a sovereign nation. Two weeks before the casting of the vote in Quebec, the sovereign vote was ahead in the polls by nearly five percent. The night of the election, everyone was on the edge of their seats, in Canada only.
93% of eligible voters turned out to vote making it close to 4.7 million voters in Quebec. 53,498 people out of 4.7 million were the difference in Quebec becoming a sovereign nation and seceding from Canada. Most of the 53,000 people were foreign born non-French and non-English speaking immigrants. For the Parti Quebecois, it was a defeat to be sure. There to this day are grumblings and strong feelings in Quebec about going it alone where French could be spoken by French without having to ever speak English. Where stop signs would forever say Arête and any Americanized, English words would and could be abolished once and for all. The preservation of French culture would have been mandated by law instead of the French and English that now exists in the province of Quebec. Not very interesting? Not many people took notice outside of Canada at the time and today not many know that the future of Canada was being decided the day before Halloween in 1995. But this really is not the story. The story is the story within the story, which is usually the case. It’s not the substance that mattered it was the drama and tension as a result of the referendum.
To protect his identity and to keep me from being sued, I have altered the name of the Parti Quebecois member of the Canadian House of Commons, representing an area not far from the Ontario border in Quebec by the name of Etienne Cadeau.
Etienne was short and portly. His dark hair was receding and he had a large gap between his two front teeth. Etienne had a gift for being able to talk to anyone about anything and seem interested. It is a trait which is necessary to be a politician.
Mr. Cadeau was born and raised in the Atlantic coast city of Gaspe not far from where Jacques Cartier planted a cross for France back in 1534.
Etienne’s father was a fisherman and his mother raised nine children. Etienne was an above average student who went to Laval in Quebec City and became a lawyer. While is college, Etienne met and married a woman by the name of Jeanette who was born in the city of Gatineau, not far from the nation’s capital of Ottawa in the province of Ontario.
Mr. Cadeau left the Liberal Party to join the Bloc Quebecois in 1990 and became a member of parliament representing a region of western Quebec. Things looked good for those that wanted sovereignty for Quebec. Mr. Cadeau saw himself as a possible candidate for the first president of the Republic of Quebec. He could be the French George Washington and forever live on coins and paper money. The night of the election, Etienne watched the results from a bar that was frequented by French Canadian politicians and other various separatists. On the wall were pictures of Rene Levesque and Charles de Galle, the French Canadian flag and the words, “Je me souviens” which translates to mean in English, I remember or I remember my French heritage.
As the hours passed, Etienne and others became more drunk and disappointed. Etienne sat at a table with other MPs of French extraction that were looking forward to a new nation for North American Francophones. It became clear late in the evening that the referendum had been defeated by a 50.6 to 49.4 percent. One percent of the province was the difference. Etienne was so upset that he threw down his Canadian money with the English queen on it and staggered out into the night. The air was cold with a hint of winter that was about to come to that part of Canada. Etienne got into his Citroen that he imported from France and drove towards the bridge that would take him across to Ottawa where he lived during sessions of parliament.

Bill Stowe was a descendant of people who once lived in the colony which became the United States of America. They were loyalists and wanted to remain loyal to the crown. After the colonists gained their own country, Bill’s ancestors moved north. Over the course of two hundred years, Bill’s family never bred much with people over other persuasions. There was a Dutch woman and a Flemish Belgian man who married into the Stowe clan. For the most part, they were of Anglo-Saxon stock.
Bill had played hockey and was a stand out in the Ontario Hockey League until one too many concussions sidelined his career and forced him to seek other means to an end. Bill became a police officer in the OPP or Ontario Provincial Police.
Bill grew up in Ajax which was about 50 kilometers from the city of Toronto. Upon being hired into the OPP, Bill had to move to Windsor near the Detroit border and then all the way to Cornwall near the Quebec border. It had been five years that Bill had been living and working for the OPP near Ottawa. Bill liked Ottawa.
Bill sat sipping Tim Horton’s Coffee and talking to a fellow trooper on the citizen band radio about their men’s league hockey team that was taking a trip to Calgary to play against other police teams from all over Canada and the United States. The team to beat were the Mounties from near Edmonton. They had won the tournament three years in a row. This year, Bill’s team got some fresh blood. Two young rookies just got done playing in the Ontario Hockey League and were more than capable of helping the Ottawa OPP.
Coming off the bridge that leads from Hull, Quebec to Ottawa, Ontario was the black Citroen. The Citroen’s wheels screeched as Etienne cornered. It was on Queen Elizabeth Street that Etienne cornered too fast and slammed head on into a lamppost. Bill had followed the screeching Citroen with Quebec plates, ever since the bridge. Etienne sat banging his head on the steering wheel of his car that was cleaved right up the center of the car. Etienne was able to start the car again. He put it in drive, thinking that he was in reverse and knocked the lamppost down onto two other parked cars. One of the parked cars had just some dents on the hood but the second one had the ornamental head of the lamp, resting on the front seat of the sedan after it had ripped through the windshield. Etienne got out of his car and kicked and punched as he swore in French. Unbeknownst to him, Bill walked up and flashed a light in Etienne’s eyes. Bill spoke first.
“Sir… Don’t move. I want to hear from you what just happened,” commanded Bill.
“What happened? I will tell you what appened… We lost our chance to be our own nation by less than one percentage point. Eef we aad won dee referendum, ah would not be eer raht now speaking to ahn English speaking cop een fucking Ottawa… Fucking dumb English prick,” said an inebriated Etienne, while staring at the light of the flash light.
“Sir, I need to know why it is that you were driving so fast that you lost control of your vehicle. Calling me names is not going to help you right now, eh? I need to see your driver’s license…”
Etienne had set his wallet down on the chair besides where he was sitting at the bar in Hull. Nobody would steal the wallet and it was probably being held by the bartender at that moment. Etienne let the officer know what had happened.
“Ah can geeve you the name and number of the bar een Hull. Ah left eet on a chair next to me… Een any event, I ham a MP. I leeve on Queens Street when I ham not leeving en Quebec,” said Etienne.
“Sir… I’m going to have to take you in to custody,” said Bill.
Etienne did not go down without a fight. He swore and punched Bill. Bill could be heard on the radio, calling for backup. Three other troopers showed within a minute to detain the member of the House of Commons. Later that morning, under the light of day, Etienne was released from OPP holding pen. Reporters from papers all over Canada as well as the CBC camped out to get a comment from the drunken driving Member of Parliament. Etienne refused to speak English. In French he made a statement in the form of questions. Here is the English translation;
“If I were an English speaking member of the House of Commons, would I have been arrested? Do you believe this is another symbolic statement by government officials that the French citizens of this nation will always be second class citizens within Canada? You need to answer these questions. The people of Quebec have voted by the thinnest of margins to remain part of Canada and who were the 50,000 who put the no vote over the top? Not French speaking citizens of Quebec whose lineage dates back three hundred years to France… That’s all I can say right now…”
A sharp witted columnist who had a syndicated column in English language newspapers throughout Canada commented on the incident. That more than anything else, fuelled the smoldering fire. In Quebec, separatists began to smash windows of businesses that had English sounding names. A five second film clip showed a group of separatists singing in French and burning the Canadian flag. The scene looked more like the taking of American hostages in Iran than something that could have happened in Canada. It was at that point that the prime minister had to step in.
Jean Chrétien, the 20th Prime Minister of the country which is Canada, tried to calm the situation. Luckily for Chretien at the time, there were no reporters around when he was told about the situation. He did say in French, “ Il est tres stupide…”. It wasn’t clear if the situation was stupid, The drunk member of parliament or the OPP police officer. In either case, the press was not present to hear the prime minister. The situation escalated without any help.
Jean Chretien, understood that even though the referendum had failed, the country could still be in crisis due to an individual incident that was quite symbolic; French discrimination from an English heavy hand. Chretien had invited the two men in question to meet on the Plains of Abraham to drink a bottle of wine from the province of Ontario and another from the province of Quebec. Red wine would be drunk by the three men from each province in a dark wooded room that overlooked the St. Lawrence River from the Chateau Frontenac. Bill Stowe, Etienne Cadeau and Jean Chrétien sat in the room and discussed the whole situation and the situation that occurred from the situation. Before both bottles were finished, the conversation turned to ice hockey. Bill graciously declared that Maurice “The Rocket” Richard was probably the best hockey player to have played the sport even though in his heart bill believed it to really be Gordie Howe. Etienne declared that the best player was difficult to declare but that it might have been Gordie Howe since he was able to play professionally into his fifties even though Etienne really believed the best of best was Maurice Richard. All men declared by the end of meeting that they would do all within their abilities to keep Canada intact. Seven years later at the invitation of the prime minister, Etienne and Bill watched Canada win the gold medal for Canada. The two men with lumps in their throats, stood as the national anthem played. Both men sang the words in their own languages as the flag was raised above all others in Utah. It was a proud moment for Canada. Oh Canada…

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