Blackhumouristpress's Blog

October 27, 2009

Lentement

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 5:44 am

Dites moi lentement … La vie, Australie, le mer des caribe
Dites moi lentement… ce n’est pas necessaire a travailler
Dites moi lentement… Vous me comprend ma couer totalment
Dites moi lentement… Vous etes jeune avec beacoups des temps
Dites moi lentement… Quand vous etes mort, il y a un place pour vous
Dites moi lentement… Bon anniversaire comme les autres et beaucoups pour l’avenir
Dites moi lentement… Nous habitons au Canada dans une petite maison pres de la mer
Dites moi lentement… il y a un raison pour tous les choses et peut-etre un jour je vais a comprend

October 21, 2009

Gypsy Voodoo Queen Martini Maker

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:13 am
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

It all at once hit Glad. Her husband had been having an affair with a woman the same age as their children and their son was in trouble once again with the law. Glad began to cry as she stood in front of the prison. She felt so helpless and alone. Glad wondered what it was that she could have done in her life to deserve what was happening to her.
Standing outside his cab, within a few feet of Glad was Horatio. Horatio was an average European looking man with a strong five o’clock shadow. He had been talking to his cousin who had just opened up a martini bar on Halsted Street on the south side of Chicago. His cousin reasoned that since so much of the south side was being bought up by developers, it was just a matter of time before young urban professionals would troll the neighborhood, looking for a place to wet their whistles. His cousin went by the name of Toula. It was really something too hard to pronounce in Hungarian and so she went by Toula and told people that she was Greek. When Greeks spoke Greek to Toula, she could speak Greek. Toula once had a husband that was Greek and he spoke Greek to her. Hungarians would have known she was a Gypsy if she spoke Hungarian to them. Instead she claimed that she was Greek and cut down on discrimination.
Horatio hung up his phone and approached Glad who was sobbing heavy. Horatio suspected she was robbed or assaulted in some way and genuinely wanted to help.
“Lady… You okay, lady? Why you crying, lady? Somebody try to take your money, lady… Come on, why you crying?”
Horatio, rubbed Glad’s bare arm. Ordinarily Glad would have been taken back by such a thing by a stranger, but she was actually comforted by the stranger whom she did not fear. She explained what was going on to Horatio. Horatio offered to help her occupy time for the next half day.
“I gotta place you can visit, lady… It’s a really nice place. It’s run by my cousin Toula… We’re Greek, lady? You Greek?”
“No, I would say I’m mostly Irish with a little English and German…”
“No wonder you cry… You all mixed up, lady. I cry too if I not know if I German or English… During the war, you would know which side yourself gone try to kill the other half…”
With that Glad smiled and laughed a bit. Horatio gave her a napkin from Dunkin Donuts from his glove compartment and herded her into the cab. Horatio had a CD of Frank Sinatra playing in his cab.
“You like Frank? I like Frank a lot. When I live in Europe, I like Frank. He the reason I move here. I say to myself one day… I gonna go to Chicago just like in that song Frank sing about… Don’t worry bout nothing, lady. I gone take you to Toula. You gone stop and talk to Toula. Toula gone help you feel better and you gone look at the world like it a sunny day… It a nice day to be alive, lady… You gone see.”
Horatio called Toula and they spoke in a Gypsy dialect of Romanian as Horatio drove towards her martini bar that had been open less than two months. The martini bar was only a few blocks away from US Cellular Field, home of the Chicago White Sox. At the ball park, the players were getting ready for the game against the Chicago Cubs. The White Sox won the night before and were poised to repeat during the afternoon game.
Toula was readying herself for overflow of patrons from the well established drinking holes of White Sox fans. Toula believed that blue collar baseball fans, would like something different. She was right. Many people in the area liked the idea of a bar where martinis were served. Toula served beer but it was beer from Greece. Many were reluctant to try the beer because they could not read the label. It looked too foreign to them.
Horatio told toula in their Romanian dialect, that he had a really nice woman who
was all alone in Chicago and that she needed a place to help her feel better while she waited for her son to be released from jail. Horatio explained about the accident that her husband was in and the discovery of an affair too. Horatio believed that Toula could help. Toula had the ability to make people forget whatever was on their mind for a while as they watched and listened to her speak and gesture. Toula appeared to dance as she walked and she spoke poetically and cryptically.
“What do you believe, my beautiful friend?”
“Do you mean faith? I was raised Catholic…”
“You were raised Catholic… That means that someone had imposed their faith upon you at an early age and you have yet to decide for yourself, what it is you believe…People who know me call me Queen Toula.”
Toula had lived in New Orleans for ten years and while there, she became interested in a Voodoo museum in the French Quarter. Toula herself lived on Dumaine, down the street from the museum. Toula became very involved in Voodoo and believed with all her being in it’s powers.
Toula cut a lemon peel from a lemon as she spoke to Glad. Glad sat on a bar stool at the bar. Nobody had come in as of yet, it was still morning. Toula proceeded to make two martinis for Glad. One was made of apple and the other pear. Toula explained that she was a bonified Voodoo priestess. Glad was sceptical. Toula knew that Glad lived a pretty straight forward life and that Voodoo sounded make believe.
Toula locked the front door and took Glad to a room in the back that had statues, beads and candles burning. It was called a gris-gris room. Behind that was a former closet that was turned into an alter room. Around the alter were notes, locks of hair, trinkets, photographs. Glad was impressed.
“Give me something that represents you…”
Glad took out a photograph of herself that she thought made her look very attractive. She kept it with her for days when she felt ugly. Glad would take it out and look at the photograph and feel better about what she looked like. Toula began to blink and held the photo close to her cleavage. Rhythmic music played in the back ground. It seemed African. A lot of drums and a tamborine and some call and response in a foreign language. Toula began to dance in a circle. Her summer dress clung to her as she got sweaty. Toula had the body of a teenager. She was wiry strong and very fit looking. The trance like dance went on for several minutes. Glad kneeled in the corner and watched. The music sped to a frenzy and then it stopped. Toula dropped to the ground in a pool of her own sweat. Glad thought that she had collapsed and came to her aid. Toula looked up with piercing eyes and grabbed Glad by the chin so that she would carefully hear all that she was about to say.
“You have to believe me without doubt… Do you understand? You have been racked with self doubt your whole life. You have gone day to day feeling as though you were never good enough. You have let others walk on you and you have wallowed in your self pity… You are going to change all that beginning today. It starts now…”
Glad took a drink of the martini that was mixed to perfection. It was an apple martini that was tart yet sweet. She guzzled the martini down and then took a sip of the pear martini. Glad had always hated the texture of pears. It made her skin break out into goose bumps whenever she bit into a pear. Apples never had that effect on her but pears did. Glad took a sip and broke out into goose bumps. She told Toula that she could not drink it. Toula with a stern face and intense eyes, pushed the drink back into her hand.
“You must drink it… It is part of the gris-gris… Do you want this to work? Do you want to believe that change is possible? Then drink it…”
Glad wolfed it down and felt nothing more than buzzed. All that Glad had to eat were a bag of cookies that she bought at the airport in Detroit. That had been hours ago. The drinks hit her immediately. Toula left Glad in the room to reflect on what would be different from that point on. Toula went back to conjure up two more martinis. One apple the other pear.

Glad sat on a bar stool and ate peanuts out of a bag and sipped martinis. She had
one pear and one apple. At noon time, Glad was on her sixth martini. There was a band of young black men, playing jazz fused funk for the patrons that were downing a few drinks prior to going to see the White Sox take on the Cubs at US Cellular Field. Nobody spoke with Glad and Toula was racing around making sure that everyone had drinks with her two man staff. It was their busiest day. Toula would be able to pay the rent with just that one day. Within an hour, the people filed out and the band sat at the bar to have a drink. The band was taking a break until after the game. One of the men in the band was a man named Anthony. Anthony was a tall black man of nearly fifty years of age. He had the body and energy of a man half his age. He wore bib overalls with a tank top t shirt underneath. He wore a White Sox hat and laughed heartily at everything said. He sat besides Glad and stuck up a conversation.
“Motown… Oh yes, oh yes. Spent mucho time in D town. Matter fact I lived just round the corner from Tigers Stadium in Corktown. Shit… It was dangerous foh a brotha in that hood. I member once driving my 1968 Chevy Impala down Michigan Avenue round bout there and some young brothers threw a brick through my passenger window. I’m just driving listening to some Marvin Gaye and the next thing I knew. I was wearing the glass of my passenger window and a brick sat on my lap… Hee hee hee… First I was
like… I’m gonna whoop me some ass and then I remembered me once dropping bricks from the overpass on the 94 back when I was a lad…Hee hee hee… God took while but he didn’t fo-get. He might take while to get back to you but all deeds will not be fo-gotten… All in all though, De-troit a good town. You want some good food… I mean really good foh the soul, honest to goodness, soul food to rest the soul and make you feel good foh living, there a restaurant off seven mile and a woman go by the name of Matilda… She was in her late fifties and built like a kettle… Pretty nuff smile and sweet as her sweet potato pie… I taste that food, that pie and I said to her, I done found the love of my life…hee -hee hee… Yes ma’am… Every time I got a gig in De-troit, I stop there… You probably ain’t never been round them parts… You probably from way out west somewhere… I’m right ain’t I girl? Yes sir… north and west, way far way from the hood… I ain’t hating though. You all got nice homes, nice restaurants and people obey the speed limits… Hee hee hee… What brings you to the south side of Chicago?”
Glad did not hold back. She took a good half hour to tell Anthony about her relationship with her husband, problems with her son, her lack of sex and low self asteem. Glad told Anthony about her plan to get into shape and eat better. She told Anthony that she was going to internet date and find a good man to be with who really appreciated her. All Anthony could think about was having a casual romp with a sexually frustrated woman. It did not matter if she was a bit homely and unfit. Anthony had a thing for women with smaller waists and large asses. He always marvelled at that phenomena of nature. A twenty inch waist and thirty eight inch hips with buttocks large enough to set a drink upon it.
Anthony used to believe in monogamy and fought hard to be exclusive to his wife. It was during a six month job working on a cruise ship that things changed for Anthony. He had been working with three young women from Sweden who believed that if you wanted to have sex, it was possible to do without having any other feelings other than sexual attraction. Anthony understood their point of view and quickly adopted it. Anthony’s wife was not so understanding or tolerant. It had been nearly ten years since his divorce. Anthony was much happier and really appreciated the variety and more than happy to not slog through the mundane necessities of day to day life, with each woman he met. That was for their husbands.
“Come on… It’s much more comfortable upstairs…” said Anthony as he lead Glad up the stairs.
At that moment, the White Sox had scored three runs in the sixth inning and were
ahead. There was still about an hour or so until the hoards returned either despondent or euphoric over the outcome of the game.
Glad had never been attracted to black men. There was something too raw about them in all facets of who they were. Of course Glad tried to be open minded and tried not judge all blacks the same but she could not help it. Black men were scary and strong and when they had their minds up to rob or rape you, it would be done. Black women were sexual too. Glad had decided that all black women constantly ooze sexuality in how they look, talk and dress for nothing more than attention from black men. Anthony was the exception.
Anthony thought about sex every twenty seconds like any boy with an extremely high libido. Being nearly fifty years of age, Anthony learned that he could have all that he wanted by being nice, attentive and patient. It nearly worked every time. White women would talk and drink and before they knew it, Anthony was just like white men. He wasn’t so scary after all. It was the same with Glad. Glad never panicked as Anthony helped her remove all her clothes. Glad never panicked either when Toula walked into the room and joined them in the bed. Glad kept her eyes closed and enjoyed her sexual spontaneity more than any sexual experience she had ever had before. After nearly an hour, Anthony dressed and went down to start playing again with the band as customers began to return. Toula too dressed and headed down. She took Glad’s chin in the palm of her hand and asked her if she felt better. Glad felt much better. In fact she masterbated again while the post game interview went on. White Sox won 4-3 against the Cubs. The booze would flow like water in Bridgeport that night.
Glad fell asleep for close to a half hour. The sound of the drums and bass woke her from her slumber. She dressed and made her way down the stairs. The room was shoulder to shoulder and required some tunnelling in order to get through the door. Toula was feverishly mixing drinks and Anthony had his eyes closed while playing a Stan Getz tune on his tenor saxophone. Neither Anthony nor Toula noticed Glad leave and within a few days, they both forgot they had met her. They both meet so many people everyday.

October 19, 2009

Look Away, Part 2

Filed under: Apartheid,Ethnicity,Mixed Race,On Sale Now — blackhumouristpress @ 12:29 am

No doubt you are reading part 2 of this post first. I forgot to include the very fine cover art. I hope it compels you to take a look inside my new book.
Dixie Cover
Make the intellectual investment.

Look Away, Dixieland

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 12:21 am
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Hello, Everyone.
Blackhumouristpress has just published our (my) third title, Look Away, Dixieland. It’s currently available now:

October 16, 2009

Department of Levity

Filed under: Short Story,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:18 am
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            Sergio was an American born Cuban that could pass for a middle easterner and so he took Arabic as a linguist in the military.  Languages came easy to Sergio.  He spoke English and Spanish without an accent and learned all Romantic languages quickly and proficiently and was directed by the military to take Arabic.  After Sergio’s military days, the government started a covert task force that took pre-emptive moves to find those within the borders of the United States that would be most likely to leave the states to train as a terrorist and come back to America to commit acts of terror.  Most people interviewed were nothing more than delusional misfits with varying degrees of mental illness.  But the government held out hope that they’d find those fit enough to carry out terrorist activity.

            9:00 am Monday- Outdoor café on South Beach in Miami.  Sergio is wearing a collared long sleeved white shirt, sun glasses and pretends to be speaking to someone on his cell phone when Dr. Trent Shores walks up.  Trent hears a lot of guttural words in Arabic.  Trent understands nothing of what Sergio is saying on his cell phone.  What was being said loosely translates to this; Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens Brown paper packages tied up with strings, These are a few of my favorite things.  Sergio hangs up and extends his hand to Dr. Shores.

 

            “Salaam Mr. Mohammed, I had to take a plane from New York to Cleveland then to Buffalo and then here.  I wanted to be sure I was not being followed.  I truly believe the feds are following me.  They know I’m a medical doctor, they know that I was once an active member of the Communist Party of America back in college and they know how I feel about the direction of this country,” said Trent while looking side to side.

            Sergio looked intently at Trent as everything was being recorded on a high fidelity wire attached to Sergio’s chest.  Trent’s breathing could be picked up by the expensive recording device.  There was no mistaking what was being said.

            “I am a historian who has studied the fallacies of American history.  The nonsense about the holocaust really gets my goat.  It’s no coincidence that Jews run this country, the banking system and so on.  Look at the money we give to Israel…  It’s a crime,” said Sergio.

            “Well my friend, hating Jews is not enough to get you into our elite troop of liberators.  Tell me how you see society as a whole, my friend,” said Sergio, while rubbing his scruffy whiskers with his thumb and fore finger.

            “Well aside from Jews, people have become so stupid in this country.  Stupid things appeal to stupid people.  Music, movies and television as part of pop culture in this country have dumbed down society here.  This culture is a disease that will dumb down the world.  It must be stopped.  If I could confide something with you, Mr. Mohammed…  I am trying to come up with a drug that will control the minds of people through subliminal messages.  If I could do this, I being the creator of this drug, could steer this country back in the proper direction.  I believe my product could be very useful to your organization.  I am willing to be your chemist, your scientist, your chief consultant in matters such as this,” said Trent.

            “How are things coming, my friend?”  Asked Trent.

            “I’m glad you ask…  It is coming along well.  I have used this on dogs thus far with very positive results.  I can get dogs to do things on my command.  Angry, vicious dogs are rendered completely submissive and totally cooperative,” said Sergio.

            “Would you be willing to go to our compound oversees to discuss this option with others within our organization?  We are very pleased by your letter to us via the internet and find comfort in the fact that there are Americans such as yourself that are willing to be apart of the solution that is best for the world.  This madness must be stopped.  We need intelligent and motivated individuals such as yourself to help make ideas a reality.  Where can we reach you, Dr. Trent?”

            Sergio reported to his direct superior that he had a prospect on the hook.  They had lured in a disenchanted American citizen who appeared to be willing to join forces that were bent on destroying the United States through an obscure site on the internet.  Sergio was ordered to seek out the doctor for a second interview at his hotel near downtown Miami.  Sergio met the mother of the doctor at the door of there hotel room. Her name was Sylvia and she was an older Jewish woman with a patient smile.  Trent’s mother stepped into the hallway to discuss Trent’s condition with Sergio.  It was at that moment that Sergio learned that Dr. Trent Shore was actually Harold Fishman.

            “Sir…  I’m not sure exactly what Harold discussed with you.  Just so you know, Harold suffers from delusions and has been diagnosed as schizophrenic.  He called me and made the mistake of calling me from the hotel phone and I tracked him down here.  The institution that he was living at cut funding and I had to take him in back at home again.  That darn internet is horrible for people like Harold…  I apologize if he has promised you something.  He is not a millionaire, a doctor, a scientist or part of the royal Dutch thrown…  I hear all of them.”

            “I see…  Thank you for your time madam,” said Sergio before excusing himself.

            Sergio got into his car and immediately phoned his boss to discuss yet another dead end.

            “Joe?  Another flop…  Yea, yea…  Look, we’re getting nothing but crackpots.  Most of these guys are living in a parallel universe and have trouble making their beds in the morning…  Well I understand and yeah I like to eat and pay my mortgage and so I continue to do this but this beating them to the punch thing by putting cryptic ads on chat rooms and so on, is just attracting weirdoes who live alone with their mothers.  We’re beating dead horses…  Alright Joe.  Where do I go tomorrow?  Idaho?  A former band of white supremacists who want to go to train in Afghanistan…  Okay.  You say former though, huh?  How does one stop being a white supremacist?  Okay…  That’s fine.  I’ll make my way to Boise by tomorrow.  Just how many have we actually gotten to try and board a plane for Afghanistan?  That many, huh?  Well as long as the government believes we’re making head way, that’s all that matters.  At least we won’t be exposed for trying to sell $200.00 toilet seats, right Joe?  Give my love to the wife and kids… See you next week Vegas.  Don’t forget to bring your golf clubs…  Sure, we’ll have a swell time.”

October 10, 2009

Women in Bars

Filed under: Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 4:02 pm
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Sarah and Angela made plans for two Fridays in a row to leave their homes in Grosse Pointe to have a drink in Hamtramck which is a little island of a town encompassed by the city of Detroit. After a few cancellations, they met at Small’s. In the main room was a noisy garage band. Sarah and Angela found a table under a television where Fox Detroit was agonizing over the unravelling of the Tigers in the last days of the 2009 baseball season. Neither of them was interested in that nor anything else going on in crowed bar that cool autumn night. Catching up was all that they really hoped to do.

Sarah was the mother of four children and was married to a second generation Greek man who owned his own garage. Demetrius inherited his father’s garage that was started back in 1959. Demetrius made a good buck and lived a fairly simple life.

Angela was the mother of two children, one of which played ice hockey on a team with Sarah’s son. Angela and Sarah became friends immediately and carpooled to hockey games and practices and eventually became each other’s confidant.

Sarah ordered a Long Island Ice Tea and Angela had a Corona Light. A young fat man with mutton side burns, many tattoos and a backwards Lions hat on, put ten dollars in the juke box and played every Ramones tune available. Sarah blinked hard and shook her head.

“Have you figured out when boys become men? This little cherub probably still lives at home and plays drinking games in his parent’s basement in between X Box tournaments with his equally unmotivated friends who are living at home with their parents,” stated Angela, while leaning her chin on the palm of her right hand.

“Um my loving husband is sitting right now in my living room with his brother and cousins, watching a Red Wings game on a seventy two inch television. Four fat Greeks wearing Chelios jerseys, eating wings and drinking beer. I could walk naked in front of all of them and they’d never notice. His fucking brother is such a goddamn pig too. He makes that sound when you’re sucking snot up from somewhere in your throat. It is so damn gross and then he swallows it.” Said Sarah.

“I hate it when his parents come over and the wives of his cousins and brother. Everyone is Greek and they all speak Greek and I’m just running around making coffee for the old people who are ripping on me in Greek because I’m not Greek. Thank god I’m not Greek. Something happens when those Greek chicks have kids. Their hips expand and they grow moustaches. I shit you not. Even the good looking ones get fat asses and facial hair. When I first met his parents they assumed I was Greek and then they wanted assurances from me that the kids would go to Greek school on weekends to learn to read and write in Greek. My Greek god turned into just a fucking Greek. Him and his cousins, brothers, their wives, his parents and their Hellenic hip disease… Honest to Christ almighty. I’m immersed in the fucking white sauce of life.” Said Sarah, while Angela laughed uncontrollably.

Sarah was short with brown hair and carried a few extra pounds. Sarah’s inspiration unbeknownst to her was Angela. Angela had her last child a few years back and began to work out religiously. Angela’s husband had told her that he could not get aroused since she had become more matronly than he had anticipated. Angela signed up for spin classes, Pilates and swam. Everyday she tried to get in between a half hour to an hour of exercise. Within six months, Angela had lost forty five pounds and looked and felt better than she had in years. Angela’s husband still criticized her one too many times. Angela had found more than exercise to occupy her time.

“I have something I have to get off my chest,” said Angela after taking a swig of her beer. “I’m seeing a Polish poet who works during the day as a plumber”.

Sarah laughed as though Angela had told a joke. Angela wasn’t laughing. Sarah reached across the table and grabbed Angela’s forearm.

“I want to hear about this and don’t leave a fucking detail out,” said Sarah.

“I told Tom for weeks to fix the P trap under the sink in the kitchen. I thought he had done it and I open the cabinet to get cleaning solution to clean up a spot where the cat has taken to pissing over and over and the cabinet had fallen apart totally. I could see the foundation through a hole where there used to be wood. I was so pissed. I go into the den and he was looking at porn or something on the internet. As soon as he heard my feet stomping towards him on the hardwood floor, he turns off the monitor… So fucking childish… Anyway I ask him why he never took care of it. He shrugs like my other kids and says he forgot. I was so mad that I went to the hardware store to get the parts myself. I connect it all up and water is spraying everywhere and I’m about ready to cry. There I am under the sink with a pipe wrench and I have whining kids asking for pudding pops and Tom gets upset because he’s trying to watch football and the kids are yelling. He gives them each a granola bar and tells them to play downstairs. Mind you, I’m under the sink with black shit all over my arms and he never attempts to stop watching football which he could tape if he wanted to and help me with something that he should have done. Instead he tells me that I’m going to fuck it up and sure enough I do. Instead of crying, I put on my running shoes and took the kids to the high school track with me and they walked while I ran. I ran three miles and came home and made cookies and never gave another thought to the damn leaking pipe. Tom runs the water and it’s now spraying all over everything under the sink. He says with his smug assed smile that he knew I would fuck it up. My sister tells me to call this handy man named Marek and he comes over the next morning. This guy walks in and I just knew even before he said one word that we were going to connect. He disconnects what I put on and adds some Teflon tape and it works perfectly. Marek tells me that I did a good job except for the tape and he gets ready to leave and doesn’t charge me. I force the guy to take a fifty and I’m thinking that’s that. A week later, I’m right here in Hamtramck at Trowbridge having coffee one night and low and behold my plumber is reading poetry. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a t shirt and nervously reads his poetry in English with his cute Polish accent. There were maybe a dozen people there and I waited until he was done and bought his book of poems and had him sign it. Well one thing leads to another and we get together and he reads my poems and I his and then one night we go to dinner and wind up back at his place for hours. I can’t tell you how many times we made love. It was love. You know when you’re fucking and when it’s actually the act of love making. Every time is so good and I can’t wait until the next time,” said Angela.

Sarah had her mouth open as if someone had poured cold water on her. Sarah asked the obvious question.

“Tom? Tom understands that I’m there but I’m gone. He can smell it on me that something has changed. He had the balls to say to me the other day that I act too good for him now that I got in shape. I told him that I’m the same person I was when my ass was too fat for him. There’s just less of me than before. Have you started running yet? Are you doing the 3K with me at Thanksgiving?” Asked Angela.

“I’ve been begging Demetrius to let me have a dog. I want a dog that will jog with me. Maybe a Doberman or something that’s built to jog. I’m up to a mile a day. It takes me twelve minutes but I’m getting better.” Said Sarah.

“So if you want a dog just go buy one,” said Angela.

“It doesn’t work that way when you’re married to a macho Greek. He says if I blow him once in a while, I can have the dog. I’m blowing him twice a week now and last week I wind up getting a cold sore and he’s so sure that he’s going to get herpes on his nut sack that he makes me give him a hand job. Can you believe it? Like junior high, honest to god. I get olive oil and am jerking his cock while ESPN is on the gigantic television. He’s just about to cum and Stavros calls for me to bring him a drink of water. Demetrius gets so pissed and then I gotta start all over again. My damn right arm was cramping and I offer to go in the shower with him since I’m on the rag and he’s horrified that I suggested a little shower sex. I told him it will be fun kinda like mixing a porno with Psycho. He could watch my blood go down the drain. Anyway he tells me to shut up because he can’t concentrate. Finally he cums and I make sure it goes straight up in the air and lands on his precious Red Wings home jersey. He jumps up and mops the come off like it was fucking ink. He thanks me and I tell him I better be getting a team of mush dogs like they have in Alaska,” said Sarah.

At that moment a young cocky guy walks up holding a beer. He had longish blond hair and wore a Fedora with ripped up jeans and a sleeveless shirt. He lifted Angela’s purse up from the stool next to her and sat down uninvited.

“What’s up, ladies?”

Sarah liked the attention but Angela did not appreciate it. The young man could not hold a blow torch to the Polish/plumber/poet and she let him know in so many words.

“Um Kid Rock… You may not have noticed that we have chosen this table away from everyone else because we wanted to be alone. We don’t want you to go away thinking that we are going to crawl out of here and into a bed with each other because we don’t play for that team. Had you been in tuned to clues, you may have noticed too the rings on both or our ring fingers which is a symbol in our society of marriage. Now marriage may not matter to you and that’s cool but we really don’t want or need the company right now. I’ll buy you a drink if you go away,” said Angela harshly.

The young man walked off and Sarah and Angela continued to share details of their day to day lives. They shared things about their children, things they wanted out of day to day life and the physical changes they hoped to make in their homes. They shared intimate details of their lives and cherished the time they set aside to check in with one another. The speed and demands of day to day life made their meetings a necessity for sanity and order. They hugged as they got to their cars and promised to meet the next Friday. The next Friday did not happen nor the Friday after that. It would be a little more than a month before their next opportunity to connect. You can be sure that they’ll both have something they’ll want to discuss. They always do.

October 3, 2009

And the Nobel Peace Prize Goes to … Oprah

Filed under: Oprah,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 5:51 am
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Oprah flew in late in the day from Copenhagen to Chicago and was taken by her driver to her condominium in Water Tower Place on Michigan Avenue in the heart of downtown Chicago’s retail Mecca.

“I told you Chicago, Chicago… Do you understand that? Its 2000 miles away from California… Just stay there with the damn dogs… Yes, yes… I got another call coming in. Stay there with the dogs, I’ll be home on Saturday,” said Oprah while holding her temples with her left thumb and middle finger while speaking to one of many assistants at the White House.

“Look, when he gets back I need to talk to him about all this Olympic garbage. It’s been a colossal waste of my time and has done nothing but hurt my stature. The god damn mayor drags me to Europe to help land this thing and we’re bumped in the first damn round? How does this happen? How is it we don’t get Jordan in on this whole thing?”

Oprah’s shoes clop and click and keep time with her nylon stockings that rub against one another as she angrily walks to the private elevator that leads to an entire floor which is her home while in Chicago, working on her show.

“What the hell is the name of that damn fool in Iran? Amad, Amoo… How do you say it? Okay then… Amadinejhad and Netanyahu… You let him know that I want to be the one to broker a peace deal between them. It’s pretty clear if something isn’t done soon, they’re going to have functional nukes and the Jews will wind up doing something. This way we make a pre-emptive move … Exactly, exactly… Yup and then I at least am in the running for a Nobel Prize and everyone forgets about this and the damn Michigan Avenue extravaganza we had back in September… James Taylor? It’s a long story. I owed a favor to Carly Simon… So did they say when they were getting back? Okay… Well no I don’t hold the president responsible for this and I’m not blaming him or Michelle. It’s just when you get involved in these things and you attach your name to them and they flop… Exactly, exactly… It’s symbolic. That’s exactly it… I don’t need this looming over me now. A big loss today and I need a big win tomorrow. You have him get this going. We’ll meet in Iceland where Reagan met with Gorbachev way back when… Right, right. I think if we can get this solved between those two countries, it might be possible to get some of the moderate elements in the Taliban to maybe do a Skype from Afghanistan where we look at the war from their prospective… I know, it’s just really upsetting and frankly very embarrassing. I usually try to stay out of these things but they asked me and now I’m asking them to help me save face and I think this could really help them, the nation and the world. If Frost could talk to Nixon then I think I could work out this nuclear issue between Amah, Amoo… How do you say that name again? Okay, in any event, I need a call tomorrow once they’ve had a chance to unwind. This has to happen quickly. Fox news is having a field day with this whole thing… Okay then, you take care… Buh bye,” said Oprah while hanging up.

Oprah stood at the window looking north along the shore of Lake Michigan as the sun began to rise. She took a sip of water and swirled the ice cubes in the glass.

“Amah-dinah-jad, Amah-dinah-jad… I better write that down. I’ll forget how to say that by the morning.”

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