Blackhumouristpress's Blog

January 26, 2010

From Nirvana to Chlamydia

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:13 am
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Frank had decided that for the New Year, he would get into the best shape of his adult life.  This meant less booze, fast food, doughnuts, soft drinks, sugar, useless carbohydrates and just about everything else one might come to find and expect in the American diet. 

            If Americans are in the running for the fattest people in the world, Detroit, Michigan is in the running for some of the fattest people in the United States which in part, puts them at damn near the bench mark for obesity in the world.

            Detroit in January is inhospitable.  Detroit in July is inhospitable too but more so in January and so Frank made a pact with himself whilst drinking himself silly on New Year’s Eve.  It was the Men’s Health magazine that his girlfriend got him a subscription to.  Frank started to shop at Wholefoods, exercise more and concentrate on his girlfriend’s sexual needs all due to his new found reading material.

            Frank was going to the fitness club on Woodward in Royal Oak once a week on weekends but now he vowed to go four times a week.  He would lift weights twice a week and try to run ten miles per week.  Heading towards February, Frank was doing great.  The only thing Frank dreaded was the heavily tattooed introvert that he had befriended a year or so back when he was only attending once a week.  Frank knew that Miles only came to the gym in the late afternoons and if he happened to see Miles, he felt obligated to talk to him for as long as Miles cared to talk to him.

            Frank was a thin young man with glasses and dark hair.  He looked like any man rounding the age of thirty.  Many times Frank had seen Miles at the gym with his baggy sweat pants and cocked Tigers hat with a straight brim.  Miles was covered with tattoos like the Illustrated Man.  Miles appeared to be someone who was just released from prison.  For a young white man, he appeared to be caught up in the Hip-Hop culture when in actuality; Miles had been a lead singer/screamer for a Hard Core Punk band called Das Capitalists.  The bass player had moved to Detroit from Berlin to go to school at Wayne State and wanted to start an authentic Punk band.  The name was great but the band never got it together and eventually they disbanded.  Miles spent his days going to a strip club on eight mile road to eat a cheap lunch, watch Detroit Tigers games and look at tits.  It beat staying at home; eating a free lunch, watching the Detroit Tigers and listening to his mom tell him that he needed to find a job.

            The Tigers were the reason that Frank decided to make conversation with Miles one day.  He did it more out of nervousness than anything else since Miles gave every guy the stare down.  There is the three second rule with men; look directly at another man for more than three seconds and you either want to fight or date.  Miles wanted nothing sexually with a man but wanted to show that his hard spent hours in the gym, made him a formidable foe for any bad ass that wanted to stare back and not look away.  The third or fourth time that Miles gave Frank the stare down, Frank flicked his head up in a sort of male to male way of saying hello.  He then asked when the Tigers were playing.  Miles then went on and on about Ordonez, Granderson, Fernando Rodney and others.  Miles was much more a Tigers fan than Frank but Frank faked it well.  Frank had been at a bar when Verlander struck out over ten guys.  They discussed that and once football season came, they discussed other things because the Detroit Lions were so bad, they weren’t worth discussing.  One day Miles posed a question that surprised Frank.

            “Hey man, you know any chicks you work with that might wanna go out with a guy like me?  I’m down to earth and shit.  I know I look like I’m not but really I don’t go out much and I stay home and all.  My grandmother died and left me her place in Southfield and I just stay in the condo and watch TV.  I get panic attacks and shit and I gotta take some medicine.  Once I take the medicine, I’m cool to come here to the gym.  If I don’t take it, I can’t even take out the fucking trash.  Anyway, I’m looking for just a chick that’s cool and all to hang out with,” said Miles, in a bashful way.

            Now Frank worked at an office building where it was his job to take orders on computer for videos made in China or Taiwan.  They were mostly Public Broadcasting publications for people that donated all their earthly treasures just to keep Public Television afloat.  In the office was a woman who cleaned the office with jet black hair and tattoos up the wazoo.  Her name was Tina and she was born and raised in Boston.  Her accent was so strong that most people laughed at her behind her back.

            “Eh mistah, if I give you a few bucks, can you ordah a few dem tapes fa my daughtah.  She loves dem nature shows…  You know penguins and shit like dat…  I left my money in the caah.  When I go fo a cigarette break, I’ll run to the caah and get my caad.  You take the Discover caad, dontcha?”

            Tina had married a tattoo artist who was also a biker.  Her husband divorced her and went to jail but wrote her everyday while in jail for armed robbery.  Tina eventually softened up and went to see her ex-husband.  In the meantime, Tina was sleeping with anyone that would give her the time of day.  Frank did not know this about Tina.  What he did know was that she had a bunch of tattoos and his new found friend at the gym, Miles had tattoos also.  They had to have a connection through body art.

            Tina at first was happy as hell to have a steady boyfriend and one that would go to a Coney Island with her occasionally with her and her seven year daughter and watch movies at night with too.  Oh and then sex.  Sex was very important to Tina.  Miles was timid at first but then relaxed.  Tina felt she could confide some of her sexual escapades with Frank at work since he was after all the friend of Miles.  Miles lead Tina to believe that he and Frank were good buddies.  They actually were acquaintances at best but lonely guys will view a relationship differently and so Tina told Frank some of the things that were transpiring good and bad.

            “Miles is really good with my daugthah…  She likes him and all and that’s cool.  The sex is a little boring at times and I’m really tired of putting dildos in his ass.  At first I was like…  Okay?  But now I’m like… Dude, do you wanna dude in your ass or something?  What the fuck!  I dunno…  He’s cool and all foh now but I ain’t gonna marry him or nothing.  I mean the fucking pills he’s gotta take and the dildos and then he’s like, tell me you love me when were … you know… I dunno what you wanna call it.  Making love or fucking… He gets all fucking mouthy saying shit like I want you to be the mothah of my kid and then ten minutes latah he’s like, I wanna keep this cool cause I dunno if I want a serious relationship.  I’m like, mothahfuckah, you just wanted me to be the mothah of your fucking kids!  I dunno…  I ain’t complainin or nothing.  It was nice and all foh you to hook it all up.  He’s got some heavy shit to deal with and I gotta raise a kid, you know?”

            Frank would just nod and stare at the woman’s cleavage and wonder if her perky breasts were real or fake.  He’d wonder if she was good in bed or just average and then Frank would think about the dildo going up the tattooed man’s ass at the health club and did not want to see him change in front of him again.  Finally the relationship between Miles and Tina unraveled and Tina mentioned it in passing.  Tina went on to sleep with six different men and give her ex-husband a hand job during visitation at prison.  Miles began to go to an Evangelical Protestant Church close to his inherited condominium in Southfield.  Suddenly Miles had an epiphany and transformation and couldn’t see Tina again even though she would call or stop by his apartment on nights when all other prospects fell through.  Tina told Frank about this too.

            “He’s like a fucking Jesus freak now.  He won’t drink or have sex no more and he’s apologizing to me for shit we did.  I told him to get the fuck away from me…  Fucking freaks and losers are all I fucking get.  Where are all the good guys?  What about you, Frankie?”

            Frank stumbled and stammered and claimed to be in a monogamous relationship with someone that he was going to marry.  It was all bullshit but it sound plausible and really as long as what you say sounds really plausible, you could be president one day.  That’s if you don’t mind the immense frustration.

Now Frank slacked off and stopped going to the gym during the whole month of December.  He developed love handles and his muscles became atrophied.  It was the prospect of becoming thirty that gave Frank a kick in the ass.  Thirty was the threshold into old age.  It was the gateway to AARP and discounts to Old Country Buffet and Frank thought that if he did not stop existing as he did at the age of sixteen, he would balloon up to the size of a whale or worse.  When Frank became gung-ho and diligent again, he ran into Miles at the health club.  Miles got to tell his side of things to Frank.  Frank never let on that Tina had already filled him in on the things that were filling in Miles’ orifices.

            “Dude, where you been?”

            “Oh shit… December was a busy month… Parties and family and shit like that.”

            Miles didn’t understand how a dinner on Christmas Eve and a company party two weeks before Christmas, could stop one from working out for a month but somehow, everyone used that excuse.

            “I know what you mean, man…” said Miles, even though he didn’t.

            On the day that Miles stood in front of Frank’s treadmill, Frank was set to run two miles in under twenty six minutes, take a shower and meet a girl he met on the internet at a restaurant in Troy.  Frank had an hour to run and shower before getting up to Troy to meet his date.  When he saw Miles sauntering over with his baggy and saggy sweatpants and cocked baseball hat, he said to himself; fucking shit.  Frank was polite.  He walked at 3.5 miles an hour at a 2% grade while Miles talked to him.

            “Hey man, I know you and Tina are tight and shit cause you were friends from work and all but that fucking bitch gave me the clap…  I went in for tests because my dick hurt when I pissed and the doctor said I have Chlamydia.  I was like, what the fuck is that going to do to me?  I asked about AIDS and he said I won’t know for a few days.  I mean I can’t fucking sleep worrying about whether I’m gonna die or not.  I go for the tests and the bitch at the clinic tells me not to worry that even if I got AIDS, I ain’t gonna die right away.  I’m taking my fucking medicine and I can’t sleep and shit.  I’ m losing my mind.  I ain’t blaming you or nothing cause nobody told me to fuck her and I should have known cause her shit was fucking stinky.  I mean like I know we all get sweaty and shit but every fucking time it was nasty and then I thought too maybe its cause she had kids coming out of her shit and all.  I don’t know, man…  I been praying about this stuff and like I joined a prayer group and told them what’s going on and now they look at me like I’m fucking crazy.  I mean if I wanna change my life, I gotta start somewhere and now the church people treat me like I got leprosy and even like Jesus and shit went to the people with leprosy…  He who is with out sin throw the first rock and shit, you know?  Hey man, you wanna go get a beer and talk about this shit with me?  I been waiting to see you and I’m so glad you showed up finally because I was like ready to snap.  I was waiting in line today to try and get my license back after my DUI and some bitch cut in front of me on a cell phone and I yelled at her ass and they were gonna call the cops…  I just need to talk to someone…  You busy tonight?”

            Frank showered and tried to call his date but it went straight into voice mail.  Frank erased his voice message three times and then sent a text.  He knew that he might never see the woman again after canceling on the night of a date but he tried to explain the best he could.  After hearing so much lying, Frank decided to be honest.  This is how the text went.

            TRIED TO CALL YOU.  A MINOR FRIEND MAY HAVE CONTRACTED A VENERIAL DISEASE AND IS DISTRAUT.  I HAVE TO ATTEND TO HIM TONIGHT.  LONG STORY.  SAW HIM AT THE GYM AND HE DUMPED THIS ON ME.  DON’T WANT HIM TO HURT OR KILL HIMSELF.  IF WE CAN RESCHEDULE, THIS WILL MAKE FOR SOME LIVELY CONVERSTATION.

           Frank received nothing for about an hour as he listened to Miles complain about Tina over a half dozen beers a piece.  Then the text from his date came in.

            NO WORRIES.  I APPRECIATE YOU TELLING ME.  STAYING HOME WITH MY DAUGHTER TONIGHT WATCHING MOVIES ABOUT POLAR BEARS AND PENGUINS.  CALL ME DURING THE WEEK, WE CAN RESCHEDULE.

            And with that, Frank was reluctant to ever call the woman again.  Why?  Could have been the penguins.  Or other shit…

January 25, 2010

Dwight Eisenhower Ilescu

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:52 am
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Now as the phone was ringing, Mort was watching a live broadcast of a fire happening at  a building that he managed that was owned by his boss, Steven Swartz.  On the phone was the janitor to the building by the name Dwight Eisenhower Ilescu. 

            “Boss, you gotta to come down here right now… It’s terrible…  I toll you last week that we gotta to fix the electricity… Come on, I toll you.”

            Dwight almost was given a name that was hard for Americans to say and so his parents chose the name Dwight.  It was during World War II that General Dwight D. Eisenhower, came to the small Romanian village that Dwight’s parents were from.  Dwight Eisenhower stopped with his entourage to have a cup of tea at an insignificant little café that was frequented by nobody but locals.  Dwight’s father ordered his wife to find their cousin who was a wedding photographer when he wasn’t fixing cars and made him stop what he was doing so that he could have a photograph with the famous general.  Up on the wall of that café was a mural sized photograph of Dwight’s father with his left arm around Eisenhower and his right hand shaking hands with the future president.  The picture remains to this day.

  Dwight’s father offered the general a pastry and a cup of coffee.  Eisenhower finished neither.  To this day in a Sub Zero freezer in Chicago,  is the cup of coffee with coffee still in it and a pastry with one bite out of it forever frozen in time.  Dwight Eisenhower Ilescu, made it on national television twice.  Once was to have chemists test the frozen products to ensure the validity of the claim.  The DNA matched.  Dwight D. Eisenhower in fact drank from the cup and took a bite of the pastry.  For this reason Dwight has always voted Republican.  He voted for Ronald Reagan in 1984 after becoming a naturalized citizen.

            Dwight was a dichotomy of sorts.  He hated Jews but realized that the key to his success rested in getting along and depending on them and working for them.  His hate stemmed from the fact that the Jews all seemed to find a way to really make good money without working quite as hard.  Steven Swartz, who owned the building that Dwight worked and lived in, never acknowledged Dwight even though Dwight fixed Steven’s plumbing at his house for free twice.  Both times it took his entire day off which was Sunday and Steven never even said thank you.  Steven did throw a bonus in his checks but Dwight wanted more than anything to have a handshake and a pat on the back.  If the supreme general of the European theater during World War II could wait twenty minutes in a café to have a mechanic take a photograph with a nobody in Romania, surely the president of a small company could take the time from barking at someone on his Bluetooth, to thank the man who made it possible to have his shit flow again down stream.  Into the abyss.

January 22, 2010

A day in the life of an American part II

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 8:33 am
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Now keep in mind that our hero in part 1, blended one day into the next without the benefit of any sleep.  He has spent over $15.00 on over priced coffee which included the obligatory drop of coin change into the barista’s clear box next to the register. 

            Trent’s mother has come unexpectedly with his her husband, Trent’s step father who is nearly three years younger than Trent.  His stepfather is a former Marine and a closet homosexual with a drinking problem.  Trent has driven over 100 miles since leaving home half of which were in a Smart Car.  He answered over 30 emails on his Blackberry as well as answered close to ten voice messages.  We find him pulled over on the north side of Chicago in part two.

2:20 pm- Trent has been pulled over by an Officer O’Malley in squad car 1592.  Officer O’Malley is fifty seven years of age, has twenty two percent body fat and a penis that used to get 4.75 inches long when it could become erect.  That was back when his body fat was under fifteen percent, over ten years ago.  Officer O’Malley enjoys watching sports, loves his nine grand children and his time share in Cancun.  He and his wife fall asleep watching Jimmy Kimmel on late night television in their matching recliners most evenings after watching the news.

            “I hate to do this to you but there is a law here in the City of Chicago and normally I wouldn’t give a driver a ticket but I sat behind you for an entire red light and then you made a left hand turn without using your turn signal.  I’m going to give you the choice of what I give you the ticket for…  Personally I would go for the cell phone as it will not go on your record,” said Officer O’Malley.

            Here’s the irony; Trent was on the phone with the Chicago Police Department, trying to get an officer to meet him at an apartment building where a tenant had adopted all the furniture in the foyer, for her own unit.  A water leak from an over flowing tub in the thief’s unit had caused terrific water damage to a unit below. 

            A section 8 tenant with five cats, called to tell Trent that plaster had fallen and hit her while she was asleep in bed.  The tenant had already called an injury attorney that she sees every commercial break on local television.  He was in her corner all along.

            “I’m on the phone with the Chicago Police Department right now!” Cried Trent as he held out the cell phone towards the officer.

            “Okay…  I’ll let you go on that account but I gotta ticket you for the left without a signal.  That was just plain stupid, sir.

2:47 pm- Trent walks into the lobby of the apartment that had been stripped of a table and four chairs.  Two lesbian officers stood annoyed with the janitor of the building whose name was Abulfasal and was born in Bosnia.  Abulfasal changed his name to Bud.  Bud had a wife and four children who lived in the one bedroom basement apartment belonging to the company that Trent worked for.  His wife is an illegal alien and Bud is missing a tooth.  The tooth came out while fixing a small plumbing issue in the building the year before.  He hit himself with a large pipe wrench while trying to loosen a rusted fitting that was leaking.  Bud underestimated his own strength.  He loosened the rusted fitting and took his tooth with it.  With no health insurance, his tooth did not stand a chance.

            Now the lesbian cops both played softball on the same team and were training to run a marathon.  Both of them had short cut hair and very pale white skin and spoke an octave lower than the voice god meant for them to have.  They were annoyed that Trent had left them waiting in the lobby for over ten minutes when they were in the middle of eating lunch when the call came through.

            The tenant opened her door to find Bud, Trent and the two female cops with low voices.  The tenant was trying hard to get off of drugs and find a job but the problem was that she just had a child three months earlier and had another one that was eighteen months old.  Both children were of mixed race or as they called them in the old days; mulatto.  She was thin and pale with greasy blond hair, with huge bags under her eyes and a black front tooth that was affected by heroin.  She was smoking a cigarette and trembling.  The father of the second child had just called her from Cook County Jail and needed to be bailed out.  She had no money and her boyfriend would have to stay until a court hearing and then maybe some extra for breaking the terms of his probation.  The young woman was really nervous about what would happen upon her boyfriend’s return.  Violence of some sort was expected but what was not known was to what extent.  She had some time.  Meanwhile she was at the mercy of Trent.  Trent looked at the sleeping infant in an old car seat and couldn’t ask for the woman to be arrested.  He ordered Bud to move the furniture back to the lobby and bolt it down.  The officers questioned Trent in the hallway.

            “It’s up to you…  We can arrest her, the kids become ward of the state and chances are the judge is going to let her go anyway…  Whaddya wanna do?”

            The tenant with the five cats could hear the conversation as she walked up the stairs with yellow Tweety slippers, holding an ice pack to her head.  Even though she was clunked pretty good on the head by wet plaster, she was absolutely fine.  She was hoping to win the lottery on this one and nothing was going to come out of it.  At that moment though she was full of hope as she climbed the stairs in her yellow slippers, holding the ice pack against her forehead, she interjected.

            “You better know what you’re gonna do, mister.  This is a serious situation…”

            It was a serious situation.  Trent at that moment was the closest he had ever come to quitting life completely.  Nothing suicidal but more like clearing the deck.  What Trent really wanted to do was go back to work and quit.  He wanted to tell everyone at work to go fuck themselves and try to have a nice life.  He then wanted to go home and tell his mother to plan her life better and send the Marine to rehab.  He then wanted to put it to his wife that they sell everything and open a wine bar in the Bahamas or maybe a miniature golf center.  Trent was ready to slow his life down.  After all, every work day was nearly identical to the one he was having and some times he would sleep and often times he was too wired to relax.  Trent wanted to live by the ocean where most every day was as beautiful as the next.  He wanted to drive his car on the left with a wheel on the right and watch cricket matches in the shade on days that he wasn’t selling wine or handing out putters.  All of these thoughts crossed Trent’s mind as he sat in stand still traffic late in the afternoon on Interstate 94 headed north even though the sign says west towards Milwaukee.  While Trent contemplated changing his entire life for the sake of saving it, he listened to the news about tens of thousands of some of the poorest people on the planet, losing their lives in an earthquake in Haiti.  The news was more or less subliminal.  Trent then received a text from his wife.

            “What’s the plan with your family for tonight?  Eating?  Food?  Please advise.”

            Trent really wished that she had not ended the sentence with please advise.  Most people who complained all day long in emails, always ended their emails in please advise.

            7:52 pm- Trent had brought home some deep dish pizza that Chicago was really famous for.  His mother, her husband, his wife and he all made small talk.  The kind of talk that when you try to remember what was discussed the next day it leaves one wondering what exactly was exchanged for hours?  Weather?  The baby?  The past?  It didn’t matter.  While everyone chatted, Trent scooped up their infant daughter who was fussing due to the fact that she was hungry and tired.  He changed her and got a bottle of formula ready.  His eyes grew heavy as he starred down at his infant daughter who was having a hard time keeping her eyes open and focused on him.  After all, he was one of two people she could now pick out of a crowd of strangers if she had to as she drank her milk in his arms.  Trent thought about all the meaningless but necessary bullshit for a moment while looking down at his baby girl and decided he was no better or smarter than the Salmon.  He like most, were just trying to fight their way upstream, against the tide for the benefit of their progeny.  That’s just how it goes.

January 18, 2010

A Day in the Life of an American Part 1

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:51 am
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Trent Kelly was one the fortunate Americans who had a job and for that he was truly thankful.  As a leasing agent for apartment buildings within and around the city of Chicago, he met people everyday that did not qualify to rent an apartment due to poor credit or no job.  They were all less fortunate.

12:38am Friday- Trent returned from playing four games of pick up basketball with young men from a Romanian Christian church who were roughly half his age.  Trent sat and watched the Cleveland Cavalier/Utah Jazz game that he recorded prior to leaving home as he ate roast beef with Munster cheese that had been microwaved.  No bread with the cold cuts and cheese.  Trent slams in a handful of blueberries and a small stalk of broccoli.  He remembers that they fight cancer and have antioxidants.  Trent doesn’t remember what an antioxidant is exactly.  He knows that it fights oxidants with vigor and it makes him feel healthier to know that there are less oxidants within him as a result.

            As Trent tries to decide whether he should have a glass of red wine with his sleep medicine, he watches Shaquille O’Neil miss two free throws and wonders how a man plays the game of basketball for so many years and is still unable to shoot over 50% from the foul line.  He wonders how the man does not take the whole summer in his palace overlooking the smog and over population of Los Angeles from his mountain side home and shoot free throws over and over until the rhythm is secondary just as putting on a panel on a Ford Taurus would be to some poor slob on an assembly line making a great American vehicle in Windsor, Ontario.  It’s a panel that gets put on the right front, just like the last one and ten thousand others before it and after it.  Ten thousand free throws per summer and one is bound to shoot at least 50%.  Lack of rhythm must be the key.

            A television time out it became time to decide whether to have a healthy poor of Fat Bastard Merlot and wash that down with sleep agent that has Diphenhydramine HCI.  Just 25 little milligrams to help with sleeplessness.  Insomnia is a pervasive problem for Trent.  He goes to the bathroom and urinates and looks at his own face in the mirror while relieving himself.  He has dark rings under his eyes like a raccoon and a hint of crow’s feet around the eyes.  Trent thinks to himself that he probably doesn’t appear to be forty yet or at least what he perceived forty to appear like when he was twenty.  His hair is salt and pepper and for the mean time, it’s more pepper than salt.  His head is shaved due to the fact that it is thinning in spots.  Every week without fail, he visits a Ukrainian woman who was raised in the former Soviet empire and only learned to speak Russian.  She tells Trent as he fights sleep in the barber chair, that the current president of Ukraine is a piece of shit and hopes the man who lost in 2004, wins this time.  Trent only faintly listens as he tries not to breathe the breath of the Ukrainian woman who smokes a pack of Marlboro Cigarettes a day.  Trent didn’t realize that the Ukrainians had their own language and that their language was in fact not Russian.  Trent is not thinking about the president of Ukraine or his adversary or the cigarette breath of his female barber from a former Soviet region as he takes the Minoxidil and rubs it on his scalp as he has for years.  He has Minoxidil for his hair and Nair for his back with a spatchula to help reach those troubled areas of his back.

            The phone rings at a little after one in the morning right after Trent swallowed a little pill to help him sleep with a healthy poor of Fat Bastard Merlot.  Trent thinks about the temp girl who answered the phones at the office and how she was not supposed to give out his cell number to tenants but was supposed to give out his email so that he could receive emails instead of calls.  The phone played Richard Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries as loud as could be.  The phone was in the bathroom next to the bedroom where his infant daughter slept.  The same song that played in Apocalypse Now when Robert Duval attacked by helicopter, the civilians on the Vietnamese beach, stunned his relatively new born daughter from her slumber.  While a fragile tenant cried about feces coming up from her toilet and the need for immediate action, Trent’s new daughter went off like a siren.  Trent’s sleepy wife staggered past Trent who was on his cell phone after one in the morning to attend to their child who was woken by a phone replication of a Richard Wagner song.  Trent’s wife didn’t care who it was that he was talking to as much as she cared that he was talking with his day time voice in the middle of the night.

            “I hope you’re saving lives tonight.  There are people in Haiti that are dying.  I sincerely hope nobody is dying,” said Trent’s wife, as she changed the diaper of their screaming new born who was fighting the diaper change with both arms and both legs.

            Trent added two scoops of Similac to four ounces of water and handed it to his sleepy wife who was sitting in a rocking chair, waiting for the liquid meal for their new arrival.  Trent tried to assure the woman that he would get a plumber the first thing in the morning. 

2:10am Friday- the Utah Jazz with roughly five minutes to go, had an eleven point lead on Cleveland.  Trent watched James Lebron undress the entire Jazz squad in a little more than three minutes as an email was coming in.  This is what the subject said;

            NO FUCKING HEAT AGAIN…

            Then the message went on to say…  I KNOW WHEREVER THE FUCK YOU ARE TONIGHT, YOU ARE QUITE WARM.  WELL I’M NOT, ONCE AGAIN, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES.  STAY WARM.

            Now the tenant who wrote this was a stay at home father of twenty nine years of age with 18% body fat and a 3 and ¾ inch penis.  This tenant loves Xbox and comic books and saw Avatar five times.  His wife paid for the tickets each time as well as the popcorn with extra butter and the economy sized cola.  Trent got to play god with this particular asshole.  Trent pretended to be sleeping and would respond to the urgent message until after noon time later that day.

            Now one of the best finishes to a basketball game took place with five seconds to go in the game.  Like a good Disney finish, the Utah Jazz inbound the ball and got it to a man with the last name of Gaines who had been playing minor league basketball in Boise just days before.  In front of a sell out crowd, he hit a three pointer at the buzzer and solidified his chances of sticking in the NBA.  Another email came in.

            “Trent honey, its mommy.  I have decided to come and visit you, your beautiful wife and darling new addition.  I read my horoscope and had a dream about dying early and decided that since I have the time, I will be coming with my husband Bob to spend the week with you.  Life is short and you never know what could happen.  I’m going to need a car and hope that we will not be crowding you if we stay at your place… Hugs and kisses.”

            That single email kept Trent from sleep more so than anything else that could possibly happen.  Even with a sleeping aid and red wine, sleep would be postponed for the night pending the arrival of Trent’s mother from Vermont.

            Now Trent was born and raised in Los Angeles by a single mom who happened to be a hippy.  Trent’s mother was on her sixth husband.  This latest step father was three years younger than Trent, a former Marine and an alcoholic.  Trent got on line and found a motel called the Ambassador on Lincoln Avenue on the north side of Chicago and an independent car rental company that rented Smart Cars for his mother.

5:02 am Friday- Trent stops at a Starbucks.  An effeminate young man with skin tight jeans and two earrings on his lips asks Trent what he would like to drink in a southern belle lilt.  Trent for a moment remembered when being overtly effeminate was as dangerous as being overtly communist and wondered if communism and homophobia died simultaneously.

            Trent bench presses first at the gym.  Four sets of 235 then leg lifts push ups, pull ups and then curls.  Trent’s heart pounds as he takes a hot shower.  Next to him are two old Jewish men that small talk.  Trent listens in.

            “Mortie…  You’re late.  It’s one of the seven deadly sins isn’t it?”

            “What, what… Not getting my tired old ass out of bed and to the gym and for what?  I’ll still look like a wrinkled prune with ball sacks hanging down to my fucking knees…”

            That made Trent smile as he stood naked in front of the mirror, putting lotion all over his body.  Trent could see some muscle tone and a hint of a six pack on his abdomen.  He dreaded getting as old as the old Jews but knew with each day, the time was coming.

8:45am Friday- Trent picked up a yellow Smart Car from O’Hare airport and drove to Midway Airport on the other side of Chicago to greet his mother.  The Smart Car shook as it went 62.5 miles per hour on the Stevenson Expressway.  The news from Haiti was dismal.  The Blackhawks won and the weather would be sunny and above freezing for the fourth day in a row. 

            A Chicago Police officer in a bright yellow raincoat came up and yelled at Trent for pulling up in the fire lane to pick up his mother and her husband.

            “You leave that car for a second and I’ll have it towed…” said the cop.

            “I’m picking up those two people there,” Trent said, combatively.

            “And I’m telling you if you leave the car, it will be towed.”

            Trent had no way of knowing that the middle aged angry officer, had been sent to Midway to keep scofflaws and terrorists from double parking their cars because he had been caught grocery shopping and sleeping in his car by a news television station that was trying to point out just how lazy some police officers were and their abuse of power.  The cop hated standing out in the cold, telling people to move their cars all day.  Do you blame him? 

9:02am

Trent, his mother and step father, were eating at Brandy’s Family Restaurant on Cicero and 52nd Street.  The waitress looked a lot like WC Fields, red nose and all.  Everyone except the girl who rang people up and sat them, were morbidly obese.  Trent didn’t know exactly what to say to his mother and stepfather who he did not like.  He mentioned the fat people.

            “2/3 of Americans are obese now and 90% of them are in this room,” said Trent, while stirring his coffee.  Trent’s latently homosexual step father, who was three years younger than him, starred at Trent blankly.  Nothing was said by either Trent’s mother or the Marine.

            “Musta been a pain in the ass to get to Albany, New York with all that snow in Vermont.  Did you make it to the airport okay?” said Trent, searchingly looking for something to discuss.

            “Well I love to hunt and ski…  Chop down wood and just enjoy god’s green earth,” said Bob, in a manly and quite husky voice.

            Trent didn’t understand the answer to his question from Bob and did not press him for an answer that made sense.  Trent listened to Bob claims of being the outdoors man and couldn’t help thinking about the $1,000.00 phone bill he had to pay for his mother due to the fact that Bob rang up a doozy by calling1- 900 gay phone sex numbers while on a drinking binge.  Bob had no idea that Trent knew.  Trent told his mother that before he would help out with the outrageous phone bill, he had to know first what kind of 1- 900 Bob was calling.  Trent called one of the numbers and heard this recording:

            “You’ve reached The Man line…  Lot’s of interesting men are waiting to talk to men just like you.  Your seconds away from joining the fastest growing network where men meet men…  Just like you…”

            11:00 am- A mandatory meeting was called for all employees of the real estate office where Trent worked.  A bald man who looked like Dr. Phil with eyebrows that looked like gerbils, stood with his arms folded at the front of the room behind a podium.  The owner of the company came in late and the murmur that had filled the room immediately ceased.  The boss started the meeting with a red face and trembling hands.  He was so angry that he literally shook.

            “I called this meeting to put you all on notice.  Someone stole a gift from my desk while I was on vacation and yet nobody knows where it is.  Among us is a thief…  Secondly, I brought my eight year old son in the office and allowed him to look up Nick on Line from the front desk computer and come to find out that someone here was looking at a website called Goats and Blondes.  MY SON BELIEVES IN SANTA CLAUS STILL AND KNOWS ABOUT SEX WITH FUCKING FARM ANIMALS!  I had to learn this from my wife as she learned this while reading him Dr. Fucking Seuss before bed.  You are all being put on notice.  I have hired Mr. Dupuis to monitor everything that goes on in this place from here on out.  This bullshit ends today.  Mr. Dupuis… The floor is yours.”

            The boss received a gift certificate from his girlfriend at work while he happened to be away with his family over the Christmas holiday.  He received a text message from his girlfriend who had purchased a gift certificate to the Love Palace.  The Love Palace was frequented by couples looking for intimacy and fun.  The suite chosen by the girlfriend had a pool with a slide and a trapeze where she could lower herself onto her boyfriend.  The text message read as follows:

                        DID YOU GET THE GIFT CERTIFICATE TO THE LOVE PALACE THAT I LEFT ON YOUR DESK LAST WEEK?  I CAN’T WAIT TO TRY IT OUT.  I MISS YOU.  SEE YOU SOON.

            Upon returning, the boss panicked over the prospect of anyone seeing the card from his girlfriend.  He of course he yelled at his girlfriend for leaving the envelope on his desk instead of giving it to him.  Whoever stole it knew that it was safe to steal since; the boss could not divulge the contents.  The same person who stole the card also was looking at bestiality on line too.  I can’t say who it was.  It just wouldn’t be right for me to get involved in this.

January 10, 2010

Tourette’s meets TSA

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 10:21 am
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Lester Vandermere was born and raised in Warren, Michigan. Lester’s parents dropped Lester off with his mother’s parents as a toddler before they took off to concentrate on other things that interested them more about life such as drugs and stealing to buy drugs and so on. Luckily for Lester, he had grandparents that really loved him and treated Lester as their own.
At a young age, they began to notice some quirky things about Lester that they had not noticed with their own children or anyone else’s for that matter. Lester had the ability to mimic voices of just about anyone he heard around him and if it was particularly unique, Lester imitated the voice until some other voice caught his fancy. Lester too spent his time straightening things in his room to the point of exhaustion. Poor Lester would eventually just pass out as a young boy and it was rarely on his bed but on the floor while he was in the middle of correcting something he had already corrected such as color coordinating clothes or hanging them by size or alphabetically arranging baseball cards.
Baseball for as slow as it should be for a child diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive disorder, ADHD and Tourette Syndrome, Baseball should have been like watching grass grow but it wasn’t that way with Lester. It was one of the few times he could sit in a chair without involuntary vocal outbursts, twitching or blinking. Lester’s grandfather took Lester to see the Detroit Tigers a lot and then got the idea to buy over 100 rubber coated league baseballs and paint a target in the backyard.
“All you gotta do is aim for this target and throw that ball as hard as you can… Now granddad wants you to occasionally hold the ball across the seams like so and then turn your hand like this when releasing the ball. Once you’ve thrown all these call me,” said Lester’s grandfather.
This began at about age eight and continued everyday irregardless of weather or season. Lester threw baseballs at a target on a fence everyday for hours and never grew tired of it. At age ten, Lester’s grandfather signed him up for little league baseball in Warren. The first day Lester ever got to pitch, he had the first perfect game ever recorded by a first time pitcher in his first game in the state of Michigan. Lester made the front page of the Detroit Free Press. Over time Lester continued to improve and never grew tired of throwing baseballs at a target. By Lester’s sophomore year of high school, colleges all over the country were offering him full scholarships. More than one Major League Baseball club sent a representative to watch Lester pitch for his high school. Lester could pitch a curve ball that looked like it dropped off a table just before arriving at home plate, faster than most men could throw a fastball. Lester’s fastball was unbelievably fast for a fifteen year old boy. Between pitches, Lester would have to pick up the rosin bag and bounce it twice on the back of his left hand and twice on the palm before yelling out profanity, wooing and heavy blinking. He was more amusing than Mark Fydrich ever was for the Detroit Tigers.
“Three pitches, fat ass! Three pitches… You get three fucking pitches, fat boy…”
Strike one. A belt high fastball that hovered around 95 miles per hour. The batter attempted to swing and was frozen.
“That’s one, bitch boy… Two more… Two more, you fat fuck…”
Strike two. Slightly lower than the first but above the knees right down the center of the plate at about 96 miles per hour. The catcher wore a padded batter’s glove inside his catcher’s mitt. The second pitch cracked as it hit the webbing of the catcher’s mitt.
“Just standing there with his thumb in his ass… Ha, ha, Lovie… Gilligan m’boy… Mere child’s play… Drown them all like puppies… Jimbo, let’s discuss all the options, son… Out of the way! Road hog!”
Lester loved imitating the voice of Jim Backus who was the voice of Mr. Magoo, the millionaire on Gilligan’s Island and the father of James Dean in Rebel without a Cause. Lester strung quotes from all three as he bounced the rosin bag on his left hand prior to throwing a curve ball that dropped about 18 inches at 88 miles per hour. The stands were packed and everyone stood and clapped with every strike out. The ovations were just white noise in the head of a talented young man whose mind was locked on Jim Backus at the moment. Television will do that to children, you know.
“Oh Magoo, you’ve done it again… Marvelous Gilligan, m’boy. Go get Ginger and tell her I’d like to drive her like a five iron… Pull a little to the left but play through it, Gilligan… Drive it right through the rough patches, m’boy…”
Some days Lester might take on the voice of Foghorn Leghorn, Jack Nicholson, George W. Bush, Marlon Brando. He might imitate the laugh of Charles Nelson Reilly or the faces of Robert de Niro. Lester’s grandparents were used to it and paid little attention. What did not go unnoticed were Lester’s grandfather’s racist comments. In school all the kids laughed at the unique voices and racist words that spouted from Lester’s mouth as his mind committed things to memory and replayed them often and randomly.
“Smithers! What is with all of these fat children?” As the voice of Mr. Burns from the Simpson.
“Now folks, we’re fixing to round up all the wet backs, chinks, pork chops, niggers, sand niggers, swami’s, snake charmers and the whole lot of them and send them to ah… send them to ah… California! That’s right. Send them to live with Arnold…”
And just like that he went from sounding like George W. Bush to Arnold Swartznegger.
“Commin-zee to Camp Cal-if-forn-ia… Veel help you to concentrate… In our camp…. Hee aye aye aye…. Ya… Dat vas a gut fun…”
One teacher learned that if she gave Lester a whole pack of gum to chew, it cut down on outbursts and tics. The rest just had to tune it out the best they could. The fact of the matter is that if you have a talent like savant, people tend to be very forgiving and most understood that for as unusual as it was for Lester to have not only Tourette’s but to also be Obsessive-Compulsive and have ADHD, he also had the ability to imitate voices and gestures and pitch a baseball unlike any young man his age. Lester barring any unforeseen problems was going to become a rich and famous young man soon. Everyone respected this.
Lester’s grandmother gave Lester the news, the night before leaving, that they would be going to southern California to visit several colleges that offered scholarships. Lester’s grandmother knew better than to tell him earlier. If she had told him a week in advance, he would have been packed and waiting at the door without sleep for that entire week. The night before leaving for Los Angeles, Lester’s grandmother packed a suitcase full of Lester’s clothes. Lester was obviously upset that the order of his things was being disrupted without any prior discussion. Lester took on the voice of Peter Lorre.
“Oh thees ees most disturbing… I’m not going to hurt you, my leetle friend… Don’t worry… Tell the fat man that I must have the Maltese Falcon… Eet ees most imperative that the fat man call me thees instant…”
Lester began to put away the clothes that were in the suitcase when his grandmother stopped him and sat him down to explain where they were going in the morning. Lester was so excited that he couldn’t sleep. He stayed up all night watching the MLB station and reruns on TVLand.
Lester and his grandparents arrived at the Detroit Metro Airport at seven in the morning two weeks after a terrorist tried to blow up the Detroit bound plane he was on and three days after another man claimed that he wanted to kill all Jews before boarding a plane in Detroit. Now picture a tall and lanky young man with pimples on his face, talking non stop, all the while changing voices and facial expressions. It had been a few days since Lester had watched the movie, Slapshot with Paul Newman. Lester spewed out lines from the movie while standing in the TSA security line.
“You naver naver want to take your stick like thees unless you are a stupid English pig… You go to the box and feel shame and then you go free… FAT ASS! WOO! You ever see so many niggers trying to get something for nothing? If it isn’t nailed down, you bet your sweet ass the niggers will have it,” said Lester, imitating his grandfather’s voice and facial expressions.
Luckily for the Vandermeres, there were no African-Americans within an ear shot of them except for the TSA official who was looking at passports, licenses and boarding passes. Mr. Caruthers, the TSA official was as shocked as he was angry about hearing such blatantly racist comments coming from the young man whose grandmother was rubbing his arm, telling him that he needed to talk about something else. It came time for the three of them to step up and give their credentials to Mr. Caruthers.
Mr. Caruthers was a large and strongly built black man with a deep voice. The voice reminded Lester of the times his grandfather would lower his voice and do an imitation of Amos and Andy. Lester’s grandparents feared something bad could happen and it was happening.
“How is yaw, Kingfish? How you be thaar, Kingfish? Now see haar… How’s Calpurnia?”
The three of them were herded into a room and questioned for about a half hour by several federal officials. One of the men recognized Lester from the newspaper and believed all that Lester’s grandparents were trying to explain about Lester’s quirks and outbursts. Lester signed an autograph on a piece of paper for the federal official who was a big baseball fan and had heard that Lester was one the top prospects coming up. Lester and his grandparents boarded the plane first and took the last three seats all the way in the back. Lester was thumbing through a baseball book that his grandmother had given him for Christmas. Everyone came in and took their seats and everything seemed as if it were going to be mostly copasetic all the way to Los Angeles until a young Italian man muttered under his breath to his brother, loud enough for Lester to hear. The Italian man was distinctly from Brooklyn. Both men had slicked back black hair and were chewing their gum in a loud circular motion, wearing tight faded jeans and t shirts that were too tight for both of them. It was perfect ammunition for Lester who had become calm despite being excited and apprehensive about his first flight on a plane.
“You ask me what they should fucking do is let the fucking Chinese run the fucking airports for about a year. The fucking Chinese don’t put up with no shit. You ever see this kind of shit happen in China? Fuck no! Let one of these A-rab cocksuckers pull this shit with the fucking Chinese. You’d never hear a fucking word about em again. In this country you’re like a goddamn celebrity. Wanna get on TV? Light your fucking balls on fire on a plane and you’ll wind up getting three square meals for the rest of your days in a goddamn prison and we get to pay for this shit… Let one of these fucks pull a box cutter or a crotch bomb on this flight… I’ll tear their fucking hearts out.”
Upon hearing the rant, Lester once again became unglued. After being detained again and having to face more federal officials and then meet with a psychiatrist and a string of social workers, the Vandermeres were allowed to go back home. It took all day and they were exhausted. Lester’s grandmother laid into her husband for ever saying anything questionable in front of Lester. Lester slept fleetingly as they drove west. After nearly a week on the road, they arrived in Los Angeles. Lester met alone with the athletic director who had originally played baseball in Hoboken in the minor leagues and grew up in the Bronx. The older man, who looked like he could have fit in with the cast of the Sopranos, extended his hand and asked Lester about the flight not knowing that they drove. Lester more or less repeated the words of the Italian man from the airplane. Lester’s grandparents listened outside the office to the hardy laugh of the athletic director that became nothing more than a wheeze and a whistle when he became too out of breath to laugh anymore. The door opened and the big man with cigars for fingers patted Lester on the back and shook the hands of Lester’s grandparents. Lester and his grandparents got into the minivan and headed onto the next school. The athletic director called the baseball coach on the phone to discuss Lester.
“The kid looks like nothing more than a corn seed… Yeah, yeah, I heard all about his problem before he got here. He had me nearly pissing in my pants… He looked at me making faces like Robert de Niro and spoke like Al Pacino for twenty minutes. I don’t know if he did that because he knows I’m Italian but it was very funny… Sure, sure. He’ll make the hall of fame some day and then take his voices on the road. I’d like to be there when he wins the World Series one day and gets invited to the White House to shake hands with the president. That’ll be one for the ages…”

January 4, 2010

The Mason Dixon Excuse

Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:44 am
Tags: , , , ,

Colin Mason left Grand Rapids, Michigan to pursue his passion of being an artist in New York City. He found job in a coffee shop with a struggling black poet by the name of Deandra Dixon. Deandra wrote poetry about being black and poor and angry and a woman. A lot of her work was very abstract and really hard to read into but she had several poems published in anthologies whereby she never earned a cent. Deandra would read her poems at poetry slams and open microphone nights at small clubs in Brooklyn. After spending so much time with Colin in the coffee shop, Deandra decided that Colin was a safe catch. He was white, smart, fairly attractive and pliable. Deandra for all her militant black, feminist liberalism, she really wanted the old fashioned nuclear family and so she married Colin and they had a son. His name was Obama Mason-Dixon.
Obama of course was named after the president of the United States. He was conceived shortly after the election in November of 2008. Colin and Deandra drove in Deandra’s yellow Volkswagen Beetle to Chicago to take part in the historical moment in Grant Park when President Obama declared himself victorious in the 2008 presidential elections. Both Colin and Deandra cried as President Obama took the stage. They were both deeply touched.
Working at an independent coffee shop in Brooklyn, provided them enough money to make ends meet barely. Deandra had decided that she wanted to take their young son to visit her grandmother in Mississippi for Christmas. Deandra’s grandmother was getting old and Deandra feared that her grandmother might never meet her 31st grandchild and so Colin and Deandra left New York City on a Wednesday night late so that little Obama could sleep through the night. Colin was dead set against driving to the south with a black woman in a yellow Volkswagen with political bumper stickers plastered across the back. Deandra wanted everyone to know at all times how she felt about things. The several bumper stickers gave a thumb sketch as to her political leanings. Colin felt as though he had to comply if for no other reason than to ensure the safety of his wife and child even though he had never engaged in a fist fight in his life.
Colin snuck down to the south, carefully following behind those that needed to go ten to fifteen miles an hour beyond the posted speed limit of seventy miles per hour. Meanwhile, Deandra and little Obama slept like angels in the back seat of the Volkswagen while Colin listened to whatever he could tune into in their car radio. They arrived early on Christmas morning if you can believe this, in a town called Hot Coffee, Mississippi. It is roughly thirty miles north of Hattiesburg, Mississippi. They just could not get away from coffee and Colin had been wolfing it down at every filling station along the way just to keep alert.
Now Deandra’s relatives were southern folk born and raised in the south and most never ventured out of the south for anything. None of them really had any desire to ever visit New York and so their only link to the northern world was Deandra. Deandra was an outspoken buxom young black woman in her late twenties who wore her in an Afro. Her cousins thought she was too intense and probably a bit crazy. They all decided that Colin fit the description of a compliant and subservient mate and so they felt sorry for him more than anything else. Colin had spindly arms and a sunken chest. He had no interest in football or college football. All of Deandra’s male cousins were all geared up to watch bowl games on television. Colin went for long walks on country roads and people passed by and looked at Colin like he was a Martian. Nobody messed with him but he was an oddity. New Years day rolled around and it became time for the great trek back north.
Colin made the mistake of buying a combination cheese and beef jerky all wrapped up in plastic. It looked safe enough when he filled up for gas and poked around the filling station/diner/locker room for truckers. Amid the confederate flag license plate holders and hats, sat days old donuts behind a glass case and so Colin opted for packaged products and a bottled water. The old woman with a cigarette dangling from her mouth and more wrinkles than a Shar Pei Dog, told Colin that was one of her favourites as she broke into an uncontrollable smoking induced cough. By the time Colin had driven to Meridian, Mississippi, something had gone seriously wrong within his intestines.
Colin tried with all his might to keep from shitting in his own pants as he broke out in full body sweats. He pulled off the highway and carefully walked as though he was trying to keep something in his ass and he really was. As Colin lowered his draws, the liquefied feces shot out of his anus at blister speed. It sputtered as it hit the tank and wall and dripped onto the seat. Colin trembled as the episode seemed to go on for minutes. Finally the uncontrollable need to relieve himself ended. He crawled into the backseat beside his son who was asleep with a pacifier in his mouth and pulled the Snuggle up to his chin as he shivered in the back seat.
“I think that cheese or beef jerky was no good. I think I got food poisoning… I’ll be alright soon. You’ll need to drive for a bit,” said Colin.
Now Deandra was not a patient driver. If seventy was good, ninety was better and so she flew down the left lane of the two lane interstate leading out of Mississippi towards Alabama. Just before the Alabama state line, a Mississippi trooper sat parked with a radar gun pointed right at blazing yellow Volkswagen.
“Oh Fuck!” Said Deandra, as she slammed on the brakes.
Officer Clinton Dixon, no immediate relation to Deandra, sauntered up to the driver’s side with one hand near his gun. Officer Dixon was a stern man who had served in the first Gulf War as a Marine and then returned home to Mississippi to be a law man. He was born Baptist, coached high school football, loved to hunt and thought George W. Bush was a darn good president. The “Buck Fush” sticker on the back of Deandra’s car angered Officer Dixon right off. The Obama sticker, peace symbol in rainbow colors and pro choice sticker only served to solidify what Officer Dixon was already thinking as he saw the neon yellow foreign automobile with highly offensive bumper stickers and a New York license plate. Officer Dixon posed a rhetorical question to himself as he exited his car; what in the hell is this damn world coming to?
“License, registration and proof of insurance, ma’am,” said Officer Dixon.
At the same time that Officer Dixon was learning that he shared a last name with Deandra, Deandra was learning that she too had something in common with the Mississippi state trooper. Officer Dixon could not bring himself to refer to Deandra as Ms. Dixon and so he used Deandra’s first name. This only angered her.
“Ms. Deandra, are you aware of the posted speed limits hare on this hare interstate within the state of Mississippi?”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay then Ms. Deandra… Cain you tell give me a reason why you was goin eighty nine miles an hour in the posted seventy mile an hour zone?”
“I was trying to pass some cars on the right.”
“That’s an excuse not a reason. A reason would be that someone was ill or dying. Anything short of that is an excuse… Now then what is the problem with that young man in the back seat of your vehicle, Ms. Deandra?”
Officer Dixon assumed that two young people had obviously been partying on New Years Eve and Colin was paying the price all day. Deandra told the officer it was possible food poisoning but he wasn’t buying the story.
“Ms. Deandra, if I was to find an open bottle of alcohol in your vehicle, I spect that the issue would not be so much food poisoning as intoxication… I will now ask you if you have been drinking?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Deandra, angrily.
“Spell your last name backward for me,” said Officer Dixon.
“What!?”
“It’s a simple question… We share the same last name. I want to hear it backward…”
“I cain’t believe this fucking bullshit!” Said Deandra, while gripping the steering wheel tightly.
Officer Dixon was shocked by the lack of respect. He felt that anyone with no regard for the unborn or George Bush, had no respect for order and further measures would have to be necessary. Colin stepped up to qwell the situation.
“Sir, I stopped for gas back near Heidelberg. I have the receipt in my pocket. I purchased some cheese with beef jerky and got sick within twenty minutes. I had to stop to use the restroom and I broke out in body sweats… We haven’t been drinking. We came down to visit my wife’s relatives here in Mississippi and are working our way back to New York City,” said Colin, calmly.
“Let me see your license.” Said Officer Dixon.
Officer Dixon could not believe what he was seeing. A Colin Mason married to a Deandra Dixon. Luckily he never asked for their child’s name. Officer Dixon blinked heavily, shook his head and gave the license back to Colin.
“Set tight…” said Officer Dixon.
Officer Dixon handed Deandra her license back and told her that she was two miles an hour from being taken into custody. She had the option of returning back to Lauderdale County Court for a hearing at the end of the month or pay the fine of $150.00 by mail. Deandra took the ticket without saying a word and got in the back seat so that Colin could continue driving.
Officer Dixon returned home to his pretty wife who was wearing a summer like dress. She was putting the fried chicken, mashed potatoes and greens on the supper table for her husband who was just stopping in to eat his lunch before going back to work. She did what any wife would do which is to ask her husband how the day was going.
“Well darlin… Picture this picture; a large black woman with a puffed up Afro hairdo driving a VW bug in bright yellah. Now she goin nearly ninety miles an hour and got some sickly looking white boy in the back huddled undah some blankets. She go by the last name Dixon and he go by Mason. They got themselves a baby asleep with a binky in his mouth and this woman is defiant as the day is long. I aks her if her boy been drankin and she swore at me. Ifin it wasn’t for the boy speakin up, ida hauled them in for any number ah reasons… Hares the kicker, love; hates Bush, for abortion, wants peace and is from New York City… All this wrapped up in one yellow bug…”
Mrs. Dixon laughed and gave her husband a kiss on the forehead. Having a good sense of humor, she had an idea for her husband.
“Honey… Why don’t we go visit New York City sometime. We kin use mah brother’s jacked up Chevy Blazer with the Confederate flag sticker on the back. If that ain’t enough, we kin git a “Rush was right” and “Charlton Heston is my President” bumper stickers. We kin bring shotguns and shoot at rats running loose in Manhattan… Wouldn’t that be fun, honey?”
Officer Dixon took a sip of his coffee and thought about the idea of going up north with the hoards of people, pollution, and crime and winced.
“Oh… The humanity…”

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